Gynophagia Chronicles

SAMANTHA

By Luis Cypher ©2009, 2010, 2011 all rights reserved

Saturday, August 20, 2218 7 AM Pacific DST

Pete’s Coffee, Shattuck and Emerson, Berkeley, California

Charlie sipped his Pete’s Coffee, black, no sugar, in the early morning chill with eyes fixed across the street. He’d managed to stay only an hour behind his quarry, having arrived here in Berkeley from New Orleans by way of San Jose International Airport… His quarry had managed to elude him by ducking onto a flight to Oakland Airport. Fortunately the Flight to Oakland had a short stopover in Reno, which allowed Charlie’s own flight to catch up. It was an easy thing to guess that his quarry wouldn’t get off in Reno, where a black man would stand out like a sore thumb. Not so in Oakland which had been predominantly black for over two hundred and fifty years. It was Charlie who would easily have been made there. Fortunately, Barak, the tall, handsome, older apparently South African National made a b-line to a motel in Berkeley here on Shattuck Avenue, across from the coffee shop where Charlie had been sitting the last few hours, surfing the net on his laptop and making his bladder sore with well over a gallon of coffee.

Here in Berkeley, neither Barak, nor Charlie would stand out. With the presence of the legendary U.C. Berkeley, Barak could be any University Professor or Visiting Speaker, and Charlie looked like the average pasty faced white graduate student. It was ideal for both of them, and it gave Charlie confidence that Barak had yet to make him. If he ever saw Charlie close enough, he would. While Barak’s face was new to Charlie, Charlie’s face was not new to Barak. That was part of the challenge.

In the Shattuck Motel, Barak had registered as Karl Mbuta at about 2 AM. It was now seven, and Charlie could see Barak through the window of his room on the second floor, looking straight at him. Charlie, watching through a pair of tear drop Ray Bans, abandoned his post at Pete’s, and slipped into the men's room to help his aching bladder, hoping Barak wouldn’t use the opportunity to make his escape.

Once outside again, and through the big bay window, Charlie could see the tall South African, his skin so dark it was very nearly blue, and two stared at each other for a split second. That was all it took! Charlie had been made! Barak caught the bus just as Charlie made his way out of the Café.

It could only go one place, Ashby. Charlie ran behind the bus, keeping out of sight as much as possible. It was only three city blocks to Ashby Station, one of the two stops in Berkeley by the mediocre Bay Area Rapid Transit system. Sure enough, he saw Barak exit the bus there from a distance of about two hundred yards, and go down into the station.

Which way would he go? Charlie, again, had to guess. He might head south toward Fremont, or west, to San Francisco. He had no idea What Barak’s plan was, or what his objective was. For that matter, he had no idea what his own mission was other than to shadow Barak and figure out what Barak was doing.

Why, for instance, had Barak led Charlie from Vienna to Freeport to New Orleans to here? The man had met with nobody at all. He might have picked up any number of instructions. He had picked up no other tails, other than Charlie himself, and it was highly likely he knew he had a tail as far back as Vienna. Barak had been in the sleaziest bars and low rent rooms in each city.

His disguise, and Charlie knew it to be a disguise, was perfect. He looked like a very stately South African man of approximately forty years. But Barak, Charlie knew, was not a black man at all, nor was he South African at all. He was white, and a British National undercover, very likely establishing his own cover. MI6 said: tail this one, and Charlie followed orders. You do that in MI6. You follow orders, or you get terminated.

Barak switched trains twice, and Charlie managed to keep the tail apparently without Barak’s having noticed. Either that, or Barak was luring him in. Barak exited the Bart System at Embarcadero Station, went up to Market Street, and caught another bus. It was well past 9 AM.

Charlie caught one of the ubiquitous cabs, confident he was still undetected and said simply: “Follow that Bus!”

It was working. Past Market and 4th, however, Barak appeared in the rear window of the bus, flashing a middle finger.

"Bloody hell! Stop!” Charlie snorted at the driver. “Pull over!”

"Here?” asked the Pakistani in the driver’s seat.

"Yes, here,” Charlie tossed the man a 20€ note for a 3€ fare and leaped out. “Damn it!” he said as he began heading north on whatever street it was. Divisidero? Okay, sure. Now What?

Charlie continued his slow brooding pace, looking for something which would allow him to re-enter the chase. In the tiny mirror on the right side of his glasses he could see Barak tailing him now. He stopped at a convenience store and picked up a local paper, looking at the events page to find anything local and soon that might help him. At 10 AM, Shakespeare in the Park was just what the doctor ordered. Charlie continued north, walking leisurely for another half hour till he made it to Haight Street, and turned left. If he could make it to the Park’s panhandle and a lot of unbelievably inept Thespians butchering the bard’s poetry, he might be able to turn the tables there.

Barak was difficult to make as Charlie made his way toward the panhandle. He ducked into the Doe Store, a very famous old breakfast joint and had a nice egg and loin breakfast just to piss Barak off. It would, Charlie knew. Nobody likes to salivate while your quarry is enjoying a good meal.

"Excuse me,” Charlie said to the pretty waitress. “Do you see a black man pacing back and forth outside looking this way?”

"Yes,” she said. “He’s making us all really nervous.”

"Okay, can I ask you, those steps in back, to they lead up to the roof?”

"They do, sir…. But…”

"Don’t worry, he isn’t dangerous. We’re playing a sort of game, you see. Sort of a type of tag, you’re it. I just need to lure him up. May I ask you to do me a favour? There’s a payphone outside, can you pretend to make a phone call…”

For her trouble, Charlie handed the young woman three 20€ notes, which convinced her to do as he said, and headed up six stories to the roof, and waited by the door with it only slightly ajar, till he heard the tell-tale sound of hurried footfalls heading up.

Charlie smiled, this is it! It’s do or die, Barak, and it’s either you or me!

Charlie ran to his hiding place and as soon as Barak emerged, tackled the man bodily, but Barak was not nearly as surprised as Charlie would have liked. He received the tackle with an ease of motion that threw Charlie off, landing Charlie squarely on his back and knocking the wind out of him. Charlie took off running, knowing Barak was the superior combat specialist, one of two possible people were under that mask, and it would be a chore to figure out which one. There was one chance.

Charlie ran all out, fast as he possibly could, as Barak leapt over the vent Charlie had had to go around, slid over it in one graceful motion, slid on top of it, and tackled Charlie. The two were on the ground now, struggling to pin one another.

"I have you, Five!” Charlie said. “I have you!”

Barak stopped struggling, his black as night eyes looking straight at Charlie.

"Shit!” he spat. “Bloody hell!” The voice was unmistakable.

Charlie stood, and offered his hand to Barak, aka Five, aka: Lieutenant Iain Shelby.

"How did you know?” Barak asked.

"It was either you or Number Two. Two never practiced free running.”

Barak laughed. “Oh well… Congratulations, Mate. It was worthy of James Bond. You deserve it. I suppose I’ll be sent down to some desk job at MI5 or something…”

"When did you make me? Freeport?”

"I knew I had a tail, but I wasn’t able to confirm it till New Orleans. I never saw you till Berkeley. Damn, I hate washing out…”

"Actually,” Came a rather shaky, high pitched voice. “The both of you aught be proud. Neither of you washed out, although both of you very nearly did.”

"Speaking of Bond, here comes the classic Fleming Hook!” said Barak of the newcomer.

The man was a balding chap of about fifty years. Unmistakably a Middle Class-man from London’s East End, with a face for a Churchill Look Alike Contest.

"Allow me to introduce myself,” said the newcomer. “I am your new boss. Number Five, I strongly suggest you re-acquaint yourself with that well groomed accent you’ve polished. You never know who might be listening.”

"Sorry, China,” said Barak. “Score a luz?”

"I don’t smoke,” said the older man. “And neither do you.”

"I can’t remember any South African who didn’t have a cigarette in his hand at some point,” said Barak. He produced a pack of Dunhill and lit one.

"Leftenant,” said the older man. “You truly are a credit to the corps. Now, let us get ourselves to the safe house. I hope you remember where it is. You have forty five minutes.”

The safe house was an warehouse on Oakland’s East 14th Street filled with very fancy classic cars dating back as far as the early 21st Century. Charlie, as prescribed, entered through the small door in the alley between the warehouse and a spa that catered to the locals. Above the cars was an office accessible by a single, rickety steel staircase that rattled terribly as Charlie ascended. The boss and Barak were in that office with three others.

"Late!” the boss said as Charlie entered. “This is our local man.” He referred to another middle aged type with even less hair but thin and frail rather than portly.

"Heya,” said the man in a local accent as he stood to his height of 5’9” and offered his hand to Charlie. By the look of him he was very likely as much an east ender as the boss.

"He is Andy Seine to you. If in Northern California, you are to contact him only in a pinch,” said the boss. A Pinch meant life or death, with an emphasis on death. “Your code till the end of the year is Centre-Left. Use it in a political context and Mr. Seine will arrange a rescue. Carter and Smith, you already know. You can thank them later. Now, assignments…”

"Are we not going home for Debrief, sir?” asked Barak/Iain.

"Eventually, yes. You’ve got a lot of work to do, actually. You have a new cover to establish now that you have Barak is nearly perfected. In the meantime, I need you in Port Au Prince. Here’s your packet. It’s basically a business deal, you’ll be buying meat for use in Cuba. Charlie, on the other hand, has a lot more work to do, as a disaffected Limey looking for a new life in America.”

"America?” Charlie asked.

"Yes. In fact, you’ll be establishing my new codename, which is Palm Beach. You’re not going to Palm Beach, per se, but Singer Island. There, you’ll rent a room, throw money around, date at least two young débutantes and buy one of them a lovely British car… preferably an Aston Martin…”

"Any reason why?” Charlie asked.

"Yes,” said Palm Beach simply. “Make sure the girls you date have families that are connected. You’re a playboy, you must pretend to not have to work…”

"That won’t be hard…”

"Even so… American girls, especially of the upper crust, tend to be… demanding.”

"Of course, sir,” said Charlie. “I’ll do my best.”

"How long will the assignment be, sir?” asked Barak.

"At least a month,” said Palm Beach. “You won’t be seeing anyone for at least four weeks, assuming you managed to not flub such simple a task as you’ve been assigned. Now, you have your orders. I suggest you get out of my sight. I have business to attend to that is far more important than holding the hands of a pair of neophytes, so get out.”

"Do I get my double ‘0’…” asked Barak.

"GET OUT!” screamed the boss.

Sunday, August 21, 2218

Pearson Airport, Toronto, Canada

At six foot one and two hundred pounds, he could have been the average man. Unfortunately, as he left the Eglinton Station and entered Pearson Airport Proper, the perils of his own face, once again, became more and more an annoyance. . He did like it that his face could be placed on a man of eighteen or thirty five. He did not mind, terribly, that no amount of shaving would relieve his jaw of its perpetual five o’clock shadow. In and of itself, it allowed him still to be anyman. It was his chiselled jaw. His ice blue eyes and his jet black hair which he kept short. And that complexion that could be Italian, Spanish or German, no one could truly place it. He enjoyed far more than his share of smiles from females, be they ticket agents, workers, stewardesses or fellow passengers. He felt it simply an annoyance when he was forced into areas so public and so populated. But, like the look the lavender uniformed head Stewardess was giving him as he boarded the plane, such were the hazards of his life. He took his seat next to a heavyset balding man whose plump face and soft belly belied a harried professional. The shoes, the polyester suit and the briefcase belied a mid-level salesman.

What was as annoying as the unwanted attention was that Toronto had been a waste of time. The subjects he’d gone to evaluate had obviously been failed experiments. It had been equal to his disappointment in Detroit, Kansas City and Chicago. The families he’d been sent to evaluate were so sub standard that he was left to wonder if his leads were fiction.

Regardless, DeSilva Biotech needed data, and he was duty bound to get it, no matter what the results were.

And he was good at his job. That was to blend in, observe, interact only if necessary, and never, ever give anyone reason to remember you. His face made that difficult, but, as his father always said, everyone needs at least one obstacle to overcome. He’d been trained from birth never to offer opinions. Ask questions, play dumb. Be innocuous. And never, ever pack for a trip, regardless of the destination, which, on this flight, was Sacramento.

The plane took off and, as soon as the pilot gave permission, he pulled out his E-PAD and began reading today’s New York Times.

In his carry-on bag were an extra pair of slacks, two pairs of socks and boxers, two new shirts, three ties, toiletries and his E-PAD.

The suit he wore came from North American Haberdasher. NAH was a national chain that sold suites acceptable at every level of society. Suits bought elsewhere would instantly identify his wealth, or lack thereof, to an astute observer. He could not have that. He travelled in business class. Affordable, barely, to mid level managers and acceptable, in a pinch, to CEOs.

Even his credentials were carefully planned. Stanford was the premier school west of the Mississippi for good reason. The education it provided was second to none. It competed only with Oxford and Harvard as the top school in Western Civilization. But after seven semesters studying Business Law, Sociology and Advertising at Stanford, he had transferred to a small school in North Carolina and took a history degree after an extra year.

Aside from his face, he had only one quirk that constantly irritated his mentor. He had worn the same cowboy boots, black ones, polished to a mirror finish, since he entered college seven years ago.

The head stewardess, tall at 5’9” with a very small waist, blonde, of course, had come back from first class and was conversing with the diminutive black stewardess in charge of business class. As he tried to read the New York Times on his E-PAD he felt their unwanted glances from four rows back. Annoyed, he resisted glancing up, but the damage was done. That undefinable barrier preventing interaction on a personal level was shattered.

The small black attendant finished her conspiratorial interaction with the tall blonde and began moving down the aisle with her drink cart. She was full hour early, as the flight had just levelled off. Drinks were never served on North Sky Train cross continent flights till they had been at altitude for at least sixty minutes. He could see the other section stewardess scowl as the tall blonde spoke with her, obviously, telling her to give cover by running her own cart down the aisles in coach.

On her way toward his row, he abandoned his attention to the Times and simply faked it. Instead, he observed the stewardess’ sideways glances at him as she spoke to each of her charges by name, flashing her sweet, bright smile and professional politeness.

The man next to him, who he had intentionally ignored, unfastened his seatbelt and shifted to pull out his wallet. Luckily, a seat separated them in this not quite full plane.

"Hello Mr. Acres,” said the flight attendant to the big balding salesman as she arrived. “Hello Mr. Colvert.” Her name tag said “Lena 0038” in big black letters on a bronze tag. Below it, in much smaller letters it said “bid @ www.northskytrain.transwww.northskytrain.transwww.northskytrain.transwww.northskytrain.trans ”

"Can I serve you gentlemen any refreshments?”

"Yeah,” said Acres. “Rum’n’coke.”

"Scotch,” Colvert said. “Neat.”

Lena smiled sweetly and poured the drinks. Colvert took the opportunity to observe the head stewardess, who was trying very hard to remain discrete as she observed Lena’s progress. The uniform was quite modest for a flight that went to the west coast. It consisted of a lavender vest and skirt with matching pumps and hair band, and a crisp white blouse. However, the stewardesses wore that blouse open to below the vests buttons, advertising what cleavage they were able to show. Lena made a good showing of her own cleavage, leaning in as she gave Mr. Acres his drink and giving Colvert a full view down her blouse.

Colvert paid, and waved off the change Lena offered causing Mr. Acres to dig back into his wallet for a tip. He did not seem at all happy about it.

Mercifully, Lena moved on to those across the aisle. When she bent over, obviously displaying her rear end for their benefit, Acres let out an audible moan, and the head Stewardess issued an amused snort.

"Dayumn!” Acres whispered. “I’d like to get a piece of that!”

Colvert momentarily smiled at him to acknowledge the comment. Going back to his reader, he resumed reading the NY Times, hoping the show was over.

"Bill,” Mr. Acres offered his hand.

Under his breath, Colvert wanted to curse. Instead, he took the large man’s damp fleshy hand.

"Pleased to meet you,” said Colvert. “My name is David Colvert,” he lied.

Acres smiled back and nodded trying to voice pleasantries through a series of grunts. The Calgary accent took Colvert a few moments to place, but it was not long before he had extracted Acre’s life story, his business, and the reason for his trip.

"So, what about you, Dave?”

"Oh,” said Colvert. “I’m on the way to meet an old friend.”

The head stewardess was walking slowly back, smiling at everyone. Her name tag said “Kathy 0187.” Acres eyes followed her longingly and Colvert smiled, a thought coming to him.

"Nice,” said Colvert.

"You said it,” said Acres. “I’d love to see her do a little dance.”

"So bid on her,” said Colvert.

"Bid?” Acres asked. “Like for a date?” The wife would kill me! And she’s expecting.”

Lance called up the website on his E-PAD and queried for Kathy 0187. Her page came up, complete with a nice head shot and vital statistics. Her waist, Colvert noted, was indeed tiny at twenty two inches.

"Three dates for one thousand Euros… that’s a bit expensive,” he said as Lena passed. He hit the catering link. Fifteen thousand was the minimum bid for her as a cull with an estimated yield of forty pounds of lean meat. Lena 0038, as it turned out, was only ten thousand, an estimated yield of thirty seven pounds.

"That would feed the sales dinner tonight,” said Acres.

"Oh?”

"Both of them, I mean. One hundred twenty guys from Canada, Mexico and the U.S. I just barely made my quota. But that would cost me twenty five thousand Euros. Almost worth it… almost…”

Colvert nodded. “So what flavour of meat does your company normally serve at these functions?”

"I’m told they usually bring in girls from Mexico or South East Asia,” he said. “It’s my first time…”

"Ah,” Colvert said. Lena sashayed by again, drawing his own gaze. Colvert smiled to himself. “So, tell me, Bill. How popular would you be if you showed up with those two?”

"Shit!” said Acres. “It’d be huge! I’d tell my bosses they’d better treat me right… and get away with it… nice pipe dream, huh?”

Colvert nodded. “Maybe.”

Colvert continued the idle conversation as he went through the terms. Yes he could have them delivered anywhere, to anyone. If he was not a passenger, he’d have to wait twenty four hours for delivery. In flight bidding he could take them right off the plane. He made sure Lena and Kathy saw him looking at their date pages each time they passed. Kathy was spending more and more time in Business class as the plane neared Sacramento. The second round of drinks was served shortly before the plane began its decent. Kathy traded places with Lena and was just as forward displaying herself to Colvert.

She did smell very good, Colvert thought. IN contrast to Lena’s large bust line, Kathy had ample, but much smaller breasts that she showed to be widely spaced when she gave Colvert full view down her blouse. Poor Acres took his second drink looking very flustered.

Colvert handed Kathy a ten note and told her it was for both drinks, and to keep the change.

"Thank you, Mr. Colvert,” said Kathy in a sing-song Alabama accent, with a wink. Colvert smiled back, as warmly as he could manage.

"She sure likes you,” said Acres, Horsely, and he downed his drink.

"You in a hurry after we land?” asked Colvert.

"Well,” said Acres. “Except for checking in at the hotel, I got two hours before I can do that… no, I guess I have some time.”

"Good,” said Colvert.

"Why?” asked Acres. “We gonna have some fun?”

Colvert grinned in spite of himself. “Oh yes,” he said. Lena was watching with stolen glances, but she had a smile as well.

"Oh, god…” Acres said with anticipation.

Colvert noticed the man was playing pocket pool.

"Excuse me,” said Acres. “I gotta hit the can.”

Colvert chuckled and stood out of Acres way. Once Acres and the two women were not looking, he carefully crafted delivery instructions and purchased both Kathy0187 and Lena0038.

"Do you travel a lot, Mr. Acres?” Colvert asked as he and Acres as they stood to de-plane. They had landed only a few minutes before, which was one reason, not the only one, however, that Colvert liked this airport. It tended to be efficient. Colvert would pick up a cab to a cheap motel, and spend the night before moving on to his final destination. This little diversion would be enjoyable, however, and hopefully would not attract the wrong kind of attention.

"Yeah,” he said. “I guess I almost live on airplanes,” said the bigger man.

"Bye, Mr. Colvert,” chorused Kathy and Lena at the door as the two men left the aircraft. Colvert favoured them with a smile. It was obvious enough, by the look of their expressions; they knew they were to meet someone immediately after the flight. They were, Colvert saw, giddy.

The Professor’s rule #17. If you have to make an impression, make it a big one, and If possible, make the impressed owe you big. The Professor’s rule #20 Favours are sound investments. It should not matter how much or little value that person’s services may mean in the end, a marker is a marker. Always make it count for loyalty.

At the end of the loading tube a well dressed North Sky Train officer greeted them.

"You must be Mr. Acres,” the moustachioed officer offered his hand to a surprised Bill Acres. “Your luggage is being brought up, sir. I show here, Mr. Colvert, that you checked no bags?”

"Correct.”

"The packages will be delivered shortly. We just need them to complete their assigned duties.”

The officer led Colvert and a very confused looking Acres through the concourse.

"Ma’an,” said Acres. “I haven’t been this excited since my wife first got naked for me!”

"How old is she?” Colvert asked.

"hTwenty five,” Acres said. “I’ve got a son her age already. My daughters all got culled because of fat…”

"I’m sorry to hear that.”

"Yeah,” Acres said. “It’s their fault for being such pigs. My first wife didn’t help. Roasted her seven years ago. Amy’s got her head screwed on right. Keeps me honest and happy.”

"Sounds like life isn’t so bad,” Colvert said.

Acres nodded. “No, but not as good as this…”

Near the NTS check in the officer led them through a smoke glass door and into an office. On the desk were newly minted titles to the bodies of Lena Wenchel and Kathleen Shultz.

"If you wish to keep them,” said the officer. “There must be a marriage license within one week. Fine of up to one thousand Euros per day thereafter if you’re caught with them alive. Please sign here, Mr. Acres.

"Me?”

"Someday,” said Colvert. “I’ll ask for a favour”

Acres jaw slacked with a hint of a smile. He signed both sheets and was issued the titles.

"Oh,” the officer said. “One moment. I need these.” HE extracted bar coded hospital bracelets, one for each doe. “Come inside, Mr. Acres.”

Acres followed, then turned. “Coming?”

"No, Mr. Acres. I thought I’d leave you to enjoy your prizes.”

"Awe, c’mon! I gotta share this with someone!”

Colvert hesitated, then smiled and followed.

"Where are they?” The officer asked with an annoyed tone of the security guard.

"In the ladies room, sir,” said the guard. “They’re fixing their makeup.”

"Oh,” said the officer. “I suppose they misunderstood the nature of the purchase.”

"One thing, Bill,” said Colvert in a low voice. “So far as your colleagues are concerned, I was never here, nor do I exist. In fact, don’t ever mention my name to anyone, ever again.”

"But…” Acres started to protest, but saw the look in Colvert’s eye, and stopped cold. He nodded. “You bet. Damn, my shit ain’t gonna stink for a long, long time.”

Colvert smiled s the two women finally appeared.

"Mr. Colvert!” Kathy smiled. “What a surprise,” she lied.

"Hello, Mr. Acres,” Lena said somewhat less enthusiastically. “Are we all going out?”

"You’re accompanying Mr. Acres to dinner,” said Colvert.

"Ladies,” the officer said. “May I see your right hands please?”

"What?” Kathy asked lazily, then saw the bar-code on the bracelets. “No!” her horrified look met Colvert, her eyes incredulous and pleading. “Please, no!”

The officer finally managed to get the bracelet around Kathy’s wrist, marking her as a legal cull in the State of California. Lena was more accepting of her fate, but her face broke into quiet sobs.

"Please remove your uniforms,” said the officer. When they hesitated, he added: “Please don’t make me force you, ladies.”

With trembling hands, tears streaming down their faces, quaking bodies and the occasional sob, the two women began by unbuttoning their vests. As it turned out, vest, blouse and bra were a single garment, which Colvert thought clever. He made a mental note to read up on this type of garment… he’d never seen its like before.

Off came the lavender miniskirts, revealing that even their lavender panties were part of the uniform. A knot at the front held those together. Colvert watched as Kathy pulled the bow apart causing it to fall away. Their bodies were, of course, waxed bare as required by any airline that served the west coast.

The last thing the two young women had on were their pink stay-up stockings and lavender pumps. They both carefully removed the last of their clothing.

"If you need an enema, do it now,” said the officer once the former stewardesses were naked. He was barely able to contain his own arousal.

The Professor’s rule # 38, the simplest pleasures have the most value for clients. Keep it simple.

After the girls and the guard disappeared back into the bathroom, the officer began gathering the discarded uniforms.

"May I have those too?” asked Acres.

Colvert’s revenge was satisfying, if unproductive. The Professor’s rule #1: never engage in unproductive activity. Well, it was not exactly unproductive. It did create a marker, and that would satisfy the professor.

David Colvert left Bill Acres with his prizes and strode out of the airport. On his way, he extracted all forms of ID, Driver’s License, Passport, Credit Cards and the like that identified him as David Colvert. He’d burn those later. He went, instead, to his old standby: Michael Gianni. He’d used that name before, many years ago. As he’d be running into old friends, he’d best resurface with that name…

Tomorrow, Michael Gianni would be in Fremont, early. Then, he’d go after his prey. The family’s name was Wells. And in the den of thieves that was the San Francisco Bay Area, the next few days would prove very interesting…

2218, 8, 22, 6:15am

The Wells Home 1110 Beagle St. San Ramon CA.

From Samantha Marie Wells’ Memoirs

It was going to be a tedious and gut wrenching day facing the Gauntlet. That’s what the first day of school is called by Teachers and Parents. We girls call it the Meat Grinder.

The alarm went off at 6:15a.m. Naturally, Gracie, bubbly bouncy Gracie was out of bed a few minutes before it did so. She snapped off the alarm and hit the lights.

She stood there in the pink silk T she always slept in, her cherub face and bright eyes resembling those of a Disney woodland creature and serving to augment her impossibly cheerful smile and manner.

"C’mon!” She half sang.

Jenna put her pillow over her red head. “Nooo!”

"C’mon, Jenna!” Gracie hit Jenna’s rump with a pillow.

I lifted myself up lazily, yawning as my own dark mop fell over my face.

"I’d forgot how much I hate Mondays,” I said.

"C’mon, Jenna!” Gracie was tugging Jenna’s covers off her.

I ignored the vaguely familiar scene that would repeat throughout the year (assuming Gracie made it home tonight). Instead, I made my way downstairs to the bathroom. Save for our mother, we were the first of our siblings to be awake as seniors had to be at school no later than eight a.m. sharp. It gave us a little time before the two juniors and three sophomores invaded the bathroom. It seemed so large when empty, not so much with eight girls vying for position at the mirror.

My teeth and mouth were clean by the time Jenna finally made it to the shower, and I’d set about taming my hair.

A note about hair: Jenna’s is thick and wiry the way only red hair is. Gracie’s is silky and fine as you’d expect a blonde’s to be. Mine: somewhere in the middle. Theirs is always perfect. Mine, not so much. I’m cursed with bad hair days.

"Mom strode in wearing her standard gray maid’s dress with the white collar. That’s what Miki always calls it, anyway. Mom had never been a maid save for picking up after eight girls and two boys… that stopped abruptly when we were five, by the way. She was very pragmatic about her attire, however. She’d doff it to clean the bathroom after everyone was gone, having the house immaculate, and her face made up like a fantasy girlfriend’s for Daddy’s homecoming. She always wore that same dress, and he would… well, they’d often need privacy for an hour or so before dinner.

Privacy, of course, was hard to come by with ten children, we’d all learned that when the master bedroom door was closed, someone better be dying if it was opened from the outside. But I digress, sorry.

Jessica Jane Wells, that’s Mom, hugged Gracie from behind and faced her via the mirror.

"Are we good?”

"Yes, Mommy,” Gracie said with her usual genuine sweetness.

"You are coming home tonight, right?”

"I promise,” nodded Gracie, sincerely.

"Mom,” Jenna said. Neither she nor I ever said “mommy.” Only Gracie did that. “Between Eric’s math, Sam’s English and my history, she’s fine. I swear. I’d be ecstatic with her essays.”

"She’ll get good grades, Mom,” I confirmed.

Mom never took her eyes off Gracie’s mirrored eyes.

"I’m so proud of you,” Mom said. “Hurry up. Breakfast is ready. I got us apples and bananas.”

"There better be coffee left,” Jenna said. “Or did Daddy drink it all?”

"Daddy’s still in the shower,” Mom said as she went to leave, then turned to see the three of us staring, knowing exactly why Daddy was still in the shower. She blushed all the way down to her ankles. “What?”

Just as we began filtering out, the oddballs, Miki and Patti were staggering in, yawning incessantly.

"Stop that!” Jenna smacked Patti’s rear.

Oddballs they were because neither resembled anyone else in the family. Both were blonde (Miki a dark sort of blonde and Patti almost a platinum blonde). Both were gorgeous. Miki had a pointed nose, pointed chin and high cheek bones, while Patti had soft features, a pug nose and round cheeks. Maybe my description is lacking, I suppose. As I said, they’re both gorgeous; they just don’t look like anyone in the family.

They’re also both brilliant A+ students, into sports and cheer leading. I was B+ in all but English, in which I excelled. Jenna; the same except with History. Gracie and Celine were at the bottom, always needing help with homework to keep their grades up. The boys don’t count. They don’t face culling. But both Eric and Jimmy are good students.

In the kitchen Mom had coffee and bowls of fruit sliced artistically waiting for us. We, in our blue and white uniforms sat while she poured the Java.

"Oh, Sam!” Mom said. “You two really need to tutor Sam in hair care.”

"We tried!” Gracie protested.

"Lost cause,” Jenna said sardonically.

"C’mere,” Mom dragged me by the arm to the full length mirror on the broom closet. With one of two brushes she always kept on hand for just this daily disaster, she teased my hair with the relaxed and focused look of a professional.

Save for my hair and our outfits we might have been identical twins. It was only at times like this, when she was working on me in front of a mirror that I truly felt beautiful. You see, my mother is by far the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, even in a magazine. Being near her like this filled me with a bliss I cannot describe. Maybe my hair troubles were a blessing to get me through the rest of the day.

"Sam,” Jenna said. “You always do this. I think you mess up your hair on purpose just for the attention.”

"I do not!” I protested, just noticing Mom’s half smile.

"Right!” Jenna said.

Jimmy, pretty green eyes, dark hair stood at the counter. If Mom had a male version, he was it. Unlike absent minded Eric, Jim was the sharp dresser in the family. He made his uniform blazer and gray slacks look like a fine suit just because of how he carried himself.

"Again?” he said, snorting. He raised his prized Nikon D11X and snapped three pictures before my face expressed anything approaching outrage or even surprise. He’d done that every morning before school since acquiring the thing last March. He’d mowed lawns for a year and a half for the €5,000 to buy it.

"Jerk!” I said, as I always did, to which he smiled prettily as he always did.

Mom finished with my hair, kissed my crown and went back to the task of breakfast for the younger siblings, and I took my place at the table as Daddy made his appearance.

He’s a solid man. 6’1”, not quite 200lbs with sandy brown hair over golden brown eyes. Not one of us girls got his looks, which is a shame, really. W all had to settle for Mom’s ethereal beauty over Daddy’s earthiness.

Eric, who stood an inch taller than Daddy was, however, very much his father’s son. Mom’s first-born strode in as if there was no one else in the room, kissed her on the cheek, grabbed his coffee and fruit bowl, sat down and began to eat as if the slices of apple and banana would run away if he did not inhale them fast enough. Like Daddy, Eric was blessed with the ability to focus. If he couldn’t, he’d get nothing done, and when he did, he did whatever he was focused upon as fast and efficiently as possible. The ability to multi task would have crippled Eric, I’m sure.

"Dah,” Eric said after one minute, twenty seconds of sitting behind his now empty bowl. “Dih ooo weeplagh ah ohl ay hehs et?”

"No,” Daddy said. “Not till next week.”

"Uh ay eed heng!” Eric protested.

"Sorry, can’t be helped.”

"Huher ih heahp!”

"You’re lucky Jake is letting you have them at all, so quit your whining!” Daddy sipped his coffee. “Besides, lumber’s arriving today. We’re building the deck this week, remember?”

"Oh,” Eric said after swallowing. “Shoot, I forgot.”

"I expect you here at five!”

Yeah,” Eric said. “I’ll be here.”

"And Tuckers are NOT cheap!” Dad exclaimed suddenly. “They feed your pie hole!” Daddy’s Nebraska logic, nobody dares argue with it.

The rest were arriving as Gracie, Jenna and I were finishing. Patti and Miki had dressed and were out of the bathroom as Mara, Celine and Danielle sauntered in, each wrapped in their colour coded towel. Unlike Miki and Patti, the three youngest were like miniature versions of Mom. Celine looked the most like her, with blue eyes and dark hair. Danielle had green eyes and Blonde hair and Mara had Light brown hair and Gray eyes.

They might seem slothful lugs at the moment, but give it fifteen minutes, especially if the hot water runs out in the middle of their showers, and you’ll see very typical thirteen year old behaviour.

Now, when my entire family is together, it’s an odd sort of ballet that must appear to be complete chaos to outsiders. Daddy will be focused on his E-PAD, reading news or emails or both with an ear on Mom as she runs the show and the rest of us dance to her tune.

"Jenna! Sam! Gracie!” Mom snapped. “It’s half past!”

Everyone hugged Gracie as we collected our gear to leave. Mom was trying hard not to be emotional, but she held Gracie for a long time. It might very well be the last time. It was basically a repeat of the previous Thursday when the sophomores started school. That day it was Celine we were all worried about. But home she came, and mom, who had waited by the door all afternoon, rushed out in tears to welcome her home.

It was a fifteen minute walk to the Franklin High school main gate from our door. Summer was supposedly waning, but you wouldn’t know it on this day. 7:30 a.m. and 85°F. It never got cold in this area till late October.

WE always walked in this order: Jenna at the curb, Gracie in the middle, me on the inside. Not that Gracie needed our protection, more that we, Jenna and I, needed hers, from each other.

"I think Mom’s a lesbian,” Jenna blurted half a block from home.

"She is not!” I instantly protested.

"Did you know she has a whole collection of Playpen Magazines in her room?”

"Yes,” I said. “As a matter of fact I did. So what?”

"I saw her touching herself reading one!”

"Jenna! I swear you are such an idiot!” I snorted. “You did not!”

"Hi guys!” Sloan Harding called out from across the street as she led her sister Michaela and Rebecca Golding toward us.

The Harding girls had that sultry Anglo-Hispanic allure only found in girls whose parents were of different heritage. Dark hair, nearly white, but brown skin in a curvy package. Boys drooled around them. Rebecca was another story. She stood 5’9” and was one of those Jewish girls who’s Jewishness was instantly apparent. If it was possible, Becca’s hair was even more unruly than mine had been. It flared out in thick curls sloping over and camouflaging her shoulders.

"Becca,” Jenna said. “Have you been trading hair secrets with Sam again?”’

"Oh stop!” I said.

"Sam’s hair looks fine!” Becca protested.

"Yeah, only after she conned our mother into fixing it for her.”

"Hi guys!” Gracie said to the newcomers, trying to sound cheerful.

The three new arrivals formed around Gracie and started the gossip train going. Solange Becket stole Fiona Dixon’s boyfriend. Did you know Sylvia Manning’s mom reads Playpen?

"So does..?” Gracie started.

"That doesn’t mean she’s gay!” Jenna interrupted. I rolled my eyes.

As we filtered through the main gate at the high school, we had to show our I.D.s to the scanner, I ended up next to Rebecca.

"So, how was your summer?” I asked.

"Busy,” she said. “We went to Israel to visit family, and my dad got married again.”

"To an Israeli?”

"Oh no. Israelis have big restrictions on exporting women. He married a girl from New York. He held off because she and I hate each other...”

"Okay!” came The Voice. The Voice belonged to Miss Bauer. The stocky thirty fivish, strong school athletics director. She stood 5’6”, which isn’t that tall, but to us she might as well have stood 7’. The woman had all the personality of a Royal Mastiff.

"Line up you little Trollops!” Miss Bauer hollered. “Get your butts in gear. We’ve got a lot of work to do and none of you are leaving here today till we’re done!” She bellowed the last so loud, girls near her had to cover their ears. “Do you get me?”

"Yes Ma’am!” we hollered back as the scramble to queue up went from chaos to some semblance of organization.

The first task was to march the lot of us, one hundred thirty eight seniors, to the main hallway to turn in our summer projects.

My projects were three fold: An economics 101 research piece on the social practices of each of the G-9 nations plus Britain concerning culling of women and, in some cases, boys. It was two hundred and fifty pages. I was relieved when I slid that into the proper slot. The second was a bit more frivolous, for my history class. It was an analysis of political scandals in the last decade of the last century (2191 to 2200). That was fluff, for me. The third, and my proudest was an interview with Congresswoman Carmen Sanchez (D) NJ 2nd District.

The assignment was “interview and elected official” for my Journalism 201 class. Carmen Sanchez happened to be in San Francisco last July. So I jumped on BART, and waited at the Fairmont Hotel Lobby till I saw her. She had been speaking with someone she was apparently trying to get away from when I approached. She was appreciative enough to give me thirty minutes, which I managed to stretch into an hour.

"You’re a tough little thing, aren’t you!” was what she said on my last question. I sent her a copy of it soon as it was done as promised, and received a nice “thank you note” from her office. Now the school English Dept. would get a crack at it.

From the main hall we were marched toward the locker room. That meant the Gymnasium.

The entire basement of the school, which was a couple of stories deep, was the gymnasium. The girls’ locker room/showers hung like an enormous box above it over one of two Olympic sized swimming pools.

By itself, the girl’s locker room was enormous inside, with its fifteen hundred or so lockers and thirty shower heads. The showers we were already used to. Cold water came out of them and we had to use them both before and after phys-Ed, often with three girls sharing one head.

I unloaded my gear into my assigned locker, 1805. A three month supply of tampons, aspirin, band-aids, four pairs of clean panties, a towel, two extra white blouses, my pencils, ruler, printer paper, pens, note pads, that stupid school bathing suit and my prized Steno-E-Pad (which I worked just as hard for as Jimmy did for his camera).

Every item was required, even the E-PAD (not a Steno-E-Pad, mind you, just a wireless e-mail compliant reader).

"Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!” Miss Bauer was shouting. “Shower’s better be on NOW!” she snapped the swat she carried always when dealing with more than two girls. That swat was never far from her reach, even when she wasn’t carrying it. I’ve since found out it’s an S&M toy. It’s a thin strip of rubber as long as my arm and as wide at the end as my extended hand. I’d only ever seen it used once. That was last year on Carla Gianini’s bare bottom. I’d heard stories about its use, but one strike and Carla’s terrified and pain filled squeal, coupled with the huge angry welt on her rump was enough to convince me not to risk Miss Bauer’s wrath.

So I stripped off quickly. We all did.

Even so, I stood in line for twelve minutes waiting for a shower. The process was to get wet, soap up, rinse and put on the stupid bathing suit and cap after you were wet. You did this as fast as possible so not to suffer the ice cold water too long, then out to the track.

Down, again, we streamed into the cavernous echo chamber and began our warm up. On the track, it was three laps. The track was made of squishy rubber designed for bare feet, which would have made it a pleasure to run on if we weren’t running in wet bathing suits. This ran completely around both pools. That’s about a hundred and seventy feet on each side… well, plus whatever, ten feet I think between pools.

This we’d do every single day, the point being that we’d be grateful to sit down and learn after. It was also why the start times were staggered. Could you imagine twelve hundred girls crammed in here? I can. I’ve seen it! Not pretty.

After ten minutes of stretching (every one of us could put palms flat on the floor standing straight legged), then we’d swim ten laps.

"Okay!” Miss Bauer snapped the swat so that it echoed up and down the massive room. “Groups are as follows! Remember your group! Group one: Abrams –Marie and Naomi, Adams – Blair, Brooks – Candy, Shelly and Frances, Carlton –Vivian, Leah, Monica…”

"Group two: Christiansen – Mary, Juniper…”

And so it went till Group fourteen.

"Vickers – Debra, Lee Anne, Vanderholt – Amy, Wells – Grace, Jenna, Samantha, Wozniak – Rachel, Yates – Andrea, Zimmer – Ruth!”

It was just my luck. Last year she’d grouped us by first name, not surname. Lee Anne Vickers and Ruth Zimmer were the only two in the class of 2219 that exceeded my English grades. They were aspiring creative writers: probably both destined for advertising. If one of them were penning these pages, you’d be able to feel every sensation, smell every smell, taste every flavour and hear a symphony playing mood music to boot. I’m just a reporter, sorry, ma’am, just the facts...

Miss Bauer snapped the swat again. “Group one and two – Gather there!” She pointed toward the curtained off Basket Ball Courts. “The rest of you, queue up in the numbered lanes as per your group number and start your laps!”

I knew the entire rest of our group as well. Amy and Rachel were cheerleaders who hated each other. They were a big reason Gracie almost quit last year. Other than them, the rest of the cheer leading squad was sociable and nice.

"So who did you get in your interview, Lee Anne?” Ruth asked as we lined up for laps. Like Rebecca, Ruth was of obvious Hebrew extraction, but her 5’5” frame and silky black hair that reached midway down her back, coupled with her air of high fashion sense (she’d make Jimmy a good girlfriend) made any comparison with Becca a bit ludicrous. Ruth wore makeup that looked like natural skin tones and, while more hansom than beautiful, she had no trouble getting the few boys available to pay attention to her.

"I got Mayor Leslie,” said Lee Anne proudly with her slight drawl. The girl from Alabama was quite proud of the way she spoke almost to the point of arrogance. She often said she’d love a radio job. “How ‘bout y’all?”

"Mayor Isaacs of Oakland,” said Ruth, just as proudly.

"Wow!” Lee Anne sounded genuinely impressed. “How’d you score that?”

"I called and asked,” Ruth said matter of factly. “You know how black politicians all think Jews are sympathetic.”

"That’s racist!” Lee Anne snorted.

"But true…”

"So,” I interrupted. “How hard did you hammer him?”

"I framed my questions sympathetically. No need to be rude,” Ruth had a sardonic smile. “But I got some amazing answers!” She said earnestly.

"And you, Sam?” Lee Anne turned to me.

"I’m really impressed you got him,” I said to Ruth.

"Who’d you get, Sam?” Lee Anne persisted.

"Me next!” I got into position as Jenna returned on her first lap.

"C’mon, Sam! Spill!”

"It’s not about who it was, but the form and content,” I quoted Miss Masters, who was our combined Journalism/Creative Writing teacher last semester.

"You got the Mayor of San Francisco, didn’t you?” Lee Anne accused.

"Nope!” I bent down, ready to dive into the water.

"She got Carmen Sanchez,” Gracie spilled my secret.

"No Way!” went a chorus.

"Yep!” I said triumphantly as I leapt into the pool.

It was true, of course, that content was everything. If the questions asked were poorly composed and had little relevance to one another or the subject, it was not going to get a good grade. But scoring an interview with a subject that was not only controversial, but nationally known and quite current did count for something. It showed some level of competence, or that was my thinking, to get that interview in the first place. But the stakes were higher, and as I swam my first lap, I was intimately aware of it. Any questions the teacher thought were not novel, or ones she was familiar with from other journalists would come across as mediocre. Yes, the stakes were higher.

It was eleven before our group was called out to the basket ball courts. We stripped naked and, one by one, went to each station where medical technicians would weigh us, and take samples from us, poke and prod us till… well… they got their jollies doing these annoying things, I think. Retina Scans and finger prints processed and confirmed, on the scales each of us went. Our bodies were scanned and the computer calculated our body mass with resulting yield. Just so you know, I was 5’3”, 10lbs, 32B-22-33(Triangular). Breast total volume: 322 ml Right, 318 ml Left, Estimated yield: 33lbs. At €10 a pound, I was worth €330.00 at the meat counter.

I’m about average size for my boobs. The two cheerleaders were both at about 425 ml per breast, which is big! Grace, however, was 675 ml each, and she’s only 5’5”. Jenna’s slightly smaller than me at 280 ml each. Lots of B-Cup girls at our school.

The report also had estimated blood volume, heart rate, blood pressure, lung capacity. There would be blood, urine and stool tests, with a pap smear to boot. All this is paid for by the school since they basically own us if our grades fall too low or we get “unfit.” Today’s culls would bring more than enough money to pay for this and about a month of our education.

The technicians, who were mostly female with a few males, maintained a cold professionalism that gave insight into the gravity of the task. Any error would mean culling for the females and loss of a job for the males. Falsification of any test was a criminal offence that could bring ten years in prison. The firm contracted to do this job was approved by the California State Butcher’s Association and licensed by the FDA.

Not one of my eight companions uttered anything more than a muffled whimpers if they could help it.

I’ve said the techs were cold… well, verbally yes. Efficiency wise yes. But nipples don’t remain erect very long in the heat, even after swimming. I notice these things, so sue me!

Of course, it could also have been fear. Were we all afraid? Probably. It would explain everyone’s “deer in the headlights” look. Every single face was flushed (and I’m positive mine was). The ever so light touch of the techs made things that much worse. They were very gentle in their efficiency, and it made every touch seem like a caress.

This was all punctuated when poor Debra Vickers (Lee Anne’s sister), had a gushing orgasm as the tech extracted a vaginal probe whose purpose was God knows what… Amy Vanderholt was the only one that appeared amused.

Lee Anne couldn’t help her weeping sister, so Grace, bless her, held Debra till she regained composure.

Sweet justice came when the same thing happened to Amy. Debra was the one, probably oblivious to Amy’s earlier reaction, to comfort the crying girl.

Showering after was the reverse of showering before. We’d strip off under the freezing cold shower, rinse our suits out, then soap up and rinse ourselves.

At this point it was lunch time. I always ate outside so I could read whatever needed to be read in relative peace, but today Rebecca Golding found me. She appeared with a milkshake and a bowl of macaroni salad looking at me with puppy dog eyes, the mop on her head pulled back into a wet pony tail.

"Is it true Amy Vanderholt gushed?” she asked sheepishly with a slight smile.

I nodded.

She sat down straddling the bench with her long, long legs.

"Michaela said Amy’s a lesbian,” Rebecca said as she began sucking her milkshake through a straw.

"How would she know?” I asked a bit annoyed.

"She said the tech was a woman. So was the one I bent over for…”

"Maybe it just felt good when they pulled out the probe?” I said. “Anyway, it’s really mean to talk like this…”

"It’s retarded,” Becca said. “I just…”

"Just what?” I asked.

"They live close, Michaela and Sloan do, and I get all the gossip. It’s all they want to talk about. It’s mean, true, just like you said. But they say things about everyone. Even me.”

I shrugged. I sipped my coffee, strong, to keep me going the rest of the day.

"They’re my only friends,” Becca confessed.

I looked up at her. “Why?”

Becca shrugged. “Nobody likes me.”

"Hey!” Danielle rushed up and sat behind me, grabbing my shoulders. “This is my sister!” She said to her companions.

Following her was a senior named Mark… something, and a very petite but voluptuous black girl with dark, dark skin and a luminous smile.

"Sam, this is Mark and my friend April!”

"Hi,” I smiled.

"Hey,” Mark said coolly. “Hi, uh, Rebecca, right?”

"Hi,” Rebecca said, her long back hunched over the bench she straddled.

"So,” April said. “Is the meat grinder over?”

"It is for us, I hope…” I said. “That is, assuming we make it home.”

Rebecca’s tears came.

"Awe!” April sat down behind Rebecca and put her hand around the taller girl’s shoulders.

"I think they’re going to cull me,” Becca said.

"What makes you think that?” Mark said with a sideways look.

"Cuz I’m not pretty enough. It’s why I don’t have any real friends.”

Mark rolled his eyes and gave me a look as if to say; “How do you put up with this?”

"The only bus already left, Becca. If they’re going to cull you, they’re not going to do it today.”

"Besides, I think you’re very pretty,” April said.

I laughed, reminded of how my sisters would sometimes lie to me about how good my hair looked on a particularly bad hair day.

"What’s so funny?” April said with an annoyed tone.

"It’s funny that Becca and I have the same problem,” I giggled, unable to stop. “If they culled for bad hair, I’d be gone.”

April and Mark laughed nervously. Danielle wasn’t so kind.

"That’s not fair!” protested Danielle. “Becca’s is super thick, almost like Jenna’s! You’re just lazy!”

"Am not!”

"Mom says so!”

"She does NOT!”

"Does so!” Danielle stuck her tongue out.

"Maybe we could go bald,” Becca said, a hint of a mischievous smile on her lips.

Danielle laughed hysterically at that with April joining her mirthfully.

"We could start a trend,” Becca said. “Then the drapes really will match the carpet!”

That got Mark’s laughing as well. By the time lunch was over, I was a little more comfortable with Becca…

Downtown Freemont

Monday, August 22, 2218, 1:27pm

The door opened revealing a bulky blond man in his early 20s. He stood a hulking 6'4", with a thick brow under close cropped sandy hair. There was no mistaking he was, or had recently been a professional athlete with or without the sweaty t-shirt.

"Jesus H. Christ! Look what the cat dragged in!"

"Hello Glen!" Gianni put on a friendly smile. "I heard you got a job with the AOC."

Glen nodded. "Sure did! C'mon in!" He backed away from the door.

Gianni moved cautiously into the apartment. Glen outweighed him by at least fifty pounds, which meant that as fit and fast as Gianni was, he'd not easily take the larger man down.

The apartment was small, but well apportioned. The furnishings were mostly leather sofas and easy chairs in a lounge area augmented by an enormous television hanging on the wall over the fireplace. It was the perfect entertainment centre for the outgoing sports fan Gianni knew Glen to be. He had an idea that tonight Glen would have at least three friends over to watch Monday Night Football with at least two scantily clad girls serving drinks and snacks...

As if to prove Gianni's line of thought, an arm was around his neck, Glen's massive at the end of it. Before Gianni could react, his face was pulled into Glen's chest while Glen's other fist rubbed on Gianni's crown painfully.

"It's so good to see you, man!" Glen said jovially as his sweaty shirt left its scent on Gianni's collared t-shirt.

Gianni hid his annoyance with a chuckle.

"You haven’t changed a bit,” he said, composing himself.

"Well,” Glen said, patting his right leg. “This knee is bum, but mostly I’m the same guy.”

"I heard about that. Sorry the surgery didn’t go well.”

"It actually did. Wanna beer? But at least I got to play in a real game,” Glen retrieved two bottles of Henry Weinhardt’s from his refrigerator.

"I saw that game,” Gianni said. He’d watched a recording of the game in question two nights ago. “That hit you took was painful to watch. I heard you were trying to get onto the AOC Gymnastics Team at the time.”

"I was,” Glen said. “I’d been in training for six months when I took that hit. I’ve been training in swimming ever since, but I’m just not fast enough. But that’s how I got the job as an AOC scout.”

"Tell me about that?” Gianni said as he took a seat on the plush leather couch.

"Well,” Glen said. “Not much to tell, really. I hit a school. If I find a prospect, I’ll set up a trial. If the trial goes well, I’ll set up a regional slot and get him or her into training.”

"It can’t be that simple,” Gianni said, looking up at Glen with his chin low.

"Well,” Glen said. “No. I mostly find swimmers and runners. Some Gymnasts, now and then. I look for more than speed. I’ve got twenty three in regional competition, which is better than average… so I must be doing something right.”

"What’s your territory?”

"Bay Area’s nine counties, then San Juaquin County and north to Shasta County . Basically the I-5 corridor from Stockton to Redding ,” Glen said. “But I focus on Swimming, Running and Gymnastics. There are others who scout for other sports, and they overlap.”

"How do you go about scouting?” Gianni probed. “I mean, how do you get into a school? You do scout at schools, right?”

"Oh, yeah! I just call up the school and tell them I’m coming! I’ve never once been turned down.”

"Really!”

"AOC, Man! There’s a lot of clout there. I can walk into the girl’s showers and nobody says boo to me.”

"You do that?”

"Yep! All the time. In fact, tonight, I got a couple of cuties from Irvington High are going to… be the entertainment for me and a few friends. It’s Monday Night Football tonight. You should come!”

"Sounds fun!” Gianni lied. “It also sounds like you’ve managed to legalize the panty raid!”

Glen laughed heartily at that.

"Remember Phi Beta Kappa?”

Gianni laughed. “How could I forget? I wish I could.”

"You got so drunk you puked on the house mother’s bed! What were you doing with her, anyway?”

"She was pretty.”

"Didn’t you end up puking on her?”

Gianni smiled, tongue in cheek, and gazed at the ceiling.

"Jake Tucker was so jealous.”

"The cowboy?”

"Yeah! Didn’t you know?”

Yes, Gianni remembered. But it was not common knowledge. “No, I didn’t.”

"He found himself some Indian tail, or so I’m told.”

"Apache? Sioux?”

"No, Indian as in from India ! Weird, huh? She’s got this weird name too, Ash Can… I’ll bet she’s a dog.”

"Ashima Kahn?” Gianni blurted, and instantly regretted it.

"That sounds right! How’d you know?”

Gianni collected his composure and thought quickly on how to explain this away.

"If it’s the girl I’m thinking of, her father is Sanjay Kahn. He’s a VIP from Kolkata Exports and Properties. Important guy. His operation is top notch. I did some work for KEP about six months ago. He showed me a picture of his daughter, and she is no dog. It’s why I remember her.”

"I should take you to see them, then,” Glen said. “The wedding’s coming up soon. My folks are invited and they want me to go.”

"I’d better not,” Gianni said, relaxing a bit. “Jake never liked me much. It would be rude to crash his wedding. If you’re in good with him, best not to even mention you’re friends with me.”

"Gee,” Glen said. “I didn’t know there was bad blood there.”

"Long story, but yes.”

"So what are you up to?”

"I’ve been a head-hunter for a while now. That’s how I was involved with KEP,” Gianni said. “So I travel around the country quite a bit. The firm I’m contracted with at the moment has me profiling families.”

"Sounds a little cloak and dagger,” smiled Glen.

"Not really,” Gianni shrugged. “I mostly just pull public records and talk to people. It tends to be time consuming more than anything else. They want in depth profiles to keep from getting involved with… shall we say, needy people.”

"Hey,” Glen perked up. “How long are you here?”

"A week. I have to hit Phoenix next.”

"Good. I could use your help, then.”

"Oh?”

"Johnny DeSilva’s hanging around again.”

"I thought he was connected to your mother?”

"He is! She’s still alive.”

"Oh, good. How is she?”

"Doing great! She’s involved with Marcus Jackson’s run for the senate. She’s planning to be the main course at his big fund raiser in Orinda next month. She’s forty this month and wants to go out in style. She’d love it if I brought you!”

"Congressman Jackson? Hmm… interesting. So tell me about Johnny.”

"Oh yeah. I wanna take down Johnny DeSilva.”

"Why?”

"That’s private. I mean really private. I’ll tell you later if you’re up for helping me.”

"You think I can come up with dirt on DeSilva.”

"You’ve came up with a B+ in Social Science in my junior year. I can only guess what method of persuasion you used on Professor McManus, so I’m betting you can come up with dirt on a two bit hood.”

"Well, I don’t know. I do have this job to do, and it does take time…”

"You investigation involve children?”

"Yes. Why?”

"You do this for me, and I’ll get you full access to every school record you need to get to.”

Gianni smiled. Jackpot.

"I’ll do what I can.”

"What’s the name I’m looking for?” Asked Glen, grabbing a stray envelope to write on.

"Wells,” Gianni said, pulling out a E-PAD. “Matthew Wells, wife: Jessica. Children: Eric, Jenna, Grace, Samantha…”

Wednesday, August 24, 2218, 7:30am

Franklin High School, San Ramon, California

From Samantha Marie Wells Private Journals

One hundred and one girls and thirty boys of the senior class (plus twenty eight more from the post graduates) had assembled on the front steps of Franklin High School. Principle Erica Farmer, her bobbed wheat blonde hair tussled by the nippy morning breeze, strode out on her long, long legs which carried her statuesque body regally to the stone podium embedded in the outdoor landing.

Bear with me. I’m honing my descriptive prose…

She scanned over the crowd of seniors with her wide-set ice blue eyes.

"Post grads,” she called authoritatively. “This is your student advisor, Professor Yarning. Room 101, get inside…”

The rush of the twenty eight boys in their brand new suits were awaiting placement in whatever school they’d been accepted to… it might be a semester, or even a year before they could go. They filed past the stately Mr. Yarning in his tweed suit and silver moustache, greeting him as they passed. They would be very nice to this man, he could make or break them while they earned college credit while still here at high school.

"Senior boys,” Miss Farmer called as soon as the post grads were inside. “Home room is 105 with Miss Washington. In you go!” There were groans. Miss Washington was a take-nothing from anyone woman from Louisiana. Her Creole heritage gave her an aire of down home authority boys responded to. Eric loved her.

"Ladies,” Miss Farmer finally deigned to speak to us. “This year’s senior teachers are: Miss Masters… Miss Emerson… and… Me! Till we can break in a new teacher some of you will be my personal slaves who I shall torture at my pleasure,” she joked. It was funny, and we did laugh… nervously. “Assignments as follows…”

"Please Miss Emerson, Please Miss Emerson, Please Miss Emerson…” Sloan Harding was chanting in whispers, eyes squinted shut and fingers crossed on both hands.

"Why Miss Emerson?” I asked her.

"Because Miss Masters and Miss Farmer are lesbians!”

I rolled my eyes.

I was in the first group with Gracie, Sloan, Rebecca Golding and Andrea Yates. The latter had been pestering Jenna to hook her up with Eric.

"You girls are in room 208 with Miss Masters. In you go!”

Sloan was cursing all the way up the steps.

"Hello, Miss Masters,” we all said as sweetly as possible, even Sloan, which made me want to hurl, as we passed Miss Masters on the front landing. It was, officially, our first classroom day. We each deposited our purses and E-pads into the tiny lockers and headed down to the gymnasium lock room to get changed for morning warm ups. It was nice to be first in line at the shower for once, save that Sloan shared the head with me.

"God,” she said as we slipped on our wet bathing suits. “Now she’s going to be looking at me all year!”

"Not necessarily,” I said. “Maybe you’ll get culled.”

Becca, behind Sloan, laughed hysterically at that.

"Don’t even say that!” Sloan protested. “Abby Messing got it last year for diddling a teacher!”

"Hurry up, Girls!” Miss Bauer snapped her swat. “I haven’t got all day!”

At 8:30 sharp we filed back into home room where Miss Masters was writing on the blackboard. The stack of graded projects was on her desk. Once we were all seated, she turned around.

The teacher wore a blue silk scarf over her beige silk blouse with a granite tweed skirt. She was tall, and shaped much like Rebecca, save for her chest. Becca had one, Miss Masters did not.

"No, Grace,” said Miss Masters to my sister. “You, up front, here!” She pointed to an empty seat at the front of the room.

"But…”

"Now!” Miss Masters snapped. Grace complied with her head down. The desks were set up six wide and six deep. At the back of the room was the class toilet in its own water closet just beside the tiny lockers with the room’s only clock above them. There was no clock at the front.

Aside from the blackboard that was the width of the room there were a set of shelves with Miss Masters’ private library below it. To our left, the wall was nothing but windows that ran floor to ceiling. To our right was Miss Master’s hall of fame. That wall had pictures of every one of her students that became professional writers.

"Kylie,” Miss Masters said. “Trade places with Rebecca.”

"But, ma’am…”

"Now! You and Sloan can dish AFTER school!”

I’d chosen a window seat in the second row and Kylie Kim had been behind me, with Sloan the next over. Becca had been next to Grace up front.

"Okay,” said Miss Masters as we were settled, at least for now, to her satisfaction. “I have to say that everyone here should be very proud.” She began distributing the graded projects. “Kylie, great biography of Tolstoy. Grace. Did someone help you on this?”

"Yes, ma’am. My sisters did.”

"Did they write it for you?”

"No ma’am. But they did help me find the research.”

Miss Masters held up the essay Grace had indeed written and my heart leapt into my throat. All I could think of was how happy Mom had been when Gracie had arrived home Monday afternoon, safe and sound. The hugs and the tears were still a fresh memory, and if Gracie didn’t make it home tonight, it would break Mom’s heart.

"I want all of you to read this as part of a class project,” said Miss Masters. “Icons, heroes, media and pop culture from Nelson to modern Hollywood. Grace has successfully and concisely displayed the facts with no flowery minutia to get in the way. A+, Grace. Brilliant.” She moved around the room. “Literature and Journalism reside on opposite ends of the prose spectrum. Nice work, Becca. Loved the part about the baking soda.”

She handed two more out before collecting the other half of the stack at her desk.

"Literature is what, Kate?”

"Interpreting the human condition or the condition of the subject.”

"Journalism is what, Becca?”

"Observing and recording that which is.”

"Poetry is what, Andrea?”

"It’s anything the poet wants it to be,” said Andrea. “It’s an attempt to convey emotion and experience through words.”

"Very good,” said Miss Masters. She went to the blackboard again and wrote:

"The Author interprets literature, the Reader interprets Journalism.”

"Pure Journalism and Pure Literature follow these rules. Nothing being pure, we have varying levels of each depending on how we approach what we write.” She kept one last project in her hand having handed the rest out. “Pure journalism is most often found… where? Sloan?”

"Interviews?”

"Exactly. Interviews are the most pure form of journalism simply because the reporter, the journalist, must report that which is said and has no control, what so ever, of it. It is the art of Journalism to make the interview compelling with good questions! This particular interview is extraordinary. Not only is it with a current and very controversial personality, it also reveals information not widely known. I know I learned from it… and I can honestly say some of that which is in here shocked me! In fact, here’s little Q and A:

"Interviewer: Many accuse you of being an advocate for lesbians.

"Answer: Not true! I am, however, an advocate for bisexual women. This is why I have been so against the criminality of the so-called ‘lesbian gene.’ It simply does not exist.

"Interviewer: So, are you bisexual?

"Answer: All women are, therefore I am. It should not be a crime! Even in the bible there is no mention of lesbians or bisexual women. The prohibition is on male sexuality…

"Interviewer: but can’t it be interpreted to mean both men and women?

"Answer: No! If it is so, then that line in Leviticus is the only line that is ambiguous in a full book that is very, very specific! Though shalt not this and that…

"Interviewer: you seem very adamant in your views…”

"Answer: I am!

"Interviewer: So, are you engaging in any further action on the issue of lesbian or bisexual women?

"Answer: As I said: I am not an advocate for lesbians. I am an advocate for women. I have seen ample scientific evidence of the true nature of women being bisexual; therefore I am simply advocating the natural state of womanhood.

"Interviewer: How will you be dealing with this legislatively?

"Answer: It’s too early to reveal that.

"Interviewer: Very well. When you introduce this in a house resolution, do you anticipate a fight?

"Answer: Of course. But that does not mean my colleagues won’t simply see its logic. Either way, fight or not, I intend to take it to the people…”

Miss Masters paused for effect. I was high as a kite at this point.

"So,” Miss Masters let the paper down. “In this you have a reporter that seems almost unsure. She has, however, caused Carmen Sanchez to trust her enough to reveal these things. The Amador Herald is publishing it tomorrow, Sam. Well done!”

Miss Masters returned to the front of the classroom, retrieved thirty two sets of stapled pages, and distributed them as she described the assignment.

"This is a very old interview,” said the teacher. “Twenty questions that will seem fairly tame. Turn this into literature. Describe the setting, the two people and the interaction. Tell me how they sit as they converse. Add no dialogue. Keep that exactly as it is. But you may punctuate the dialogue how you please. Divide into groups of four. Yes Rebecca?”

"Is it true?”

"Is what true?”

"The Congresswoman said all women are bisexual? Is it true about the scientific evidence?”

"That part is indeed true,” said Miss Masters. “You have till noon to complete it. Team up!”

"See!” Sloan said as she scooted her desk over. “I told you she was a lesbian!”

Lunch time was the same as it had been since Monday save that Sloan and Michaela had imposed themselves with their talk of Miss Masters and all things lesbian. Andrea, I saw, was chatting up Eric on the quad with four other girls. I did not see any of my other siblings, outside of Danielle and Eric, but that wasn’t odd.

April was making eyes at mark as he b.s.ed with Danielle, Becca and the Hardings about, what else, lesbian teachers, lesbian students and all things lesbian. I focused on my E-PAD, or tried to. Tonight was my laundry night and I needed to read Myra London by Friday. Thank god I took shorthand. The book report was due that day.

"Sam,” Danielle said. “Let’s take Becca home and do her hair.”

"What?” I looked up, not believing she’d do that to me. “It’s my laundry night, Danni!”

"Good!” she nodded so violently her blonde hair flopped all over. “We’ll do it by the laundry room sink. It’s perfect!”

"But!”

"Please, Sam?” Becca pleaded.

Of course I relented. I’m not a total bitch… wish I was…

Northbound Interstate 680, 8pm

The rented blue Ford Icon was inexpensive enough not to attract attention and luxurious enough not to be out of place at the swankiest hotel or club. Gianni ha an appointment and he needed to hurry. The man e was to see was impatient and Gianni could not afford lack of cooperation.

His phone rang.

"Yo!” Glen’s voice was on the other end. “How’s the investigation coming?”

"Which?”

"Either.”

"Mine is slow, as you already know. I’m coming down to the wire on it, so I hope you’re going to come through for me!”

"Don’t worry… and the other?”

"Yours… well, I may very well have what you need tonight.”

"Great!” Glen exclaimed. “Hey, Friday. San Ramon. Eight A.M. ‘K’?”

"Why not tomorrow?”

"Because I get to see all those kids perform on Friday. They all swim and have light gymnastics. So I can honestly look at their files.”

"How deep did you say we could go?”

"The whole thing! Anything you want. Everything they have, that is.”

"Fabulous! I’ll see you then.”

"Later, Gator!”

Lance cursed. Friday did not leave him much time. It would be difficult to get into any lab till Monday at the earliest. Friday would be near impossible.

Shortly, he pulled onto Hwy 24 and exited at Camino Pablo in Orinda. On Vashell he found Club Tropicana Blue looking out over the freeway, its flashy neon Art Deco style fitting in nicely with the other buildings in the area. The lot was already filling up as the valets managed a steady stream of expensive cars.

At the head of the line he stepped out in his black dinner jacket and bow tie. Had the car been an Aston Martin he might have been mistaken for James Bond. AS it turned out, two cars behind him was a vintage 2158 model in slate gray.

He gave the girl his keys, a five, and made his way to the queue.

The rich and fabulous were on full display in their swankiest glory in the queue to get in. But this was California, where the “frontless” dress had scandalized the nation only twenty years before. Breasts were sometimes covered only in paint or in sheer fabric. The dresses, whether they were frontless, transparent or traditional hearkened back to early Hollywood glamour, a style that never lost its allure.

Back east, women would not be caught dead, or only be caught dead in such revealing outfits. Even so, the atmosphere was polite, proper and, contrary to the East Coast, friendly. The author of this establishment had every right to boast. Michael had, in fact, expected a seedier atmosphere. It was a very pleasant surprise to find otherwise.

"One,” Gianni said, paying, as always, in cash. The cover was a full 400 Euros, or about the monthly rent on Glen’s apartment.

Inside, it felt like a time warp. On the stage, a pianist played “Claire d’Lune.” Couples mingled and posed for pictures taken by young women wielding ancient bellows cameras with bulb flashes. Cocktail waitresses in short shorts and tuxedo shirts carried umbrella laden drinks deftly through the crowd.

Then Gianni did a double take. The waitresses, at first glance, did wear the proper attire. But upon further inspection, only their collars, shoes, sleeves and aprons were real. The rest was body paint. It was quite an illusion.

Gianni made his way to the bar where a very large man, who probably doubled as a bouncer, turned and asked what he could get for him.

"Glenlivet, neat.”

"Right away, sir.”

It was right away. Gianni handed the man a twenty and saw two come back in change.

"You’re late,” said a familiar voice that had no hint of the accent Gianni had known.

"Fashionably,” Gianni smiled. “I have to hand it to you, Johnny. This place is… quite something.”

"Some say that,” said Johnny, sipping his own drink, a Martini, vodka Martini, Gianni noted. There was no gin on Johnny’s breath. Johnny slicked back hair had a receding hairline on a main that was otherwise long in back. His Roman nose and slightly sunken cheeks gave him a stately look. His thick brow, and deep set eyes, however, took away from it. He wore a white smoking jack and looked every inch the mob capo he was. “So,” Johnny said, putting his drink down. “What does the Jessup clan want with a lowly Jersey hood?”

"We want Chicago,” said Gianni.

Johnny laughed mirthfully at the old joke.

"You have to admit,” Gianni said. “A Chicago pedigree is better than one from Jersey.”

"Where does New York fit in?”

"Depends on your opinion of Mario Puzo.”

Johnny laughed again. “C’Mon. I’ll give you a tour backstage.”

The club had a rough start, according to Johnny. His original idea was a variety club. A total 30s throwback that would bring the golden age of both Hollywood and the Mob back into vogue. It would be an ‘in your face’ to the Feds. The original entertainment had been a singer with a few comedy teams, lots of slapstick. But it wasn’t attracting any kind of crowd. The singer was mediocre and the comedy teams, male and female were not cutting it.

"So a month ago, my singer got booed off-stage. The club wasn’t full, but it was a decent sized crowd, better than most nights. I was pissed off at her, anyway. She was one of those ‘I got talent so my shit don’t stink’ types. So I dragged her up on-stage and gutted her right in front of everyone. Served her that night. Place is now packed Wednesday through Saturday.”

"Sounds lucrative.”

"Yeah,” said Johnny. “Capacity is nearly twelve hundred. At 400 Euros a pop… you do the math. We’re at or near capacity every night.”

"480k, almost two million a week. What about expenses?”

"Our bills are paid,” Johnny said. “We’re doing fine.”

"Who’s we?”

"Sylvester Carrington is my partner,” Johnny whispered. “He never comes here, though. Silent partner.”

Gianni nodded, seeing it come together.

The host took Gianni down a flight of stairs to the basement where the actors were. A father-daughter comedy team were painting on clown makeup complete with red noses. A father-son team was practising ventriloquism with the son playing the wooden dummy.

"That’s Penny,” Johnny said, pointing out a lovely blonde in a white sequin gown. “Used to be a waitress, now she’s my singer. Unlike my former talent, she can actually carry a tune.”

"You own her?”

"All the girls, yeah,” Johnny nodded. “Valets, Waitresses, Camera girls. All of them belong to the club.”

"How much do you make off them?”

"Shit,” Johnny said. “If I sold them for meat, I’d have to replace the staff nightly! We do one on Friday night without fail. We might do another on a night that the club is full, depending on my mood. It keeps them coming back. But often, I don’t have to do that. Lots of these well to dos bring in wives, girl friends or daughters they want done. That’s by appointment, a week in advance.”

"You advertise for that?”

"Hell no!” Johnny said. “I don’t want our A list clients scared away! It would also kill our chances of opening up another club in Atlantic City!”

In the next basement room a body builder with very pale skin was getting an air-brushed tan. The man was not all that tall, maybe 5’7”. But his back legs looked like Glen Carrington’s did at his fittest. The artist was laying on a light base coat that matched Gianni’s own complexion, but it was too even to look natural.

"Turn!” the old man with the airbrush ordered. When the body builder did turn, the naked figure turned out to be a woman. Her breasts were average size and well formed, but unimpressive on that body. What stunned Gianni is that from the back the woman looked so very manly, but from the front, she had re-formed, making her waste seem narrower. Even her face, under short curly blonde locks, was quite lovely.

"Oh!” She said. “Ha, Mr. DeSilva!” The accent was unmistakably from Alabama.

"Almost ready?” Johnny asked.

"Oh, ah am!”

"Got her at an auction, if you can believe it,” said Johnny as Gianni was still marvelling at this creature. “She’s trained in Ballet and Gymnastics. She’s either going to knock ‘em dead tonight, or she’s meat!”

"Ah won’t let ya down, Mr. DeSilva!”

"Knock ‘em dead!” Johnny said as he lead Gianni to yet another basement room.

This next room was larger, with almost two dozen black actors. The eight lighted mirrors were occupied by bald and nude women making up their faces.

"Those girls are from up and down the eastern seaboard with one from Louisiana.” Johnny said about the actresses. “But these guys are the real deal.”

Johnny referred to a group of naked men practising dance moves. Their bodies were, as with the women, waxed. They were not, however, bald. Their moves were heavy and powerful, nothing at all like the type of dance one might find in Urban North America.

"We ready, Mr. Dasilva, Sah.”

"Good,” Johnny said. “They ready?” he asked, referring to the girls.

"Jes, sah.”

One of the girls, tall, and very beautiful stood and walked over.

"Yes, Mr. DeSilva?”

"Just checking on you, Jasmine,” Johnny said. “Make sure those wigs are glued on tight.”

"They will be, Sir.”

"This is the main attraction,” said Johnny. “It’ll be great if it works. We’re debuting it tonight. Check this out,” Johnny led Gianni back to another African man wearing only a blindfold and kneeling on the floor. He was carving on a log with hammer and chisel. Between his legs, his enormous penis was sliding in and out of an equally nude pre-teen African boy on all fours. Gianni guessed he might be eleven…

"They’d only come if he came,” Johnny explained with a look of disgust on his face.

"Where’d you find them?”

"I didn’t,” said Johnny. “My director did. He’s around somewhere. The guy makes one of these things every few days.”

"Why?”

"No idea. Something to do with their women, some secret ritual. The African girls don’t perform, just the men. This is my witchdoctor,” Johnny indicated the man who had spoken before. “God I can’t wait! Jasmine!”

"Yes, Sir?” the girl rushed up.

"Where the hell is Victor?”

"I think he’s in the kitchen,” said Jasmine.

"Thanks,” Johnny said. “C’Mon.”

As it turned out, they were directly underneath the kitchen. A spiral staircase took them up behind the bar where Johnny’s big bouncer tended. Another story up they found the kitchen.

"So you do serve food here,” Gianni said.

"Like I said,” Johnny said. “I served up the first singer a month ago. But dinner is only available on the balcony, and only to VIPs. We don’t advertise this either, it’s only word of mouth.

In the far corner, a bald man with horn rimmed glasses was speaking to several waitresses in a thick Cockney accent.

"If any of the actors comes near ya, ya might be the one,” Victor was saying. “So just do wot comes naturally. Be as scared as you would be… if you’re not, act it. Rememba, the actors pick who gets it. So be nice to them. Off with ye.”

The girls began to disperse, save one. A petite brunette with big brown eyes approached Johnny.

"Johnny, is…”

Johnny grabbed the girl by the throat and pushed her up against the wall. “Never, ever call me by my first name in this club again! Do it and I’ll cull you so fast you won’t know what hit you! Got it?” The terrified girl nodded. “Now do your job,” he said evenly, letting her go so she could scurry away.

Gianni almost smiled. This was the Johnny DeSilva he’d previously known. Ruthless, unforgiving and absolutely in control of his domain. It was nice to see he had not changed since, ten summers ago, Gianni first met him. Johnny had been his streetwise mentor in West New York and across the bridge to Manhattan. It was Johnny who taught Gianni how to be invisible and how to blend in. It was Johnny who helped Gianni put all his training into practice from the time Gianni was ten till he turned sixteen. Every summer, Gianni learned life on the street from Johnny. It was Johnny who introduced Gianni to the Harrington. It was also how Gianni had met Jake Tucker. Johnny’s grandfather, Carmine DeSilva and Martin Tucker, Jake’s father, were old rivals. Old Carmine was the boss to contend with in Jersey City. That he was also at the top of DeSilva Inc. meant he was a bigger target for the Feds. But he kept the Jersey bosses in line and the NYC Bosses at bay. Politicians routinely intervened for Carmine, and in return, Jersey City had one of the lowest crime rates of any city in North America, according to the Uniform Crime Reports.

Why did Glen Carrington hate Johnny so much? Gianni could find out, but the truth was, Gianni didn’t care until he needed to. Bad blood was a tool, and Gianni intended to use it.

"I say, Guv! I’ll be sure to stay on your good side,” Victor said, watching the girl scurry away.

"Is everything ready?” DeSilva asked.

"It is,” Victor said. “This should go over very well, suh.”

"Break a leg,” Johnny said and led Gianni down a dark corridor. It led out to a staircase on the left and to a door on the right. Johnny opened the door.

Beyond that door, a private box overlooked the entire place. To the right, the balcony with booths on three terraced levels. Across the way were six private boxes. If Gianni guessed correctly, this box was placed in such a way that it would not be noticeable by any observer from outside it. To that end, a rack of lamps was held in place above and below the box, which would further obscure what was behind it.

"Sit,” said Johnny.

Gianni sat, once again impressed with his mentor’s accomplishment.

Johnny picked up a phone on the wall. “Glenlivet, neat and my usual. Send up some Doritos too, plain.” Johnny hung up. “You still like Doritos, right?

"It’s scary how well you know me,” Gianni smiled.

A waitress delivered their drinks and a crystal bowl of plain Doritos almost instantly. She then stood, waited for Johnny’s nod, then left.

"So,” Johnny said. “What do you think?”

Gianni sipped. “I think I’ve spent nearly an hour with you and I’ve only seen one felony. You’re going soft. Or, maybe straight.”

Johnny laughed. “Don’t kid yourself. I wouldn’t settle for a mere two mil a week. I have to re-invest.”

"So what’s the racket?”

"Who wants to know?”

"Glen Carrington,” Gianni said evenly. “He’s itching to bring you down. I’m sure you know why.”

"And you’re helping him?”

"No,” Gianni said. “He’s getting me access for information I need in exchange for something on you,” Gianni paused, then added: “Something to get you away from his mother.”

"That ain’t happening,” said Johnny, clearly angry.

"Not with her debt to Carmine, no.”

"So what do you want?”

"Anything that sounds good and is worthless to him. And for you to play along.”

Johnny nodded. “Play me and it’ll go badly for you. You’ve been down that road and I know you’re that crooked shooter.”

"I need what he has access to.”

"Why?”

"Because I do.”

Below, a twelve piece band had begun to take their places behind a conductor. The big band theme started off with Glen Miller’s “In the Mood” which brought the crowd to the floor to dance.

"That girl you brought in from Jersey, the one who called you ‘Johnny,’…”

"My cousin’s kid. Aunt Mila begged me to take her.

"That’s Mila’s kid?”

"Granddaughter. Want her? Trouble is; she’s a virgin.”

"Were you serious about having her culled?”

"Yeah,” said Johnny. “She’s more trouble than she’s worth.”

Gianni smiled, then something dawned upon him. “How many of the tables are bugged?”

Johnny smiled back. “Every damn one.”

"VIPs in conversation. Now I get the whole club angle.”

"Carmine had every single room at the Ritz bugged when he owned it. When I told him my idea for this place, he called up Claudia, told her to take care of me. She set me up with Sylvester, and the rest is history. It’s been a year and a half in the making and Carmine’s already getting candy he likes.”

"The kind that tastes like carrots and beats like sticks.”

"Pretty much,” said Johnny, looking at the stage. Penny was out in her white sequinned gown and singing “Peachy Keen,” the dance floor stayed packed.

"Okay,” Johnny said. “I’ll play. But I need something in return.”

"Of course you do,” said Gianni.

"Carmen Sanchez is about to cut a few of my clients off from their income.”

"How so?”

"She’s going to try and decriminalize rug munchers. Lots of guys, and a lot of politicos married to wives with secret lives.”

"I see. You want dirt on her?”

"I’ve got more than enough worthless dirt on her. What I need to know is; who are her co-sponsors? Who is writing that bill, because I know for fact she isn’t,” Johnny said. He looked Gianni square in the eye. “Can you do this thing?”

Gianni nodded. “I can do this thing.”

Wednesday, August 24, 9pm

If Jimmy were GQ boy, Danielle is fast becoming Fashion Slave-girl, though she by far prefers London Calling. All evening she directed Celine and gave both Becca and me a complete make-over that, amazingly enough, did not completely infringe on my time.

It was in an issue of London Calling, in fact, that Danielle found the step by step makeover guide she used on us. Soak hair in beer and egg whites. Rinse with lemon juice, etc.… cleanse skin with the same lemon juice… etc., et al, ad-nauseum.

Now, our house had all five bedrooms upstairs back then. Downstairs is our living room-dining room which is pretty much a very large front room. To the extreme left is the main staircase. The back end, on the right, is the kitchen. On the left is the main bathroom, which is huge. It has the laundry room area attached in back of it almost as an afterthought. So when there is any commotion in the going on in the kitchen, any one in either the main bathroom or the laundry room gets to be the audience.

Jenna and Jimmy were putting on quite a show tonight, too. They’d been selected by Mom and Daddy to cook for the rest of us on “Adult Night, or, as most like to call it, Wednesday Evening. They always return between midnight and two, usually with Daddy carrying Mom, lock themselves in the master bedroom and… well… knock boots almost as noisily as Jenna and Jimmy were being now as they argued over who was in charge of what for dinner. Now, this end result, Mom and Dad, not dinner, is brought on by what Mom always describes as sitting in other people’s hot tubs and drinking wine. Must be good wine.

In the meantime, Grace could be hear trying to broker peace between Fireball and GQ Boy, so we all might get something to eat before the boots started knocking.

It was, of course, my laundry night as well. Twelve days of dirty cloths I had done in four loads, the last of which was in the wash now, and I’d soon be hanging it on the cloths line. While I did that, Danielle would buzz around Becca like a hen constantly referring back to her stack of magazines, especially the one with Princess Caroline on the cover. Okay, the fist one of London Calling with Caroline on the cover. No, the one from her Début into Society that year, not her baby pictures!

Please remember that Danielle was only thirteen years old that year! Of course she loathed and loved boys and had that cruel streak all girls her aged do in the agony of early puberty. She’d had braces for a year, and had just had them off. Now that she could smile with pride, it brought her an intense sense of shame if any one of her family looked less than perfect! I was, along with Becca, the first battlefield in her campaign against ugliness in her world. Wait till I tell you what she did to Eric!

Anyway, Celine, the quietest among us, followed Danielle’s instructions as best she could, never once complaining.

"The thing, no, no, yes! That!” was about as coherent a direction as Danielle was capable of giving. Poor Celine, bless her, was as patient as Job. Tenderly, she cared for our scalps and faces as if she were caring for a newborn’s, though she confessed later she had no clue at all what she’d been doing.

Danielle even had Celine applying our makeup. Though, all of in my family were fairly competent with it by the time we were thirteen. Even so, the whole exercise ate up my evening. We weren’t done till ten. Nor was dinner. The four of us, Danielle, Celine, Becca and I could not have cared less, however. We stood at the enormous main bathroom mirror completely speechless.

Becca was gone. In her place was Reba, the Jewish Princess. I know that sounds derogatory, but it’s not meant to be. I never thought of Becca as Beautiful, that’s why we all started calling her Reba from that day on. Danielle and Celine had straightened Reba’s hair to a silky smooth blanket of ochre locks that billowed above her crown as if she wore a fall. The makeup Danielle applied was light, but the blue shadow over Reba’s dark eyes brought out their lustre. Ruby red lipstick gave her natural olive colouring the illusion of being lighter.

My hair liked it seemed to want to always, straight, then curling past my shoulders. Danielle had parted it slightly to the left than I previously had, hanging more of it on the right like a curtain. I liked, very much, how it framed my face, and have worn it that way ever since. Brown eye shadow that was barely there and lip-gloss, a slight bit of rouge on my cheeks. I felt amazing. I couldn’t help but hug Danielle and Celine and thank them profusely.

The proof in it was when the four of us came out of the bathroom and into the Kitchen War Zone, all of it stopped.

Thursday, August 25

As usual, Gracie was the first one awake. And with her help, I was still the fist downstairs. At his usual place, Daddy sat reading the Amador Herald while Mom cooked raisin oatmeal.

Mom turned, as she always did, to greet my arrival, her serene smile vanished, her jaw dropped and her eyes went wide. I can’t ever get used to that feeling. The ultimate complement a woman can receive. She had always been my ideal of beauty, and she raised the bar in that moment with her own expression. But it was all for me!

It passed quickly enough as Patti and Miki arrived.

"I did not!” Patty was whining. “Mo-om!”

"Mom, will you tell her to quit going through my things?” Miki complained.

"I didn’t touch anything!” Patti protested.

"Then who did?” Miki countered.

"Okay-STOP!” Mom said. “Miki, what is the problem?”

"She took my sewing kit and won’t give it back!”

"Did not!”

"STOP!” Mom said again. “Miki, I have your sewing kit. I borrowed it yesterday and I forgot to put it back. Now apologize to your sister!”

"But Mo-o-o-om!”

"No buts! Apologize or your grounded for the weekend!”

Miki relented and apologized. As much as those two could hate on each other, they could turn around and love on each other just as fast and mean it. They were best of friends by the time we left for school that morning.

My pulse was still quick from the look on Mom’s face earlier. The distraction had not diminished it on iota. I took the discarded front section of the Herald from daddy’s paper and read it as I ate, being as quiet as possible.

However, when Danielle and Celine appeared, the conversation quickly turned back to my makeover. Daddy heaped praise upon them mentioning more than once how beautiful I looked… Of course, Danielle was now miss popular, which had always been her goal anyway. All my other sisters started their bids to be Danielle’s next project. Even Celine was vocal and animated.

Move moved behind me with her brush and quietly brushed my hair. Barely noticeable to me at first were her trembling fingers. I felt more than one caress on my ears and neck before it was time to go. I also caught both Daddy and Jenna giving us sideways glances.

"Guess what!” Sloan said as she and Reba met us. It’s amazing how a girl recovers after a sibling gets culled. But Sloan never seemed phased by it even as we had walked home together on Monday.

"What?” Jenna bit.

"Miss Emerson, you know Lisa, Miss Farmer’s secretary? Camilla Harper saw them kissing in the principal’s office!”

"Okay,” Jenna said. “So all there senior home room teachers are lesbians. Congratulations, Sloan. You win. Reba, you really do look fantastic!”

"Thanks.”

"Yeah,” Said Sloan. “So I guess we’re all screwed.”

"The only difference is,” Jenna said. “My home room teacher doesn’t do students like yours does!”

"I like Miss Masters,” said Grace. “She’s really nice to me.”

"Duh! You’re blonde!” said Sloan.

"So?”

"Amanda Taylor: she was blonde too.”

"Even so,” Reba said. “Watch her when she talks to Sam.”

"Me?”

"Yeah! She was all about you yesterday.”

"Oh, come on!”

"It’s true!” said Sloan. “The whole period it was Samantha This, Samantha That… yada, yada, yada…”

"Jealous?” asked Jenna.

"No. Better she diddles Sam then me!”

"She sure liked your interview,” said Reba.

"What interview?” asked Jenna.

"The one with Carmen Sanchez. All about bisexual women and the law,” Sloan mocked.

I know I was ten shades of red, bordering on purple. I just tried to ignore Sloan as I could not think of anything to retort with.

"When did you get that?” Jenna asked.

I sighed. “I told you all about it! Last July in the city!”

"I gotta read that,” Jenna said. “You have it?”

"No.” I said, exasperated.

"Oh,” Sloan said. “She’s being too coy She’s getting published in the Amador Herald, so you’ll see it. Everyone will.”

Even I paid attention that day when Miss Masters called on me. And yes, if she was not at all interested, which she very well might not have been, maybe she called on me more than anyone simply because I’m a good student?

At lunch, Sloan and Reba caught up with me.

"See?” Sloan said.

"See what?”

"Girlie, your teacher wants you sooo baaad!”

"You’re imagining things!”

"Seriously,” Reba said with a concerned voice. “I thinks he’s right.”

"Look,” I said. “So what? Who cares? Why do we have to judge her about that?”

"Cuz Lezbianz get culled!” Sloan countered.

"And that really turns you on, doesn’t it Sloan!” Eric said as he strode past us.

I wheeled, but he was ignoring me. Instead his eyes were transfixed on Sloan.

"You know, Sloan,” Eric added. “They don’t just cull lesbians. They cull bitches too. I can’t tell you how much that part turns ME on!”

Sloan stood wide eyed for a pregnant moment, then ran away from us.

"God I can’t stand her,” said Eric. “I don’t see how you guys can. You okay?” he asked me directly.

"Yes,” I said. “Eric, you don’t have to come to my rescue. I can take care of myself, you know.”

"Yeah, well… okay.”

"Okay.”

"Fine,” he started to turn. “But watch yourself.”

"Fine.”

"Okay!”

WE caught up with April, Danielle and Mark in our usual spot. Mark barely spoke while both Danielle and April tried to keep his attention. His eyes were, sadly, on me.

Friday, August 26, 8 AM

Franklin Highschool, San Ramon, CA

"You have it?” Glen asked earnestly as Gianni approached in pleated shorts and a collared T-Shirt that matched Glens’ look. The only thing that really distinguished Glen were the Olympic rings on is teat.

"Yeah,” Gianni said, handing glen a thick Manila envelope.

"You’re late!” Glen admonished, taking the envelope and tossing it into his Porsche 988 Turbo Diesel Convertible. From the car he retrieved two badges on neck chains.

"Sponsor’s card,” Glen said. “That means you’re a big time donor. Anywhere I go, you have leave to follow. But don’t run off without me.”

"Very well,” said Gianni, not at all enthusiastic about being reprimanded by Glen.

"Next, this is Franklin High. Say it!”

"Franklin High.”

"The team is the Minutemen.”

"What about the girls’ team?”

Glen batted Gianni’s shoulder. “Say it!”

"Minute Men.”

"The principal is Gwen Farmer.”

"Gwen Farmer,” Gianni said obediently.

"Good,” Glen opened the door to his SUV parked next to the Porsche and retrieved a video camera. “Let’s go.”

The Porsche blasted off with rear tires gained traction only after Glen made sure he laid rubber.

"So, guess what? I get to spend the whole week on this side of the hill just for you!”

"What?” said Gianni. “Why?”

"Well,” Glen said. “Because the AOC found out I was coming here and started asking why am I bothering with this tiny little school. I had to tell them something. So I told them I wanted to see what we might be missing. They thought it was such a fantastic idea, now I get to visit every single bloody tiny bullshit school in Alameda and Contra Costa counties! Add to that: my Parents found out I’m going to be around for a while. I have to meet them for lunch, every single day of the week while I’m nearby!”

"But they live in Brentwood!”

"Oh… that’s close in this area, trust me!” Glen said. “I know they measure distance in feet an inches on the east coast, but here neighbours can be hundreds of miles apart and still visit. Bottom line is this: you owe me big!”

"I paid you big!” Gianni said, getting angry.

"We’ll see.”

Franklin High was only a few minutes off the freeway. The building was a throwback with three stories so that the entire school was housed in a single building.

Glen led Gianni inside to the main corridor. Dark wood to the chair rail with white paint above, the corridors were lined with glass trophy and display cases. Most of it, of course, housed sports memorabilia. On the far wall was a pretty Eurasian woman putting up a newspaper page.

"Excuse me,” Glen approached the woman. “I’m Glen Carrington here to see Principal Farmer.”

"Oh, Yes,” said the woman. “She’s been anxious to meet you, Mr. Carrington. She’ll be back any minute. I’m Lisa, her secretary. I’ll inform her you’re here. Can I get you or your associate anything to drink? I’m afraid we only have coffee or tea… or water.”

Glen refused the offer and elected to remain in the hallway as Gianni casually took interest in what the young woman had been posting. The page was out of the local newspaper and reprinted in the Franklin High Minuteman.

"Someone get an award?” he asked Lisa when she returned to finish her task.

"This? Well, sort of. One of our Journalism Students had a piece picked up by the Amador Herald. Here it is,” she pulled out a copy of the school paper and handed it to Gianni, which Gianni accepted. Then she posted on the board a black and white head shot of the girl in question. Gianni regarded the photograph for a moment. The girl had an ageless quality Gianni tended to favour. She could have been thirteen or thirty. She was also ethereally beautiful.

"Pretty girl,” Gianni said to himself.

"Yes,” Lisa said with a casual acknowledgement as if it had not occurred to her. “She is that.”

Lance folded the paper Lisa had given him and put it in his pocket, never intending to read it. At least he had no such intention until the school secretary pinned up a strip of yellow paper with the words: “Carmen Sanchez Interview by Samantha Wells”

"Mr. Carrington?” called a deep womanly voice. Gianni turned to see a leggy, tall, handsome blonde in her mid to late thirties.

"Miss Farmer,” said Glen. “I’m very sorry we’re late.”

"These things happen,” said Miss Farmer. “Lisa, Mr. Carrington is to have access to any student records he requests.”

"Yes, Ma’am.”

"Come,” I’ll give you a quick tour.”

At the end of this inspired and interesting tour of what amounted to any school anywhere, Glen and Gianni finally made it to the gymnasium where the entire Senior Class were doing swim trials while the Juniors were on the courts.

It was difficult to identify individual girls in their white caps and blue one pieces save for a number printed on the girls’ caps. Glen began video recording them all methodically.

"Excuse me,” Gianni called as a stocky PE Instructor passed by.

The woman was stocky yet attractive, not quite pretty, in Gianni’s opinion, and a little brutish in her behaviour. Lance thought instantly that this one might easily take down the body builder back at Tropicana Blue…

"Yeah,” the woman said with only a hint of personability. “What can I do for you? HEY! Lilly get out of the pool! I told you no mucking around!”

After a moment she turned back to Gianni. “Sorry.”

"That’s alright,” said Gianni. “We need to be able to put names to these athletes. Do you have a print out that…”

"Numbers on the caps, yeah… got that,” she went to her bag and produced a thick stapled set of papers. “Names, Numbers, locker assignments, it’s all there…”

"Thanks,” said Gianni.

"No sweat,” said the instructor.

It took Gianni several minutes to find a single Wells on the list. Then he found three. 1404, 1405 and 1406, Samantha, Jenna and Grace, respectively. He spotted Grace first. The girl had a large chest that reminded him of Lena the flight attendant and whose smile reminded him of Kathy, Lena’s companion. She was exceptionally pretty, even with her hair hidden by the white cap. Then he spotted Samantha by identifying 1404. When she turned so that he could see her face, Gianni could not believe the colour of her eyes. Surely she wore contacts! But: contacts when swimming? Not smart, if she was.

"Not bad,” said Glen.

"What?” asked Gianni.

"That girl, Jenna wells, good time. Pity she’s a senior. We could have developed her as a talent. Maybe some of the younger girls in that family might be prospects. That coach is holding them back, though…”

The last Gianni could tell for himself. The woman was obviously good at discipline but she had no concept of how to run a training regimen, at least for her swimmers. Instead she focused on the least among them and applied that standard to all.

When noon finally arrived, the pair made their way back to the administration office. Lisa graciously surrendered her desk to them as she broke for lunch.

It was never this easy, Gianni thought. The price was being bored witless for a few hours, and here was the reward. The entire wells family history, medical and academic. All that was missing was actual tissue samples. The whole thing amounted to one hundred eighty eight gigabytes of data. All the girls were at least halfway through high school without a single culling. That was not unknown, but it was rare, certainly. It was, however, common among the families he was following. In Toronto, the Maynard family’s twelve girls had all made it to sixteen. In KC, the Bidens had nine girls: all alive and all fifteen or older.

Lance took he file from Glen as Miss Farmer appeared.

"So,” asked the principal. “What do you think of our swimming program?”

Glen shook his head. “There’s a lot of talent here, Miss Farmer.”

Farmer’s expression slacked. “But?”

"But I think your coach is…”

"Is what?”

Glen pulled out his wallet.

"Call this man,” he extracted a card and handed it to the principal. “Mike Borov is guy you want to talk to. He’s our athletic resource director in Washington. He can find you the right personnel to develop the talent you have on your budget. If you’re truly interested in having an Olympic Level Program, you’ll call him.”

Gianni drove as Glean read the file Gianni had given him.

"You’ve got to be kidding me!”

"What?”

"Mike, DeSilva’s bribed Commissioner Albert son?”

"Repeatedly.”

"Jesus H Christ!”

"What’s wrong?” Gianni asked, knowing exactly what was wrong. “You could destroy Johnny with that!”

"Yeah! And I could take down one of my father’s closest friends along with him! How’d you get this?”

"Trade secret! Crimes nobody wants reported, and all that jazz…”

"So you broke into Johnny’s club, got this, and you need me to get these?” Glen indicated the Wells files.

"Yes I did,” said Gianni. “Time is short, and I need them without attracting the wrong kind of attention. Need I remind you a school, even a charter school, is a de facto government institution. Johnny, on the other hand, is a hood. You think he’ll get the police involved with this? Not a chance.”

"Okay,” Glen said. “But this shit is useless to me.”

"Hey,” Gianni said. “I risked my neck to get that for you. You only risked your job.”

"Yeah… whatever,” Glen was not happy. “So there is a whole lot of cloak and dagger involved here… I knew it!”

Gianni drove the Porsche down Hartz Avenue in Danville and parked in front of a bistro with a patio imaginatively called “The Patio.” Glen’s parents were already there.

"Where’s Astrid?” asked Glen.

"She was being a pain in the ass,” said Sylvester Carrington. “I told her to stay home. How are you, Michael!” He was nearly sixty years old, his graying hair still with hints of the blond locks he had sported in younger years. Like his son, he was solidly built with a broad chest and six foot four. Also like his son, he had an athletic past, having played ten years in the NFL. His build and carry betrayed his confidence moment to moment.

"Very good, Sir!” said Gianni. “Hello, Martha,” he kissed Mrs. Carrington on the cheek. “You look as beautiful as ever.”

Certainly that was not a lie. Sylvester Carrington’s second wife had been a Playpen Playmate in her youth. He’d married her when he was still playing for the San Diego Chargers, shortly after he’d culled his first wife. At forty four she was a full head shorter than her husband at 5’8” and wore a flimsy orange silk dress that seemed to expose rather than cover her lovely figure. Indeed, she seemed not to be wearing any underwear at all under it, nothing supported that generous chest that held firm even at her age. Her dirty blonde hair was cut neck length and billowed over her crown. Both her lips and eyes smiled expressively when Gianni approached.

"Michael,” Mrs. Carrington said. “It’s wonderful to see you again. How are things?”

"Busy, actually,” said Gianni. “Mrs. Carrington, you truly are a vision.” He said, and he meant it.

"Only a true gentleman could pull off such an obvious lie,” said Martha Carrington. “If you had learned from this one, Glen, you’d be married by now!”

Glen rolled his eyes.

"I’ve vowed,” she continued, turning back to Gianni. “To get Glen a wife before I die! So I have to torture him daily till he relents.”

"A Whole week of this!” Glen reminded. “You sooo owe me!”

"For what?” Sylvester asked.

"Glen did me a personal favour,” said Gianni.

"Oh good,” said Martha. “Pay us all back by finding Glen a wife.”

"So, Pop,” Glen evaded. “Anything interesting in banking today?”

"No,” said Sylvester. “Market’s flat. But I didn’t get much work in, anyway. I’ve been on the phone all morning.”

"With who, Dad?” Glen asked, obviously not really interested.

"Got a call from Marcus Jackson’s campaign manager. Or your mother did.”

"It was Sheila, actually,” said Martha. "She was sent a news clipping from this morning’s Amador Herald. The local paper out here.”

Gianni’s ears picked up. “What kind of clipping?” asked Gianni.

"Well, it seems that some high school student interviewed Carmen Sanchez. The answers she gave were quite shocking, or, to the unwashed masses and certain idiots in office they would be shocking. Anyway, Sheila asked me to find a way to get to the girl and talk to her discretely, so we can find out what else she has, etc. Apparently, our boy Marcus is working closely with Sanchez on legislation not to be made public before the election. The thing could derail his Senate Campaign if it gets publicized prematurely. We’re hoping the cat isn’t already out of the bag, so Sheila wants to do damage control. They’re furious with Sanchez.”

"Are you involved with the Jackson camp?” asked Gianni.

"Martha runs the Bay Area headquarters in Walnut Creek,” Sylvester said proudly.

This is too easy! Gianni thought. First his main objective garners more information than he could have hoped for and now he could pay off Johnny with a simple phone call and a name.

"So, anyway, Martha calls me and gives me the girl’s name. Well, I called up all the people with that name in San Ramon and guess what?”

"What?” Gianni was on the edge of his seat.

"I wrote the mortgage this girl’s family house not twelve years ago. Not only that, but Martha and I see them regularly! So I pull up the file and it dawns on me that Martha put me up to it back then, so I called her back and we both remember what happened.”

"Right!” Martha said. “And it was Bernie Foss that asked me to intercede on behalf of Mr. Wells all those years ago, first with a credit line, about seventeen years ago, then with a mortgage.”

"Mother, you did say Wells, correct?” Glen asked.

"Yes! I called Bernie and told him about it. Now he’s flying up from San Luis Obisbo tomorrow night. The Jacksons will be here Sunday and we’ll all go visit the Wells’ that afternoon. Isn’t it interesting what a small world it is?”

"Yes,” Glen said, slack faced and casting a sideways glance at Gianni. “Very interesting.”

"What’s good here?” Gianni smiled… hoping to change the subject.

Sunday, August 28, 2218

Our church was ten blocks from our home, and Mom always insisted we go to the 8AM service. She’d avoided me over the past three days and I couldn’t blame the article in the paper. It didn’t help, but it was not the cause.

Daddy was angry that I hadn’t shown it to him first, nor had I mentioned I was getting published. But even his anger ran deeper. He was even harsh with Mom! It was disturbing, abnormal and certainly not him.

Normally, my mother was like a giddy schoolgirl when she was alone with him. It was as if she were the homely girl who landed a date with the hottest guy in school. He was like the geek who scored the hottest cheerleader. A big reason not one of us, me or my sisters, had ever had a boyfriend is because Daddy had unknowingly set the bar so high no boy could possibly measure up. More on that later. Outside of my brothers, none of the boys I knew ever hinted they could possibly be as powerfully tender as Daddy was with Mom.

But this Sunday, we were in a sombre mood, all of us.

"So, Andrea is running to be your class rep?” Eric broke the silence on the way home.

"Yes,” I said simply.

"Good,” he said. “Voting for her?”

"I don’t know,” I said. “Lauren Nichols is also running.”

Eric nodded. “You know what Andrea told me?”

"No, what?”

"She’d start a campaign of silence among the students on lesbian rumours.”

"Eric,” Daddy said. “Not here!”

I was aware of those, of course. After my article came out some of the girls, Sloan among them, labelled me a lesbian. They reasoned that I was sympathetic to lesbian issues because I was one. In other words, it was guilt by association. Friday night, with everything else, I wept about it as quietly as I could.

But we had guests coming over. Two of Daddy’s oldest friends. One was Mr. Carrington, his banker. The other was Bernard Foss, who I’d never heard of. Well, that’s not exactly true. The name rang a bell, but I certainly was having a hard time placing the name. Once we got home, I managed to get on the computer and Google it.

Bernard Foss: CEO of Playpen Entertainment Group, and Editor in Chief of Playpen Magazine. He was the eighteenth CEO of P.E.G. which was founded originally in 2098 in the ashes of the Greatest War. They originally called it “Playboy” but someone who owned the trademark on that name sued, and the name switched to Playpen after only a few issues. Whatever Playboy was, it is lost in the ashes of history.

Playpen Magazine had become many things. It was a political journal, a social journal, a fashion journal and a beauty journal. It had something for everyone. Men and women alike read it. The subscription that came to our home was in my mother’s name. It was most famous for the Playpen Playmates that were featured each month in the centrefold, and the Playpen E-Girls, who were featured daily online. One of those each year was elevated to Playmate after having gone through the gauntlet of E-Girl of the Week and E-Girl of the Month. The E-Girl of the Year became Miss June in the Magazine. Playmates, by U.S. Federal Law, enjoyed a special status equal to professional women. Only Playpen could give permission cull them till they reached age forty. I’d later find out they made that law sometime back in the 2160s.

That, of course, was all fine and dandy, and the research gave me a reprieve from the sense of dread I felt. I’d be proven correct in the gut feeling I had that this visit had something to do with the Carmen Sanchez interview.

As I said, I’d met Mr. and Mrs. Carrington before. The last I’d seen them had been three years before, when I was twelve. But Daddy spoke of them often enough, so they were known to all of us. And when he did mention them, it was with very high regard, as if they were guardian angels of some sort.

But to finally figure out who Bernard Foss was... that was quite something else. Playpen Magazine was quite a force in both Political and Entertainment circles. I would later find out that west of the Mississippi, it was the go-to publication for politicians to read the general mood of the country during any given month. In the east, while it was popular, it was not considered the force it was in the west. Girls who posed in it were looked down upon, whereas they were elevated to almost royalty in the west.

At the time, I was not aware of the East/West attitudes, being a California girl. I just knew Playpen was a huge deal, and Bernard Foss, at its head, must be as well.

I remained quiet the rest of the day while we all helped prepare the thigh Daddy had picked up the night before. Mom fretting trying to follow a fancy recipe that involved honey sauce and yams… I hope she’s not watching… it was not her best choice of vegetable…

Eric and Jimmy would eat at the main table with the guests in the front room while we girls would eat in the kitchen and serve. If they stayed, we’d all move out to the back yard to visit, so we set up deck chairs and end tables for the guests and pillows for us. Thank god Eric and Daddy finished the deck on Friday.

Lest you think I was feeling sorry for myself, I was most worried about Mom. She was a wreck most of the day. She spent the time after church micromanaging everything so frantically Jenna had to get Daddy to calm her down four or five times. I was lucky. I peeled yams… yech… and cleaned utensils and made honey sauce, all of it simple and time consuming. I like being in the background when things get chaotic.

Mara and Jenna turned out to be lead cooks that evening, Jimmy being too fresh off last Wednesday to tolerate Jenna’s torture.

"Sam!” Daddy called to me from the bathroom door. It was about three in the afternoon. “We need this cleaned. Come help your mother!”

My heart almost stopped.

"NOW!”

I moved toward him as if to meet my executioner, hanging my apron on the broom closet door.

Inside the door, the pistol grip nozzle she used to rinse everything down was lying on the counter, and water was flowing freely from the end of the hose into the shower basin. Mom’s white collared gray dress hung on the back of it from one of the hooks. She was on her hands and knees scrubbing down one of the three toilets with a scrub brush. She was also completely naked, but that’s normal. Mom always hated getting her cloths wet when she didn’t have to, especially when she had the garden hose out. It’s just that, at this point, the sight of her body sent a jolt through mine that jump started my heart. When she turned, the terror in her eyes matched the rate of my pulse.

"Honey,” Daddy took her by the arm and she faced him, a hint of relief on her face.

"Honey, calm down,” he said gently as he gathered her up and kissed her forehead, then the cheek, then the lips. That was Daddy. She was everything to him and he didn’t care who knew it.

"Sam,” Daddy said. “The nozzle,” he nodded toward the item on the counter, which I took and put on the end of the hose, getting myself soaked in the process. “Relax,” he whispered in her ear as I went to my task. By the time I was done, he was gone, and I was alone with my naked mother.

Mon stood for a moment, hand on her sternum, chest heaving, with the other arm hugging herself. She was taking deep breaths, and finally calmed down. When she looked at me, she simply smiled that quiet little smile that looked so serene. It was her hide all smile.

"What are you waiting for, Sam?” She admonished. “Get out of those wet things and help me!” She was Mom again. Thank goodness for small favours.

As I did undress, however, I remembered she’d notice I needed to wax. I’d been lazy about that since school started. I should have done it last night, but procrastination is one vice I’m known for. I started scrubbing down the second toilet Mom had yet to get to. Silence was becoming thick till Mom burst it with a thunderclap.

"Sam,” she said, quite calm and evenly. “Are you attracted to girls?”

Now I was sobbing uncontrollably. God I couldn’t help look at other girls, and hadn’t been able to help it since I could remember. I had always noticed them, be they friends, strangers, my sisters… or even Mom. I thought it normal! I truly did! It never occurred to me that a girl would be grossed out by another girl till Friday! Every doubt I had about myself started on Friday when Sloan and the rest whispered “Sam is a Lesbian!”

When I was aware of the present again, Mom was sitting with me on the floor, cradling my head to her chest as I sobbed.

"Shhhh... shhhh…” she rocked back and forth. “It’s alright…”

I drew back, feeling like an ugly wet sponge. “I don’t know, Mom!” I blubbered. “I don’t know I swear… if I…” she quieted me down by drawing me back in.

"Mara, not now! Go upstairs. And tell Jenna to put enough wax on the stove for both of us and anyone else who needs it.”

Mom smelled of Almonds that day. I t wasn’t perfume, but the scent of the mineral oil she used. She tended to favour Vanilla and Almond scent. Ever since that day, I’ve used mainly those two.

"Sammie,” whispered Mom with her palm on my cheek. “If you do… well, you’re my daughter, so I already know you do. It’s alright. But I have to tell you to please be careful. Please! If you ever get caught kissing a girl, you know what will happen, don’t you? You could put all of us in danger.”

"Why does everyone think I’m a lesbian?” I asked. “Just because of the interview?”

She smiled and shook her head. “Don’t blame them. They don’t understand. Girls can be cruel, you already know that. It gets better, but not much. I just want you to be safe. I want your sisters to be safe. Do you understand?”

I nodded, sobbing more.

After Mom calmed me down, she became the waxing taskmistress of pain, though we did manage to laugh at ourselves. She was almost like a girlfriend for the first time that afternoon. We got to tease Mara and Jenna and Grace. Grace always took things with good humour, bless her. Jenna was fun, because she took herself too seriously and Mara was somewhere in the middle. Celine, however, we didn’t’ tease. Never would we think to do so, her being our sensitive child. Now, Miki, Patti and Danielle, of course, were smart enough and anal enough to have been so well groomed Mom never had to say word one to them about anything, vain beotches that they are… (Just kidding).

The downstairs bathroom spotless, the dishes and flatware placed and the meal ready, Mom put on her best “Jackie O” Dress just in time for the guests who started arriving at a punctual 5PM. Mr. Carrington and Mr. Foss were the eldest in the group, both about sixty. Carrington was an enormous man with little fat on him. In contrast, Mr. Foss bulged around the middle, balding and squat with a jovial kind of face. He reminded me of a garden gnome. Had he a white beard, he’d look like Santa Clause, but he was clean shaven. Mrs. Carrington was dwarfed by her husband, but my mother, who stood a petit five three was, in turn, dwarfed by her. She was older, but quite beautiful. Mom seemed to truly admire her.

The two surprise guests were a black couple, and quite an attractive one. She sported straight hair that proved to be her own, not a weave, with a sports jacket and matching skirt over a white paint-on blouse on her chest. Her skin was ageless in its dark lustre. She might have been forty five, for all I could tell, or eighteen. He wore a dark pinstripe suit that made his athletic body look like he could challenge Mr. Carrington to a wrestling match here and now.

"And this,” Mr. Carrington was doing introductions. “Is Congressman Marcus Jackson and his lovely wife Sheila.”

"Mr. and Mrs. Wells, it’s so good to meet you,” Congressman Jackson said in a genuine tone.

Then, we girls went to work. Lucky for us, the Junior and sophomore home-ec classes at Franklin High included units on manners, table etiquette and service. Many a waitress owes her job to those classes. Consequently, I got very little of the table conversation over dinner. Eric would tell me later I didn’t miss anything.

"I love your suit,” Jimmy was saying to Congressman Jackson when I was serving desert. “It looks so athletic!”

I rolled my eyes. Eric saw me, and almost spit up his wine. The next time I was out, Eric was talking about this project of his.

"So it’s basically a cradle specifically for the comfort of the doe and for even cooking,” he told the guests.

"I’m interested in seeing it,” said Mr. Foss politely.

"As am I,” said Mr. Carrington, with more enthusiasm.

And that was about as in depth as it got, or as I witnessed. Jimmy did a lot of the talking, entertaining our guests, while Daddy had a queasy look on his face at Jimmy enthusiastically spewed hyperbole. Even so, he seemed to keep the guests entertained. They all had amused smiles on their faces when I saw them.

"Okay,” said Daddy at about seven. “Eric, Jimmy. Say goodbye.”

My sisters and I were clearing away desert when Daddy made this surprise proclamation.

"But my project,” protested Eric.

"I’ll come back and see it,” promised Mr. Carrington. “Don’t’ worry. I never pass up on a possible new investment.”

"Say your goodbyes, boys,” Daddy commanded.

They did, and soon were gone out the front door. I’ve no clue where they went or what their plans were, though I did hear the van’s engine start.

Back in the kitchen, the eight of us were hurriedly cleaning up when Mom appeared.

"Gracie, Danni. Go light the candles in back. Are we almost done?”

Jenna nodded for all of us.

"Pattie, take the wine back with… uh…” she counted on her fingers. “Get fifteen glasses out. Make sure they’re spotless.” She looked around after giving those commands, turned and disappeared, only to re-appear ten minutes later.

"Okay,” Mom said emphatically. “Everyone out. Tell the others to sit on the mats. Sam, stay,” Mom caught my arm. “Aprons! Aprons!”

A storm of aprons landed upon us as my sisters giggled and ran outside.

"I’ll be right back,” said Mom, squeezing my arm, as she let go I noticed her hands were still trembling even after all these hours. She hurried up the back staircase with the exuberance of a schoolgirl and I stood and waited, looking around for something to do. I finally remembered I was buried under aprons and began hanging them as Daddy led the party through the kitchen.

"This way,” he was saying. “Where’s your mother?” he asked me.

"Upstairs.”

"She okay/”

"She said she’d be right back,” I told him.

Daddy shrugged and guided the guests back. They all smiled at me while I just blushed and felt stupid.

"She’s so beautiful,” said one of the two women, I don’t know which, after they’d all passed outside. Mr. Foss winked at me… kind of like Santa Clause.

When Mom reappeared she carried two issues of Playpen, set them down on the counter, fixed her hair and makeup at the closet mirror.

"How do I look?” she pleaded.

"Stunning!” I said, meaning it.

She smiled, hugged me, and grabbed my hand, then whirled back to grab the magazines in the other as an afterthought, then dragged me outside.

Daddy and the guests were all seated in chairs, while all my sisters were on the pillows. Daddy was reminding everyone of all my sisters’ names when we arrived. He told a story about Jenna’s fiery personality, then saw us coming.

"And this is Sam,” Daddy said.

"The reason we’re here!”said Congressman Jackson. My heart sank. I thought I was in for it. I stood there frozen with my heart in my throat.

"No,” said Mr. Foss. “I have nine lovely reasons to be here.”

"I agree,” said Mrs. Carrington. “I’ve seen so many beautiful women in my time, but his group is equal to any other if not more so.”

"What were you thinking, Bernie?” asked Mrs. Jackson.

"Oh, a thousand thoughts,” said Mr. Foss. “But that can wait.”

"You must be very proud, Matthew!” said Mr. Carrington. “And your boys! I must say, Eric certainly impresses me!”

Mom led me to the middle of the pillows and took the central one, with me taking the one closest to her.

"If,” Marcus Jackson started, “you will indulge me. My wife and I would like to read you something that is shaking up the District of Columbia this weekend.”

Sheila Jackson played Carmen Sanchez, and Marcus Jackson played the interviewer… namely: me. They did quite well, making it a little production and we all applauded at the end.

Jenna, Gracie, Mom and Daddy, had, of course, read it. The rest hadn’t.

Marcus Jackson waited a few moments, then asked: “Which of you ladies can guess why people in Washington are nervous because of this article? Not you, Miss Samantha.”

Mara raised her hand.

"Okay, Mara. Let’s have it.”

"Well,” Mara said. “I guess it’s because they don’t like lesbians in Washington.”

Sheila Jackson snorted. “Understatement of the year!”

"Excellent,” said Jackson. “You made them smart, and beautiful, Matt! Here’s the deal: Yes, they don’t like lesbians. They’re afraid of lesbians. So am I, quite frankly.”

"Why?” Mara asked.

Jackson took a breath. “They believe, and so do I, that lesbians were one of the root causes of the last Great War. Historically, lesbians hate men, and that hatred led to a weak nation. They said, hundreds of years ago, that men were bad. There was no such thing as a good man, they said. The Unites States became weak as lesbians gained power, and men became submissive. After the war ended, lesbianism was outlawed.

"Here’s the part that is confusing,” Jackson continued. “Miss Sanchez is not for lesbians. She is for bisexual women and girls. She believes, as many do, that all women and girls are naturally bisexual. That is to say: girls can like both boys and other girls at the same time. That there is no such thing as a bad gender. Follow me?”

All of us nodded.

"But it’s a long road to that place where people can accept and understand the difference and accept women as they truly are.

"Now, here comes Congresswoman Carmen Sanchez. She likes to stir the pot. Or, as some believe, she likes to make trouble. She certainly made people nervous. She expressed ideas in Miss Samantha’s interview that are scaring a lot of people. Now, we must make a choice. Miss Samantha and all of you are going to help me make that choice. Do I continue to support Carmen Sanchez? If I do, the people of California might not elect me Senator, and the might not re-elect me to Congress either! Or, alternatively, do I back off and not comment on the issue at all? Part of me thinks that if I back off, I’ll be seen as weak and that it might hurt my friend Carmen Sanchez very badly, though she brought this on herself.”

"What do the polls say?” asked Jenna.

"Good question!” said Jackson. “Preliminary polling shows an even split. Beyond that, we honestly don’t know. I do believe this could really hurt my campaign.”

"At school,” Celine said, her voice a little shaky. “They were calling Sammie a lesbian. And, and it was really mean!” I could not have loved Celine more than in that moment.

"When was this?” asked Mrs. Jackson.

"Friday,” Mara said.

"That’s awful!”

"It was,” said Patty. “I mean, how do you say anything to defend your sister like that? You know?”

Jackson scanned our faces, pensive and brooding.

"Well,” Mrs. Carrington said. “I’ve kissed so many girls I can’t count them all. And I’m married, so I’m not a lesbian. I have a son who we really need to bring here, Sly! Don’t we? I have had seven daughters. Three are married. I’m not at all ashamed of being a bisexual woman. I only stay in the closet for their sakes.”

"Nor I,” Mom blurted out. “I… I… I just have been… I’d tell you all the story except it would hurt someone I love. But I’ve always been attracted to women and men. I hope you can understand that I love my husband. I love him with all my heart and soul. But I can’t deny that women are beautiful to me and I really want both of you to sign these for me please…” she held out one each to Mrs. Carrington and Mrs. Jackson an issue of Playpen.

"Oh my god!” said Mrs. Carrington. “I haven’t signed one of these in years!”

"You were a Playmate?” asked Gracie.

"Long before you were born, sweetie,” said Mrs. Carrington.

"Is!” Mrs. Jackson protested. “There is no such thing as a ‘Former Playmate’ that still lives and breaths. A Playmate is a Playmate her entire life.”

"You might be interested to know, Gracie,” Mr. Foss said. “That this one was almost a Playmate herself.” He was pointing at our mother. “And should have been.”

"Is the cut off still sixteen to twenty three?” Mrs. Jackson asked.

"Or she’d be one now,” Foss lamented. “But I don’t have the kind of power it takes to override that rule.”

"It’s funny,” Mr. Jackson said. “It’s always the still water that runs deep.”

"What do you mean?” asked Foss.

"Miss Celine said it: the accusatory finger pointing is just mean. If I back off, I’m tolerating it, aren’t I!”

"I’d say so,” said Mrs. Jackson.

"Miss Samantha,” said Mr. Jackson.

"Yes, sir?”

"How would you like to interview me?”

I spent almost an hour upstairs composing my questions as my family enjoyed their time with the company. Eventually, Eric and Jimmy made it home and joined in. Eric managed to show Mr. Foss and Mr. Carrington his contraption in the garage, which made him very happy. The thirty questions I asked were all about position, policy and of course, female bisexuality and the law. When we were done, all Mr. Jackson could say about it was: “Wow! She’s tough!”

That over, we did catch Sheila Jackson cupping my mother’s breast. Mrs. Jackson had taken up my seat, and the two almost forgot themselves and kissed.

"Sheila!” Mr. Jackson admonished. That was the end of that, and the end of quite a nice evening.

Wednesday, August 31, 4:05 PM

Tropicana Blue Club, Orinda CA

Glen almost got himself a ticket on the way from Livermore. He should have been on top of the world as the Grenada High Matadors had twenty seven legitimate gymnast prospects and twelve swimmers.

But lunch with his parents had fanned his suspicions and fired his anger. The Marcus Jackson interview conducted by Samantha Wells and published in the Amador Herald this morning convinced Glen, more than ever, that Mike Gianni had played him.

At Tropicana Blue’s locked door Glen pounded with a club like fist. The bouncer that answered would be no match, Glen knew.

"I want to talk to Johnny. Right the fuck now!”

The man nodded, held up a finger indicating ‘wait’ and closed the door.

Glen fumed, and was about to bang on it again when it opened.

"Why, Glen Carrington. It’s good of you to come by,” said Johnny DeSilva.

"I need to talk to you,” snarled Glen.

"So, talk.”

"Can I come in?”

Johnny eyed glen for a moment, then pushed the door open wider, so Glen could pass.

"I was just in the middle of a very important meeting,” Johnny said as he led him up the hidden staircase to his office. “I hope this is important.”

"It is!”

"Good,” said Johnny. He opened a heavy door, which revealed a plush office that was entirely decorated in black and chrome save for a smoked glass wall to one side that looked out over the show floor. On one wall was a desk, and opposite the glass wall a large oval bed draped with black velvet coverings. Directly in front of that were two couches facing each other, and on the wall opposite the desk, where they had entered, was a small bar.

"Mr. Carrington, this is Mr. Golding and his lovely friend is Jasmine. She’s a dancer.”

Golding and the very naked Jasmine stood, offering hands for Glen to shake. Glen took them dispassionately.

"Mr. Golding is a chemist with Tucker-Kline. He might be able to concoct an athletic cocktail for your prospects…”

"I’m a chemist, it’s true,” said the bookish looking man who appeared to be about fifty.

"Glen here is with the U.S. Olympic Team. He’s finding our next batch of gold medallists for the Santo Domingo games,” Johnny winked. “Mr. Golding, something has come up. I won’t be long. Why don’t you have Jasmine show you our new dancers?”

After pleasantries were exchanged, the couple finally left and Johnny took a seat behind his massive black executive desk. He pulled out a cigar case and offered one to Glen.

"Dominican,” said Johnny. “Cubans are overrated.”

"I’ll pass.”

Johnny made a show of clipping the end and lighting the massive role of tobacco. He puffed on it, filling the area with acrid smoke, then looked Glen in the eye.

"So,” he said, blowing smoke rings. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Onto the desk, Glen slapped down the copies Michael Gianni had given him on Friday.

"You’re involved with Gianni, aren’t you?”

Jonny began to chuckle. “What exactly gives you that idea?”

"Because this stuff is very carefully concocted with valuable info I can’t use. Every single one is connected to my mother, my father, or both, and I know for fact you have a lot more pigeons you string along.”

"Well,” Johnny said. “Now you’re out to get even with Gianni, when you had no legitimate reason to get even with me. What did I ever do to you?”

"Take a wild guess!” said Glen. “But I know he’s involved with you, somehow.”

"So what if he is? What’s it to you?”

"I don’t like being played.”

"Nobody likes being played,” said Johnny. “But when you run in the circles your father and I run in, you deal with it. You accept the punches and roll. The hardest thing is to know your limitations. Michael Gianni, he is so far out of your league, crossing him might cause you to disappear.”

"Bull!”

"Glen,” said DeSilva leaning forward, and looking quite serious. “Gianni is far out of my league. I don’t cross him, either.”

Glen put his arms akimbo. “So you’d like to get even with him too?”

"They really do make jocks big and dumb,” Johnny’s well crafted California accent slipped to its Jersey roots as he shook his head. “I’m saying,” he continued. “If you have any idea what’s good for you, you won’t make an enemy out of Michael Gianni.”

"So what am I supposed to do? Kiss his ass?”

"If he drops his drawers, yeah! Kiss it! This guy will mop the floor with your family, your friends and make you watch before he finishes with you!”

"And you know this how?”

"Because that’s what I do! I know. It’s my job. Knowing is my business. Not unlike your business, actually. You find out what’s out there and sell that back to those that want to know.” DeSilva paused as Glen shook his head. “Gianni came to me to get dirt he could use to pay you off. Whatever it is he wanted, I don’t care. It’s not my business.”

Glen smiled. “Samantha Wells,” he said. “Today’s Amador Herald.”

"What?” DeSilva’s brow went up.

"It had to do with Samantha Wells and her family, Carmen Sanchez and Marcus Jackson,” The expression on DeSilva’s face was filled with shock and anger for only an instant, but that was enough to tell Glen he’d hit pay dirt. Glen took the pen off DeSilva’s desk and wrote down an address on a post-it note. “That’s her address. Have at it.” Glen strode out, noting that DeSilva had picked up the note and was intently looking at it… yes, Michael, Glen thought, I will get you back!

Friday, September 2, 7:15 AM

Franklin Highschool, San Ramon, CA

"So, he says to me, ‘Sweetie, you look so yummy I want to take you home right now!’ I kid you not! Those were his exact words! Right in front of my dad, and he didn’t flinch!” Reba was positively giddy as we stood outside school.

"He knows your dad?” I asked having only half understood the speech I didn’t record, since it was about as coherent as a gaggle of clucking hens.

"Yes!” she said. “I told you!”

"And he’s single?”

"Yes!”

"Good looking?”

"Oh God, Sammie,” Reba said dreamy eyed. “I swear he’s such a hottie! You’d envy me!”

I doubted that. “Great!”

"Oh! Oh! Anyway, he and my dad were talking politics and Johnny brings up this interview you did in the paper. I mentioned we were friends and he gets very interested. He really wants to meet you.”

"Uh…” I said. “Why? To talk politics with me?”

"Yes,” he said. “He said something about Jackson doing some event at his club or something…”

Jenna turned and looked at me jealously. She was walking with Gracie and Sloan, who was in our, semi, good graces again… or as most call it: probation.

"So will you come?” Reba asked.

"Come where?”

"To my house tonight!”

"Tonight?” Laundry night was tonight, I thought. “Isn’t tonight my laundry night?”

"No,” Gracie answered. “It’s Jimmy’s.”

Jenna said: “Jesus, Grace. Don’t encourage her!”

"Seven O’clock,” Reba said.

"Okay.”

"Really?”

"Yes,” I nodded, against my own desires… “I’ll be there.”

Much later in class, the great debate had started. Lauren Nichols and Andrea Yates stood before us in their individual bids to be the class representative in the student body government.

"So,” Lauren Nichols held up a mock-up of the proposed ‘Spring Uniform.’ “If you elect me, I promise to campaign for a uniform that more closely resembles California Fashion!”

We all applauded. The drawing of the new uniform was certainly more appealing than the frumpy blouses and pleats we wore at the time. Lauren’s proposal was a halter with the midsection bare and a shorter pleated skirt.

"Miss Yates,” Miss Masters said from the back of the classroom.

"As usual,” said Andrea. “Miss Nichols is two steps behind. That drawing is ancient history, or at least two years old!” She held up another mock-up of an even more stylish version. “Now this drawing was done by one of our own students and can be made easily by anyone completing Home Economics 101. Not only is it a more modern design, it also fits our unique character. I’ll support this one, and I’ll do something else!”

Andrea pulled out a bathing suit, probably her own.

"How many of you hate, and I do mean hate running after swimming in a wet, nasty bathing suit?” Every hand went up. “If you elect me, I promise to fight for your right to doff these disgusting things and swim as god intended: in your bare skin! Think about it: you can leave the pool, dry off and be comfortable doing laps after as we all do! I say: get rid of it!”

There was some enthusiasm in the applause that surprised me. I looked back at Miss Masters who had her chin on her chest, looking up at Andrea with a look of incredulity.

"Miss Nichols,” said Miss Masters.

"How ridiculous,” said Lauren. “What possible reason would Andrea want to strip all of us of our clothing? What for? Ask yourselves, seriously! For exhibition, that’s what!” She spent the rest of her response time going off, in not so subtle a way, implying Andrea was a lesbian.

"Miss Yates.”

"I am incensed!” cried Andrea. “Miss Nichols, you have stepped over the line! I truly am astonished you would go there. This last week there was a whisper campaign against one of our finest students! It’s gone on against our finest teachers as well! Why? Jealousy. And what did it accomplish? Bad Behaviour and Tears! It was probably designed to get someone culled! It is beyond horrific that anyone would stoop this low and be this ugly!

"If elected, I promise to out anyone who starts such a campaign, and anyone who participates in it. I will name names, and report them to the student body and to the faculty and demand those students be sanctioned! These people never, ever have a basis for such smears. And so what if some girl is a lesbian? Who the hell cares? It’s not your business, nor is it mine. You, Lauren Nichols, are a jerk, and I am calling you out to apologize to this class for your disgusting smear.”

Gracie, bless her, stood up to give her applause first. The rest of us followed. Andrea won by a landslide.

Wear something nice. Wear something nice.

At four, I still had no idea what to wear to meet Reba and her new boyfriend. I had rushed home early, hoping to get Mom to help me with my hair and makeup, but she was busy…

I found her sitting with a young woman who had a very foreign way about her. She spoke with a sing song accent and had olive skin and raven hair that cascaded around her face. She might have been Mexican or Middle Eastern, save that she had hazel eyes. She was exotically beautiful, and sitting next to Jessica Wells as she was, that is truly a complement coming from me.

This woman met my eyes and held them for a moment. She had this serene grace in her look that enhanced her ageless splendour.

"Ashima,” Mom said when she realized I was there. “This is my daughter, Samantha.”

"My goodness, Jessica,” said the woman in her heavily accented English. Her voice was soft, pleasant and womanly, though. “Have all your daughters inherited your beauty?”

"I like to think they all light up a room,” said Mom, a bit of a flush in her cheeks. “Sammie’s charm is that she’s so unaware of it.”

No, Mom, you light up a room! I just reflect what you radiate! God I should have said it…

"I’m so very pleased to meet you,” Ashima held out her hand.

I took her offered hand and did a little curtsy, my first!

"Me too,” I managed.

"Ashima is Mr. Tucker’s fiancée,” Mom informed.

"Yes,” Ashima smiled. “My family does not know if they should be happy I am marrying a good American Boy or sad that I’m not marrying a Bengali, good or bad.”

"Well,” said Mom. “I think they should be happy. You’ve no idea how much my husband respects him and how much Jake has done for us!”

At that moment, the man himself appeared, my father at his side. They seemed a matched pair, both in dirty jeans and flannel shirts.

"Now that’s really something,” Jake was saying. He was, is, beautiful in his ruggedness. Tall as my father, and only a few years younger, Jake Tucker would have tickled the fancy of any girl. But I always knew this cowboy, that he certainly was, would opt for the exotic. Ashima, if anyone was, exotic.

"You should have him bring it to the shop and use the milling stand,” Jake said.

"Seriously?”

"As a heart attack!” said Jake. “If he’s serious about finishing it. Hell, it could even be marketable.” He looked toward his fiancée. “Holy cow!” He did a double take. “Is that… Samantha?”

"Hi, Mr. Tucker!”

"My god, Matthew! You better lock her up before someone steals her!”

"Very good,” Ashima stood. “You! Come with me and put your eyes back in your head before I squash them!”

"Bye!” Jake said.

"Oh,” Ashima stopped. “Samantha, your mother said you wish to be a Journalist?”

"Yes?”

"Please call me. Your mother has our number. I may have a job for you.”

I nodded and watched as she actually took hold of Jake Tucker’s earlobe and dragged him off, even as Mom and Daddy were laughing hysterically.

"Mom. Daddy,” I said after the door closed. “I’m invited to Reba’s for dinner. Can I go?”

"Uhm,” Mom looked to Daddy. “What time will you be home?”

"She said I might spend the night,” I said.

"Are her parents home?”

"Yes.”

"I want their number…”

Johnny DeSilva scarred me. He tall and wiry, and was in his early thirties, which put him about Jakes Tucker’s age. While he was quite hansom, he reminded me of a hungry wolf rather than a perspective mate for Reba. Not the real kind of wolf, mind you, but the kind you see in scary movies, which, by the way, Reba and I watched all night long. He wore his short hair slicked back so that his bare temples showed all the way back to his crown. I expected him to be more inquisitive about my writing, but he was not, which bothered me even more. He seemed to appraise me as if he had something else in mind, and let Reba and I go about our business, which turned out to be watching movies and me listening to Reba dish about him…

In the morning, I got home about nine and found the house empty except for Mom. She told me the youngest went to the mall. Patti and Miki were at Cheerleader Practice, Daddy took Jimmy and Eric to the shop to meet Jake and his… never mind. Jenna and Gracie were god knew where, and Mom was not happy about that at all. In fact, she was quite worried about them.

I called Ashima at Mom’s insistence.

"I read your interviews,” Ashima said on the phone. “I want to try you out for a project I am working on. Are you willing?”

I was. She’d drop off the material later.

Martha Carrington dropped by at just past noon for a while, as Mom was getting very upset with Gracie and Jenna for being AWOL.

"So,” said the Banker’s wife and political junkie as I served them hot tea. “What do you think of our man Markus? Sit with us, Sammie. Don’t hover.”

Mom nodded. “Matthew’s impressed.”

"Good. What about you?”

"Well,” said Mom. “The idea of protecting bisexual women is a huge deal with Matt and me. Him, because he loves me, and me, because I’m afraid for my girls.”

Mrs. Carrington nodded. “Are you bisexual Sammie?” she asked, even as Mom looked at her with protest.

"I… uhm,” I struggled to answer. “I think so,” I finally said under the weight of Mrs. Carrington’s gaze.

"Can you think of a girl you’re attracted to?”

I thought only for a moment. “Ashima Khan.”

"Really?” Mom’s brows went up.

"Ah,” Mrs. Carrington said. “Are you talking about Sanjay Khan’s daughter? The one who is engaged to Jake Tucker? She is extraordinarily beautiful, to be sure. But can you think of someone you’ve met?”

"I met her yesterday,” I said and Mom nodded.

"Oh!” said Mrs. Carrington. “Well, then… yes, she is extremely beautiful. Anyway, Jessica, the reason I came was to ask you, do you think Marcus’ cause is worth fighting for?”

"Actually, I do.”

"I’m deciding how I’m getting culled,” Mrs. Carrington said. “And I’ve decided it’s time to make a statement.”

"Oh?” Mom’s brow went up again.

"Well, a friend has a club and that club has a floor show. It’s quite a thing to see, actually,” Mrs. Carrington was obviously more than a little excited as she spoke with a great deal of body language. “So, I’ve decided to donate my body to Marcus’ cause. I’ve been putting together a big fund-raiser which will include dinner.”

Mom smiled. “Wow, Martha. That’s… that’s amazing. I hope he appreciates it.”

"Oh, yes, Marcus very much will. Anyway, I thought since Bernie is going to put you and your girls in Playpen…”

"He is not!”

"Isn’t he?” Mrs. Carrington said. “I remember him telling me exactly that.”

"But the girls? All of them?”

"Yes,” Mrs. Carrington said. “I’m sure he said all nine of you.”

"But Celine, Mara and Danielle are only thirteen!”

"So? Why is that a problem? Is it a problem for you?”

"Well, aren’t they too young?” Mom asked excitedly. “Isn’t it… is it legal?”

"Of course it’s legal, dear!” said Mrs. Carrington. “If it were not, would they have let me pose nude with my four year old daughter in 2205?”

"You did? With Astrid?”

"I did,” Mrs. Carrington said quite proudly. “They don’t often do Playmate Revisits. I can’t remember the last one. But it was wonderful posing with my children.”

"I’ll have to get that one out,” Mom said. “Sam, in my bedroom, under the window, will you bring the box labelled 2205?”

I nodded and went upstairs. Sure enough, mom’s entire collection was there in its pristine condition, well organized and catalogued in a long case with sliding glass doors. Each year was its own black box with a year marked in gold letters. When I came back down, Mara was there with another girl about her exact age and that girl’s mother.

"It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Carrington,” the woman was saying. She was light brunette and wore these stretchy polyester slacks that were very unattractive. She also had a very strange accent that was quite American, yet not. She wore a simple white V-Neck t-shirt over her huge chest, that chest supported by an over built bra that showed through the stretched, not stretchy, fabric of her t-shirt.

"Please sit,” Mom said. “Would you like some tea?”

"No, thank you,” she said. “Rae was hoping your girls could stay over tonight.”

"Really?”

"We just moved in around the corner,” the woman explained. “My husband is a pilot with TWA anyway so we got here two days ago and Rae’s actually making friends which is a big deal to us! Let me tell you! Both of Rae’s twins got culled last year and Rae has been all alone so it would mean so much if she could have friends over her own age since her siblings are three years younger and we have no sons so there’s no danger there to your girls and…”

Rae’s mother prattled on nervously for another minute before Mom could get a word in. Celine and Danielle come down from upstairs and were looking with pleading eyes, as was Mara, at Mom.

"Can I have your number, Mrs. Ortiz?” Mom asked, and the girls began to giddily dance their happy dance as silently as they could manage.

"Of course, it’s in here somewhere oh here okay this is it…” and Mrs. Ortiz rattled off the number. Mom, ever organized, wrote it on her paper pad, then wrote her own and Daddy’s on another page she tore out for Mrs. Ortiz.

"This is our home number and my husband’s Cell,” Mom said. “Danielle, I made some oatmeal cookies yesterday. They’re in the jar. Why don’t you take all of those for tonight? I’ll make more.”

"That’s so nice,” Mrs. Ortiz said.

"We had no idea we had new neighbours,” Mom said. “It’s been so long since anyone moved in, I think we’ve forgotten to look.”

"I noticed that there are mostly old men in this place,” Mrs. Ortiz said.

"Mr. Foster next door has been in the hospital,” Mom noted. “And more than a few have round the clock care. We’ve never had other children very close to us. It’ll be nice, I think.”

"Next door?” Asked Mrs. Ortiz pointing south, and Mom nodded. “That house is the one we almost picked. TWA owns it. They’ll probably put someone in there soon.”

"Mr. Foster must have sold,” said Mrs. Carrington.

"Or his family did,” Mom said. “Strange no one told us. This is one of my eldest daughters, Samantha. And does anyone know where Jenna and Gracie are?”

"They were at the mall with Sloan,” said Celine.

"And some boys,” Danielle said.

Mom frowned.

"She’s probably showing off Danielle’s work,” Mara said, elbowing Danielle.

"Oh,” Mom nodded. “Right. Danielle is practising to be a makeover artist,” she explained to the other two women.

"Well,” Mrs. Ortiz said. “I have to get back. My husband is watching the rest of my brood and he has no patience at all. Nice to meet all of you!”

When the door closed behind them, Mom shook her head with a smile.

"She certainly is talkative,” said Mrs. Carrington.

"What?” Mom asked. “Oh, yes… she is. Now where were we?”

Mrs. Carrington pulled the May 2205 issue of Playpen out of its box and opened it to the first feature.

"Here it is!” she said and pushed it in front of Mom.

"I don’t think I ever saw these!” Mom said.

"Weren’t you subscribed?”

"Yes,” Mom nodded. “But my second litter of triplets were only a year old, Sammie and her litter were two. Eric was three, but he was never any trouble. But I was a mess. I had no time to read anything. WE just bought this house that year too. You know, you were there!”

"I remember.”

"It was all I could do to keep the house from falling apart!”

"And then Kara sent her daughter over to help.”

"That’s right!” Mom said in an “aha” fashion. “And then we had adult night! You know, I’ve always wondered if that wasn’t the plan, and that you two were conspiring!”

"Well, it was her idea! What were they going to do? Cull her?”

Mrs. Carrington reached forward and unbuttoned the top several buttons of Mom’s gray dress. Mom looked down, then up at Mrs. Carrington, then at me, then back to Mrs. Carrington.

"Martha,” Mom was pleading. But she did not stop the woman. “Not in front of Sam, please?”

"Why not?” Mrs. Carrington asked. “She wants you at least as badly as I do,” she looked at me. “Likely more so.”

"Martha…”

"You said the most charming thing about Samantha was that she had no idea how brilliantly she lights up a room,” Mrs. Carrington unclasped Mom’s bra and slid her hand in to cup a breast, teasing Mom’s nipple with her thumb as Mom’s chest heaved. “She gets all that from you!” And with that, Martha Carrington kissed my mother as if she were Mom’s husband.

I was carefully standing, and moving away as quietly as possible when the doorbell sounded, shattering my senses, and, by the way my mother jumped, hers as well. Mom frantically began buttoning up her dress and recomposing herself. I waited till she was ready, then answered the door. It was Ashima, and I thanked god for it.

I went to introduce her to Mrs. Carrington.

"We’ve met,” Mrs. Carrington took Ashima’s hand. “At the Playpen Mansion last month. The Summer Fair?”

"Ah! Yes, I do remember you, Mrs. Carrington. You are one of the Playmates, as I recall.”

"March of 2195,” Mrs. Carrington said. “When did you appear?”

"I will appear in the November issue of this year. They have yet to do my photography session. It is scheduled for two weeks from now.”

"How wonderful!” Mrs. Carrington said, suddenly flustered. “Well, I’m afraid I must go. Jessica, I will call you soon. Sammie, it is so nice to see you, and Ashima, good luck on your shoot.”

When Mrs. Carrington was gone and Ashima settled Mom was breathing a bit easier. It took her a bit, but Mom finally figured out that Ashima was here to see me, not her, and went to make more tea.

For her part, Ashima brought treasure. She handed me a cell phone which I took and looked at as if I were holding something made of porcelain, and a brand new Sony Voice Recording Steno-E-Pad worth at least 800 Euros.

"There are three boxes of reading material for you in my car, “Ashima said. “All of which you’ll need for the two assignments I hope you will take. For each, you will get 500 Euros if we like them and possibly a full time job. We will, of course, negotiate on that, and make accommodations for your schooling.”

Mom served tea and smiled.

"Is everything alright, Jessica?” Ashima asked.

"Yes, why?”

"That woman, Mrs. Carrington, she seemed to have you very upset.”

"Oh,” Mom said. “I’m just worried about Jenna and Grace. My eldest girls. They’re AWOL… absent without permission.” She went to the front door and looked out through the diamond shaped window embedded in it.

"So I can use these?” I asked, indicating the phone and the Steno-E-Pad.

"Those are yours,” said Ashima. “If you work out, we shall keep the service going.”

I sat thunderstruck. A Cell Phone was a luxury that was beyond my parents ability to pay. Daddy’s cell phone was in Jake Tucker’s name.

"Ashima,” Mom said. “Who’s sitting in your car?”

"That is my mother,” Ashima said.

"Your mother? Ashima, please invite her in! I’ll get more tea.”

Ashima looked as if Mom had asked for the world, but stood and made her way out the door. I followed, of course, as I had boxes to get.

Inside the tiny car was a demure woman, about my mother’s age, mid 30s, anyway, who had the look of a frightened animal.

"Mother,” Ashima said, with a bit of annoyance in her voice. “Please, come inside. Mrs. Wells wishes to serve you tea!” The woman replied in Hindi, or what might have been Hindi. “Please, Mother! This is Samantha who I came to see.”

"Hi,” I put on my friendliest smile.

"No, Mother! They are not going to strip you naked and eat you! They would tell you first! This is America, they are very polite!”

WE managed to get all three boxes in and Mrs. Khan without too much more elbow grease. Mrs. Khan seemed very nervous entering our home, and clung to her sari she had wrapped around her and over her hair. She even held it so it veiled her face. By the time we arrived at the dining room table, Mom had the good china out.

"Mrs. Wells,” Ashima said. “This is my mother, Fatima Khan. Mother, this is Jessica Wells. It is my mother’s first hours in America, Mrs. Wells, so she is a bit shy.”

"Welcome to our home, Mrs. Khan,” said Mom, making great effort to be as cordial as possible. Mom put her hands together and bowed in the Hindi fashion, which Mrs. Khan likewise gestured.

"Thank you, Mrs. Wells,” said Mrs. Khan in a very small voice. “You have a lovely home and a lovelier child. Thank you for your gracious hospitality.”

Mom pulled out a chair and offered it to Mrs. Khan at the dining room table, and began to spill details about us and our family as if she were speaking with an old friend…

"Listen, this is very important,” Ashima said after she had my full attention. “This man is very powerful and very dangerous. But he is willing to talk to anyone about his views, he is not shy. However, I would like you not to tell him you are with Zenana Magazine. Tell him you are with the Amador Herald instead. It is not a lie.”

"Zenana?” I asked.

"Oh!” Ashima said. “I must not have said that word! Please make me a favour and forget it utterly... What I meant to say was that I would like you not to tell him you work for Playpen at all. He is very opposed to it, you see. As I said, you are with the Amador Herald, and should tell him that.”

"Okay,” I said. Not lying to a subject was a good thing, right? “But why not have an Indian do the interview?”

Ashima sighed. “Indians think they know him. They have very set opinions on him, so many will not ask the fundamental questions, and those questions they will ask will be very biased one way or the other. I believe that an American, who is far away and curious, is the best option here. If you seek clarity, all will be clear. Do you understand?”

I did. The logic was some of the best I’d heard. I’d bring it up to Miss Masters the next week.

"It has been said that sometimes we need outsiders to teach us about ourselves,” said Ashima. “This is all the material I could find on Jakim Golguli.” She referred to a file box that was overflowing.

I began looking through it and heard laughter. Ashima’s jaw dropped. Fatima Khan’s veil had come off her head and she was laughing with my mother over some small private joke.

"And I thank god every day I only have one redhead!” Mom declared which caused howls of laughter from Mrs. Khan.

"Your mother is magic,” said Ashima. “My mother is so shy I expected she’d never converse with any American. It takes her months to trust anyone!”

Wednesday, September 7, 2218 5:30 AM

The Wells Family Home

I was exhausted but very pleased with myself. The forty odd questions I’d composed for Ambassador Mugoli had turned into nearly one hundred not counting follow ups. It had taken a total of two and a half hours to complete, and was done by 4:30 AM. It had, of course, been the only time he could give me as he’d just arrived back in the States from New Delhi on Tuesday, and he was still on their time. But his mood was chipper and it was a pleasant conversation either in spite of or because of his rapid fire way of talking (which seems common to Indians in my experience).

I’d composed all my questions after Church on Sunday when I realized that the election would be over in the U.S. and decided by the time the interview went to print. That was harrowing, having to re-compose my thought process to deal with a reality I couldn’t know. I mainly stuck to questions involving U.S.-Indian relations and Mugoli’s strategy with dealing with President Davis. It’s fortunate that there was no change in leadership in India… for me, that is. But the conversation opened my eyes in a lot of ways to the world around me. It was my first conversation with a foreign born man.

So here I was, an hour after hanging up the phone, and excitedly editing (I thought it was my job, so sue me!) when Mom and Daddy strolled in.

"I can’t believe it,” Daddy was shaking his blonde head. “How could she ask that?”

"I don’t blame her, actually,” Mom was saying. “She believes in her cause and expects those of us who are her friends to support her. It’s that simple.”

"Well, you can’t do it,” Daddy said.

"I know.”

"Just because you’re bi and she knows it doesn’t give her the right to ask you to be her side dish,” Dad fumed. “And I wish you hadn’t told her you wanted to be done by thanksgiving.”

"Oh My God!” Mom literally jumped when she finally noticed me.

"Sam!” Daddy said. “What are you doing here?”

"I live here,” I said… I did actually say it. I thought myself rather clever for saying it, and I almost smiled at myself.

Mom had her hand on her chest and was catching her breath, and Daddy gathered her into his arms and was holding her. She never did do well with nasty surprises. At length, Mom slid out of Daddy’s embrace and headed for the main bathroom.

"Jesus, Sam,” Daddy folded his arms. “What are you doing up?”

"I had to call the Indian Embassy,” I said. “I told you. Mom knew.”

"Right,” Daddy acknowledged, though not approvingly. “You weren’t meant to hear that conversation. I expect you’ll keep it to yourself till your mother is ready to talk about it.”

"Yes, Daddy,” I said as he ignored me and followed his wife into the bathroom.

I poured myself some more coffee, and was absolutely unable to focus on my work. Instead I listened, but heard only the water running. Ten minutes later, I heard Daddy make his way upstairs and Mom re-appeared.

"Mrs. Khan and I are going shopping today,” Mom said as she started breakfast. “She wants to buy gifts for her friends back home.”

"You’re becoming good friends,” I observed.

"She also wants us at Ashima’s wedding along with Jenna and Gracie,” Mom added. “It’s Sunday.”

"Really?” I asked. “I mean, she barely knows us.”

"She adores Gracie, and Jenna makes her laugh. We’re her only friends in California.”

"Oh,” I said. “So nobody from India is coming?”

"Oh, they’re coming,” Mom said. “But Ashima selected a wedding outfitter that is a bit risqué for Indian sensibilities. She’s very cute, that way. Very conservative. She’s also deathly afraid to ask the women in her family to be in her entourage…”

"And she wants us?” I asked, not quite understanding what that speech meant. No matter. Mom would not get a “no” from me.

"She wants us.”

The bustle of that morning was as any other.

At School, Andrea Yates made good on her campaign promises. Flyers were posted all over school on the new uniform and bathing suit issue. Both would be voted on next week in the Student Council.

She’d also made up a list with the header : “Stupid People are Saying…” that so’n’so is gay or whatever, or, “If you hear this…” report the liar to the student council. Interestingly enough, it worked quite well. Go Andrea!

In PE we were introduced to a brand new swim coach named Jane Bettencourt. Miss Bettencourt turned out to have been an Olympic Swimmer at the last three games, and a Bronze Medallist at that. She strode around gracefully in her leotard with one percent body fat and a body that was hard as a rock I didn’t doubt it at all. Poor Miss Bauer looked like the ugly sister next to her.

Miss Bettencourt’s arrival also put Miss Bauer in a horrible mood, fortunately we girls would not be the target of her wrath on this day. Instead she took it out on her favourite target: the Lunch Ladies. The cook staff and Miss Bauer would go at it about once every two weeks over some issue or other. Notwithstanding that the food they prepared for the girls was nigh inedible. They were there primarily to cook for the boys, who were served real meat twice a week. Miss Bauer took umbrage at their inability to make a vegetarian dish that could be choked down. The exchange was very loud. Imagine a Buff Germanic looking Frau engaged in a heated argument with a tiny but vicious South East Asian woman. Exactly! The ferocity of the cook staff was legendary, and Miss Bauer backed off every time. I sat and ate an apple and endured the show.

The rest of the day I was mostly preoccupied with the Jakim Golguli interview. His man had been very professional on the phone and just enthusiastic enough to give me hope for a smooth job. I had it scheduled for Thursday at 8 PM.

Homework would be my biggest problem. Miss Masters had piled it on this week, and I doubted I’d have time to breath before Sunday… and that was the wedding… But I was truly determined to get it all done if it killed me…

Then, to top it all off: my brothers caught up with me at four!

"We need your help,” Jimmy said as he fell into step beside me.

I sighed… whenever Eric made Jimmy asked me for help, it was never a good thing.

"What is it now?”

"Okay,” Jimmy said as Eric flanked me. “You know the project Eric's working on?”

"No,” I said. “I know you’ve occupied the garage and evicted the Van from it. But I couldn’t be less interested in what you’re doing.” Which was true, I wasn’t.

"Bear with me,” Jimmy said. “You’ll love it!”

"I doubt that!”

"Okay, Jenna!” Jimmy said accusingly.

"Shut up!” I hit him in the shoulder. As true as the accusation was, I still resented it.

"Anyway,” Jimmy continued. “Did you know Mom is deciding whether or not she’ll cook for Thanksgiving?”

That woke me up. “Maybe.”

"Good!” Jimmy said. “We want her to be as comfortable as possible. Right?”

"Yeees…”

"So,” Jimmy continued. “Eric built a cradle for that exact purpose.”

I closed my eyes. It wasn’t something I wanted to think about at all.

"Actually,” Eric said. “Jimmy conceived it. He did about fifty drawings before I started building the thing…”

"Right,” I said. “Good for both of you.”

"So,” Jimmy said. “What we need most of all is someone about Mom’s size us how well it fits. She’d need to be on the thing for about an hour.”

"And you’re exactly Mom’s size,” Eric said.

"Oh,” I said. This was exactly the kind of thing I could not afford, taking on some cockamamie project my indefatigable brothers cooked up. “Look, guys, I have a lot of reading to do, and my homework is piled up…”

"WE thought of that,” Jimmy said. “We’ll read anything you need read to you!”

"Yeah!” Said Eric enthusiastically. “You’ll absorb it better that way.”

"Guys,” I said. “Please, can’t you ask someone else?”

"Dad said you’d be perfect.”

"Right,” I said. “I’m so sure he said exactly that.”

"He did!” Jimmy said.

"And Daddy knows all about it?”

"Of course!” Jimmy said, with Eric nodding. “And he said we need to test it and we needed to ask you to help us do that.”

"Daddy said that?” I asked again, incredulously. “You're sure?”

"He said it, Sam,” Eric said. “I swear he did.”

"If he said it, I’ll do it… but…”

"You are the greatest, Sam!” Eric said with that huge goofy grin as we arrived home.

Jimmy, never shy about giving affection, kissed my cheek, and the two ran into the house like a pair of ten year olds racing to an open video game console.

I hate my life, I thought.

Inside, I found Ashima, Fatima and my mother at the dining room table.

"You cannot be serious, Mother!” Ashima was saying. “Aunt Pooja will be very insulted.”

"She will be far more insulted if I ask her to walk so naked with me, my love,” said Fatima. “We cannot expect her to do so having just arrived. And she would object to your cousins doing so. She might shun us for it.”

"Mother,” Ashima said. “If we were kin Kolkata they would expect our American friends to conform to our standards. It is not so terrible a thing to ask them to conform to what is normal in California.”

"Oh?” said Fatima. “You tell that to our family when they see naked pictures of you and me at your wedding in Kolkata. This may be California, but I assure you, what we do here will be viewed there as obscene. I am willing to accept this for your sake, but I will not force it on our family. You do not select my entourage, it is my right, and I have selected my good friend Jessica and her girls.”

Mom sat there looking ashen.

"And you are being very rude to bring this up in front of my friend,” Fatima added, taking Mom’s hand. “You will apologize to Jessica this instant.”

I left the room for the kitchen feeling very much like an intruder, poured myself some juice and started on my homework. By the time I was halfway through my first essay, I’d heard the door slam (obviously Ashima storming out) just before Fatima and my mother arrived in the kitchen.

"I swear, that girl will be the death of me,” Fatima was saying.

"I wish there were something I could do to resolve this,” Mom said. “I hate it that I’ve come between you.”

"It is not you, Jessica,” Fatima said. “It is Ashima’s desire to force change onto a culture that is over five thousand years old. You cannot force change on anyone. I’ve learned that much. And even less so on family. I am very nervous about what will be said at home over this wedding, but I am willing to live with it. My husband will deny Ashima nothing, so he will not argue in my favour, though he will be perturbed. Having you and your girls at my side is the best compromise. If Ashima cannot see this, she is a fool.”

"Still,” Mom said.

"Jessica,” Fatima said. “You are standing by me, and that is the greatest gift you can give to me.”

"I’m happy to help,” Mom said. “I just wish…”

"I know my daughter,” Fatima said. “She will accept her mother’s wishes, Jessica. You will see.”

I had a quizzical look on my face my mother saw. She mouthed: “Ask later.”

The two women left me to work on my homework, and soon Ashima was back, apologizing emphatically to my mother and hers alike.

Shortly, she arrived in the kitchen and handed me a check.

"This is for you,” Ashima said without so much as a ‘hello.’

My jaw dropped at the amount: €750.00. It was considerably more than promised.

"We asked for a few questions,” said Ashima as she took a seat opposite me. “You gave us a complete interview. Mr. Foss was so delighted with the work, he wants me to open the magazine offices in Kolkata this coming week.”

"Really?” I asked. “This interview got you your magazine?”

"Well,” Ashima said. “Among other things, of course. It was the final piece in a very large puzzle. But it is done, and we must move on. How soon can you be ready for me to schedule the interview with Jakim Golguli?”

"I’m talking to him tomorrow night?”

"I don’t know that I can get him that soon,” said Ashima.

"Oh,” I said. “I don’t understand. Was I not supposed to schedule it myself?”

"No,” Ashima said. “You were not. Do not tell me you have already been in contact…”

"I have,” I said. “Tomorrow night, eight o’clock.”

"I see,” said Ashima with a bit of a vexed look. “Well, it is done. So be it. But be careful to clear these things with me first, Samantha. I would rather know when things are happening. But, no matter. It is done,” she sighed. “I am rehearsing my wedding ceremony tomorrow and shall not see you, so good luck.”

"Thank you, Ashima,” I said. “You too.”

Ashima smiled then and left me, collected her mother, and left the house.

By the time Jenna and Gracie arrived home, about six, Mom gathered us into the kitchen to spell it out for us.

"Mrs. Khan thinks the world of you girls,” Mom was saying. “And since Ashima selected an outfitter who would be considered to risqué back home, she wants us to be her entourage rather than her sister-in-law and her girls.”

If I was ever accused of cackling like a hen on too much caffeine… this would be the day I was guilty. Suffice it to say, we were all very excited about being in the wedding, especially since it was Jake Tucker’s, and we all admired the man greatly. We were so distracted we almost forgot to order the pizza.

Daddy was home shortly before seven and, after having checked on Eric and Jimmy, came to see me.

"Your brothers asked you to test their cradle then?” Daddy asked.

I was just about floored when he brought it up. I seriously thought Eric and Jimmy were bluffing when they’d told me Daddy knew all about it. Obligatorily, I answered: “Yes, Daddy.”

"Good, I’m glad everything is okay,” he added.

No, Daddy, okay is not the word I’d use, but I’ll do it for you… I didn’t say that, but I sure wish I had.

"Yes, Daddy,” I said.

"Good girl,” he said with a huge goofy smile he’d bestowed upon Eric. “Thank you so much, Sam. Make sure you’re clear with them on what they need to know, okay? Not that you wouldn’t be, but just, be slow and methodical. You can talk very fast sometimes…”

"Yes, Daddy.”

He hugged me. “That’s my girl!”

As he turned to leave, he said: “You might want to shower before the others get in the way. You don’t want to be dirty on the cradle.”

Shower?

"Yes, Daddy,” I said.

And so I showered. I luxuriated in the shower, taking care not to waste the hot water. That’s not easy to do when you have a ten second timer on the shower head. I probably hit it a dozen times before I was done. But I spent a considerable amount of time… or wasted a considerable amount of time (depending on who you ask) in the bathroom that evening. Danielle had given me a good education on hair care that I’d actually paid attention to, so I smothered it with conditioner before I left, and coated my skin with oil. I should have asked for Danielle’s help long before. She, first among my sisters, had Mom’s organized mind.

I put on a tee and cotton shorts after drying off, then braided my hair, just as Danielle had taught me. My lack of sleep the night before was catching up, which is probably why I lost track of time, and almost missed out on pizza.

"Ready?” Eric finally asked out of earshot of my sisters.

I nodded, and he led me to the Garage door with Jimmy tagging along behind me.

"Hang on!” I said suddenly, and ran back to grab my notes and a paper pad for whichever of them to write on. (They would NOT be touching my brand new E-PAD!)

Carefully I showed them exactly what I needed, and Jimmy rolled his eyes.

"Pay attention!” I protested. “This is important!”

It was after eight when we finally made it into the garage.

My knees buckled when I saw it.

I will say this; it was elegantly crafted work of monstrous stainless steel beauty. It had a headrest that was padded with finely woven heat resistant cloth over asbestos. The back rest supported only the shoulder blades and that place just below the tender loin, then another rest behind the knees and stirrups that held the feet in place. All these were adjustable.

My butt would be hanging free except for one item… well, two: an anal probe that was integral to the main body of the surreally carved metal and a working phallus that could be withdrawn.

Eric caught me before I hit the floor.

"I can… I can… I can’t…” I stuttered. My body was already responding to the idea of it with wanton anticipation.

"Sam,” Jimmy said. “It’s okay! We’re not going to hurt you!”

I couldn’t look away from the thing. It was secured to rails that were bolted to a heavy sheet of plywood.

"Sam,” Eric whispered. “You promised Dad!”

I remember I was hyperventilating. The discomfort of sitting on my wet shorts, wet because I was sweating and shivering at the same time. Jimmy held me there on a chair while Eric gathered up the papers that were scattered all over the floor. It took a bit for me to understand those were my papers and I’d dropped them.

"What are we going to do?” Jimmy asked.

Eric was fuming, looking ready to explode. His tall body paced back and forth between the work bench and the scattered paper he was in the process of collecting.

"I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe Jenna will do it.”

"Right,” Jimmy said with sarcasm.

"Right,” Eric acknowledged. “What about Gracie?”

"Eric,” Jimmy said. “If Sammie’s this scared, Gracie will freak! I’ve never seen Sam this scared.”

"Not like this,” Eric said. He kneeled front of me. “Sammie,” he said. “Hey baby girl…”

I was coherent enough to give him a dirty look.

"I can’t force you,” Eric said. “But you did make Dad a promise. He’s going to be disappointed.”

Daddy would be, too. Especially since I always managed to do whatever he asked of me. I don’t remember thinking this at the time, but ever since my brothers’ cradle always made me think of keeping promises and my own mortality (in a very sexual way, I might add). No other thing does that to me.

"What about Andrea?” Jimmy was asking.

"No girlfriends,” Eric said. “She might, but Dad said don’t use any girlfriends.”

"So she IS your girlfriend,” I said.

Jimmy laughed at that, and so did I.

"Sam,” Eric said. “You okay, then?”

I nodded, the sensation of my wet cheeks informing me I’d been weeping. I wiped away my tears with my palms.

BAM! BAM! BAM! Went the door behind us.

"What’s going on in there?” It was Jenna.

"Nothing!” we all chorused.

"Is Sam in there?”

"Yes, Jenna.”

"You okay?”

"Yes, Jenna!”

"I heard crying!”

"I’m okay, sweetie!”

Pause.

"Okay,” came the suspicious reply. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”

"Close,” said Jimmy.

"She sounded just like Mom there for a minute,” said Eric. I heard that too.

I looked back at the thing. It was still monstrous. But I wasn’t going to disappoint Daddy, no way, no how.

"Can I at least keep my t-shirt on?” The boys looked at each other, then back to me and nodded.

The thing rolled on its rails to the edge of the plywood, then tilted till it was almost upright. It was like an entity, there with the erect and greased anal probe waiting for me to sit upon it. That almost caused another panic attack in me. Standing on the stirrups, we went through too many false starts to count, so many adjustments had to be made.

Finally, let my body fall back, the knee-rests forcing me into a sitting position that put the probe right where it was supposed to be, putting pressure on my rosebud. I focused and relaxed as the thing slid into me. It was the first time such a thing had ever invaded my body other than my mother’s thermometer.

A couple more adjustments of the loin, shoulder and head-rests and I was strapped down, and tilted back. I was on my back with my knees even with my ears in the sitting position. My back was angled up so that my hips were low. It was quite similar to sitting in Daddy’s Lazy-Boy, but also a lot like being on the table spread eagle for a gynaecologist. Boys, trust me!

"How does it feel?” Jimmy asked. “Any pain?”

No, there was not. Intense pressure as my rose puckered around its invader, but no pain, not really. The shoulder rests, however, needed adjusting again... by the end we determined they needed re-designing. But that was not bad. My weight was largely on the loin rest and the probe.

I was sweating even more, and my only garment, my t-shirt, was soaked through. I almost regretted leaving it on.

"You ready for the phallus?” Eric finally asked.

"No,” I said. “Where did you get that hideous thing?”

Eric shrugged. “Dad got it. I think he said it was a hot-tub accessory. It's a vaginal stabilizer, actually. Keeps your hips from moving about while you're impaled the way you are. Could cause damage if you do.”

I ignored his speech about damage. “So is he finally going to get Mom her hot tub?” I asked, and gasped as the thing touched my nethers.

"I think so,” Eric was saying, easing the thing in. It glided on whatever grease the boys had used plus my own natural juice. I couldn’t have been more humiliated than I was at this very moment. Then I felt it. It pressed against my hymen and something tore, and it hurt. And it was too late for me to protest.

"What’s wrong?” Jimmy was asking Eric.

Yes, I’m from California, and yes, I was, till that moment, a virgin. But not any more. The mixed sensations of tearing and pleasure were too difficult to describe or distinguish. I know that I was climaxing in front of them before they noticed the blood.

They couldn’t get me loose fast enough. Jimmy even surrendered his shirt to soak up the blood. I hurt, and I cried. Eric finally picked me up and carried me upstairs as all my sisters were shouting and causing commotion…

The last thing I remember was Celine mopping my skin with a cool damp cloth. Then I lost consciousness and knew nothing else that day…

Thursday, September 8, 2218, 7AM

Athens, Georgia

"It’s as astonishing as it is dangerous!” said Dr. Le Beau, Dean of the UGA Biology Department and head of the Genetics Lab. “It’s exciting and frightening! All these girls are homozygous in a what promotes heterozygosity!”

"In English, Doctor,” intoned Professor Jessup.

Gianni sat with the professor, Dr. Le Beau and his own brother Simon Carver in the “breakfast nook” at the estate. He’d been home a week and, with little else to do but wait for the good Doctor’s evaluation, had visited his younger brother Simon on the sly twice, just to pass the time. The professor, of course, disapproved of Gianni touring Athens during the day, preferring him to remain at home, or find quarters in Atlanta in which blend in.

Simon, to the outside world, was an only child, and the Professor was not his father. Simon lived in town and attended a few classes the University of Georgia while he worked on his master’s thesis in Law and Political Science. One of his classes, Elementary Genetics, just happened to be taught by Doctor Le Beau. Gianni knew Simon did so mainly to pick up the multitude of girls in the class who seemed to swoon at the younger man’s Anglicized accent garnered from his undergraduate years at Oxford. There was the barest resemblance between Michael Gianni and Simon Carver. Both had tall, wiry statures, piercing blue eyes and softly chiselled feathers. But Simon’s skin tanned well, where Gianni’s did not. His sandy blonde hair he kept longer than the professor would normally tolerate, and looked like the type of man Glenn would be friends with... a Beach Bum Jock type… none of which Simon was. No, Simon was as honed an operator as Gianni. They both had the ability to pass each other in a nearly vacant room and never know the other was there, and even if they did, not recognize each other. Gianni had no doubt it had happened, perhaps more than once.

Last night, the Professor took a phone call from Dr. Le Beau who was emphatic that they meet immediately if not sooner to discuss his amazing discovery.

"It’s amazing! These girls are designed to breed. They’re perfect in every way genetically, which by itself is astonishing, though not unheard of in individuals. It’s hardly ever true of more than two in any single woman’s offspring. So that, by itself, suggests genetic tampering. But the idea of Heterozygosotisic Homozygousness is… unthinkable!”

"So,” Gianni said as he put down his cup of coffee. “They pass on traits? I’m not exactly following what Heterozygosticasity…”

"Keep in mind, it would not have been possible to discover any of this without state of the art equipment. It would have taken months to map their genes…”

"Doctor,” the professor said. “Please answer Michael’s question.

"What?” said Dr. Le Beau. “What was the question?”

"I’m not understanding what you mean by heterozygostic homozygous…”

"Oh, I’m so sorry… I forget you don’t study these things. Zygosity is a specific trait inherent in an organism. Homozygosity is a trait that is the same, heterozygosity is a trait that is different. But we often use Homozygous to referrer to Homozygous Dominant Genes. Well, these girls have that trait, but applied in a very, very… shall we say, unique way… though I can’t say unique because they all seem to share it and there are eight of them… but I digress… these girls have this homozygous trait that, in procreation, dominates to create heterozygosity!”

"So,” Gianni said. “The they share a gene that makes them different?”

"Well… It’s actually a very poor way of describing what we believe, and I stress, BELIEVE the gene does. I’d need live eggs to confirm these findings… but these girls are so homozygous their genes are likely to dominate genes from black African breeding partners, something even more astonishing in that no one in my profession will acknowledge it possible…”

Le Beau’s enthusiasm was quite pleasant most of the time. It was his parsing that infuriated, and Gianni wondered if the doctor lectured in this fashion and if so, how Simon could possibly stand it. Le Beau was the only outsider the Professor trusted in any fashion, even being aware that Simon and Gianni were “family.” He had endeared himself to the Professor long before Gianni was born, and even after decades living in Georgia, his accent still betrayed a hint of his Creole roots. He’d struggled greatly, the Professor once told Gianni, to suppress that accent when he found the student body in Ithaca based Cornell Medical School to be quite prejudiced toward it, rather than his black skin. He found himself shunned in his first year at Cornell due entirely to his New Orleans heritage. That the man graduated Magna Cum Laud in three years and completed his doctorate by the time another three had passed put him on a path to his current post, as one of the most respected researchers on the Eastern Seaboard.

"This one is cloned from the mother,” said Dr. Le Beau holding one of the profile sheets. “That was pretty obvious. “And the mother is not at all homozygous, though she is quite nearly genetically perfect, and this one has been altered only a little bit. Does the mother have blue eyes?”

"I not aware of it, Michael?” asked the Professor.

"I’m not sure. I have never seen any but a black and white photo…” that was a lie. He’d never once laid eyes on Jessica Jane Wells.

"I’d be interested in knowing, because I think they altered the eye colour of this daughter. Green, I think. There’s one other that is quite similar to both of them, but not a clone. She was tampered with, but she is indeed a daughter. My guess is that she look quite a bit like both these two… oh, and another anomaly, there are two here that have no genetic relation to any of the others. Are we sure they’re part of the same family?”

"We are,” assured Gianni as the professor gave him an accusatory look. “I confirmed the relationships myself. There are birth certificates to prove all of it.”

"I’d be interested…”

"No you would not,” said the professor. “As I told you, your interest is in the genetics, not in names or faces.”

"Of course,” said Dr. Le Beau, suitably chastised.

"Doctor,” Simon piped up for the first time this morning. “I don’t think you’ve answered Michael’s question.

"What was the question?”

"What do you mean by Heterozygosotisic Homozygousness?”

"What I mean is that these women were designed to procreate with anyone!”

"And that makes them different how?” asked Gianni.

"It makes them different because they could conceive with a father, a brother or a son and produce offspring that never suffers the deleterious effects of inbreeding!”

The professor had exclaimed only twice in front of Gianni, and both times it involved the actions of one of his many sexual partners, who never seemed to live long after the outburst.

"My God!” said the professor.

"It is, of course, only a theory based on the evidence you’ve provided. I do believe it to have quite a solid basis.”

"How long before you can confirm this theory?” asked the professor.

"With what I have? Years. Decades perhaps… or maybe never.”

The professor’s excitement waned as he sat back in his chair and sipped the espresso one of the house-girls served.

"How much effort might have gone into creating these girls?”

"My god…” said the doctor. “I can’t even imagine… tens of thousands of man hours for each, I’d think…”

"Why? What would it give them?”

"Eve. Or Eves.”

"Eves?”

"Genesis. Adam’s rib. Eve. These girls can breed with anyone and pop out genetically perfect or near perfect children… exactly the kind of mother you’d want to re-populate the world…”

"So… more information, and a subject to study,” Simon said as he looked out the back window over the expansive yard.

It was nearly ten in the morning, and Dr. Le Beau had only just left. Gianni sat at the table looking at the profile of the clone. She was one of the eldest, and he wasn’t sure which one. The two who Le Beau had singled out as not being genetically related to the Wells were the middle girls: Patricia Jean Wells and Michelle Karen Wells. He now regretted he had organized the samples by litter rather than a way in which he could determine exactly who was who. I suppose if I saw the mother I would know which was the clone…

"How are we planning on getting a subject?” Simon asked. He cut a fine form in his U.G.A. sweater and rather shaggy blonde hair. Gianni thought he would enjoy auditing one of Simon’s classes just to watch the does piss themselves trying to get his attention.

"Simon,” said the professor. “That is for Michael to determine. “We don’t want to know.”

"Sorry, Professor,” Simon said. “I need to go anyway. I have a class at one, and I’d like to spend some time in the computer lab…”

"Why did you bother taking more classes?” Gianni asked.

"Kills time,” he said. “And it gives me access to girls…”

"You’re worse than Michael,” said the professor. “You should, at some point, learn to control you’re libido. Neither of you is very good at it.”

Simon shrugged, shook their hands and left.

"He’s chaffing, I think,” said Gianni.

"He’ll have his day,” said the professor. “I’m actually thinking of sending you to São Paulo and assigning him to take over your operation.”

Gianni nodded, knowing why. The presence of Johnny DeSilva, Jake Tucker and the Carringtons in California, with whom Gianni had prior history, was not the professor’s idea of an ideal situation. None of them knew Simon or of Simon’s existence, so his running into any of them would pass unnoticed.

"But that will have to wait till Simon completes his thesis,” the professor said. “In the meantime, go back to California.”

"For?”

"For what the good doctor ordered: more information and a specimen. Since you made contact with your old mentor, you should know that Carmine DeSilva was the source of all we had prior to your return. It’s very likely that Johnny was his source as he is, forgive me, Carmine’s Johnny on the Spot. Find out what you can about how Johnny is getting his information.

"Anything else?”

"If you can engineer a way to collect one of those girls, do so. But don’t take undue risks.”

"Very well. Anything else?”

The professor was pensive, he stroked his long chin.

"Sir?”

The professor held up his hand… “I want you… to find out how badly Carmine will be hurt if they decriminalize lesbians.”

Gianni raised a brow, surprised at the odd request. Playing politics was not something the professor had ever seemed to care about, but Gianni knew better than to ask a “why” question of the professor.

"Very well, sir.”

"I don’t care about his friends, incidentally. They can rot. Just Carmine. Now, get out… I have work to do.”

Get out meant out of the professor’s general vicinity. The vicinity the professor considered his was anywhere within five hundred miles. By two, Gianni was on a flight back to Oakland Airport.

Thursday, September 8, 2218, 9 AM.

The Wells Family Home

I was only vaguely aware of it at first… the thermometer. A hand lighted upon the bare skin of my bottom and withdrew it.

"98.9,” said a heavily accented sing-song voice.

I was lying face down in a strange bed with a strange woman putting things in and out of my rear…

"Thank god!” came a more familiar voice. It was Mom, of course. Who else would it be?

"And I believe she is awake.”

"Honey?”

Okay, the bed was my parents’ bed, I figured that out as soon as I dared open my eyes. The other woman turned out to be Fatima, and I was still naked.

"Am I sick?”

"You had a fever of one hundred and two,” Fatima said.

"We stayed up all night with you,” said Mom.

"I don’t get sick!” I protested.

"It was most probably the stress from that monstrous contraption your brothers made,” said Fatima. “I’ve seen such things before.”

"fTima is a trained medical first responder,” Mom explained.

"I am so surprised you do not have them here,” said Mom’s friend. “In Cairo half the girls learn basic medicine before they turn twelve.”

"Cairo?” I asked. “Isn’t that in Egypt?”

"fTima’s from Egypt originally,” said Mom.

"In any case,” Fatima went on, ignoring me and Mom. “You will be fine, my sweet. Sleep more, though. Here, take this.”

She held out what looked like a tiny chunk of red crate paper, and put it on my tongue where it quickly melted. I was unconscious very quickly…

I was awake again before eleven and spent the rest of that day… I had so much time. I got all my homework via email (as always) plus my class study work while my mother and Fatima waited on me hand and foot (making me feel very much like a princess, go figure!). I also managed to start (barely) working on questions for Jakim Golguli. I was done with most of it by four.

"Drink this,” Fatima told me as she held my head up. Mom stood at the door to the bedroom, just having took my temperature yet again… at least that had gone down to 98.7.

"By Sunday you should be fine,” Fatima said.

"You don’t think she should go to school tomorrow?” asked Mom, looking a little worried. Missing two days of school was not good. It tended to put one higher up in the lottery rankings.

"I see no reason why not,” Fatima said. “Unless she is very weak in the morning, I would send her,” Fatima turned to me showing me an adamant expression Indian wives learn from their mothers-in-law. “But it is early to bed for you, my sweet!”

"But…” I started to protest.

"NO! Listen to Aunt Fatima! Early to bed! Sleep long hours and be well tomorrow morning.”

"The Jakim Golguli call is tonight!” I protested.

Fatima’s chin went up in an “Aha” expression.

"I see…” said Fatima.

"You’ll have to postpone it,” said Mom.

"Not so easily done, Jessica,” explained Fatima. “Jakim Golguli is a very important man in my country. I would tell your lovely here to sleep now, and be ready to do the job. It will not come again.”

"You admire him?” I asked.

"He is very conservative, and he is a Brahman, so people listen when he speaks. I respect him. Admire? I do not know. I know I do not like him. He wishes to conquer Pakistan again. It has caused much tension in both our countries. Muslims rioted in Delhi last year when he spoke.”

"He claims to respect Muslims.”

"He claims many things,” said Fatima. “He believes that Pakistan and Cashmere are legitimate territories of India and should fall under the New Raj. India is Polytheistic, Pakistan is Sharia. He believes that it is in the Pakistanis best interest to be part of a polytheistic culture as India will eventually be forced to destroy the country if it remains on its current path. So, he is also very dangerous, and perceived to be a militarist. His followers are certainly quite militant and nationalistic. But he is very adept at handling them, and they have been peaceful till now. But no one believes they will remain so. If he were to call for an armed coup, he would become leader of India in days if not hours. President Mibali has managed to keep Golguli in check, however, so far…”

That speech pretty much summed up what I had learned out of 200 or so news articles on and speeches by the man, Golguli. The rest of those three boxes contained books by him, mostly and some of his articles. I’d managed to read three of his most recent books… well… skimmed… actually.

So far I had nearly two hundred and fifty questions on ten subjects, and I was hoping that would be enough to cover all possible angles. One of the things people think Journalists must have is an interest in politics, which is not true. A journalist must have an interest in everything under the sun, and the ability to follow a story where it leads without digressing… hence… two hundred and fifty questions…

This man, Golguli, offered so much temptation to digress it made my head spin. He was sixty years old, had studied at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and graduated at 20 with a degree in Astrophysics. By age thirty, he had three PhDs, one (Astrophysics) from MIT and two (Sociology and Indian History) from Cambridge, all the while working on the ESA team that launched the Copernicus VIII Observatory then spending time with NASA. He was still active with the New Raj Space Administration and the lion’s share of his speeches were given to his pet cause: various chapters of the Amateur Astronomers of India where he helped design and build telescopes that could be assembled by a pre-teen child. Indians loved him greatly for these efforts even if many despised his politics.

He was also a traditionalist. His Cambridge Sociology Doctorate marked turning point in his life and he immediately set out to expand on this and his history studies at the National University of India in Maharashtra, one of the main centres of Indian culture.

His fourth doctoral thesis, which centred on Indian Sociological Anthropology focused on India’s Historical Pluralism from 500bc to present day, and its affects on both India proper and the world at large. In it, he argued that Indian Pluralism naturally resulted in democracy and freedom and that no free nation in any part of the world could have existed without India’s example. Those seemed a bit of a stretch to me (still do) but he made quite a case for his position. Golguli’s logic was that India’s diversity reflected humanity’s natural state and that it was the role of the ruling class or the government to manage diversity to serve the whole, and not to stifle one in favour of another. It was a bit difficult for me to wrap my head around at the time, but it sure sounded good!

Just before my siblings came home, Fatima got a phone call from Ashima and stood talking to her just within my earshot. Apparently, I found out as I listened, Ashima’s cousins were more than a little more receptive to the idea of a California wedding than Fatima would have believed…

"They all seem so intent to shock!” Fatima complained to Mom.

And so, Ashima would have five bridesmaids instead of just three. The two additional ones, Ashima’s female cousins on her father’s side, would have to be fitted Saturday night instead of Tonight, as they were still on an aeroplane. The designer was on his way to our home.

That meant I had to get cleaned up…

Fatima and Mom guided me downstairs as wobbly as I was on my feet and into the main bathroom. Where Mom retrieved three patchwork towel-robes Miki had stitched together.

Our downstairs bathroom was the most elaborate room in the house with three toilet stalls, and a separate area for guests with just a commode and a sink. The counter sported four sinks each with its own mirror and an open four head shower. It was designed by the builder for practicality, not privacy, anticipating lower middle class families with large numbers of girls. Most of the homes in the area had a similar arrangement. Even the shower had been made for frugal living. Each head would only issue ten seconds of water at a time till the button on the wall was pushed again, saving massive amounts of water. I, of course, was used to it, but to someone not accustomed to it, I’m sure it would be tedious.

Mom stripped off her dress, which was all she’d worn, and the two of us went into the shower with Fatima standing outside. Mom began washing my hair as I soaped up, filling the air with the sound of her voice as she did so.

"c and so, Matt’s a little perturbed about having to wear a tuxedo. He hates dressing up. He’ll bitch and whine about dancing, too, but whatever bride’s maid gets him will be lucky. He’s a fabulous dancer if you can get him onto the floor.”

"My husband love to dance with me,” said Fatima, who stood watching us, still wearing her sari, skirt and choli. “It certainly is fortunate for Master Jake that he has a friend like Matthew.”

"Well,” Mom said as she began rinsing my hair. “Professionally close. They don’t really socialize, but they can go on and on and on about work related stuff.”

"Ashima says Jake is very close to Matthew. He considers Matthew a very close friend. Jake is very shy, it seems to me, and is not so trusting of people. Did you know Ashima is only the second girl he has ever courted?”

"No!” I exclaimed. “Really? But he’s soo handsome!” Mom’s hands were washing my back and hips lovingly as if she were handling something fragile. The sensation was truly divine, and I think I moaned.

"Indeed, he is!” Fatima said. “Ashima was smitten with him from the very beginning. That was perhaps two years ago, now.”

"That’s about the time Jake took over the shop full time,” said Mom. “Before that it was Gerry Atherton.”

"Who was he?”

"Gerry was the guy who brought Matt in when we had nothing at all, and I was destined to get culled early. I was already pregnant with the girls and Eric was a very active and curious infant, and we had only a studio apartment in Hayward. Our good friend Bernard Foss recommended Matt and just before the girls were born, we moved here. Mr. Foss and Gerry recommended us for a home loan to a mutual acquaintance, and here we were. I can’t imagine what it would have been like with four kids in a studio. I was so busy, we never got unpacked till after my youngest were born... ‘Tima,” Mom added. “There are two more shower heads, and plenty of room.”

"Oh..,” said Fatima nervously. “Of course,” she began removing her sari very slowly. “Most families in India and in Egypt have children every other year so the sisters can help each other out. They… how do you say..? they are never pregnant the same year, and they never allow their breasts to dry, so they can all nurse… Most Christian families in Egypt, I mean. The Muslims do not have so many daughters as we do.”

Mom began conditioning my hair. “I should have done this before I washed your back…” she said. “Aren’t the Muslims afraid of their daughters getting culled?”

"Not at all,” said Fatima, as she finally began to unbutton her choli. “In Muslim countries Muslim women are never converted. Christians, yes, Jews, yes, Hindus and all others, yes. But Muslims, never. They have a fatwa, a religious order that is often repeated to only bear one daughter per son. No Muslim woman can marry an infidel as it would be an insult to Allah. In Egypt, a Muslim man may take any wife he wishes, such is the law.”

I was feeling quite a bit better now, and Mom let me wash her hair as she and Fatima spoke, and Fatima undressed at her glacial pace.

"This is why my father gave me to Sanjay, so that I would not be taken by his employer for a feast or another wife.”

Mom and I both fell silent for long moments.

"How long has it been?” Mom asked. “Since you saw your family?”

"I was fourteen when Sanjay took me to India. I have not seen them since. I cannot return and my sisters cannot legally travel, though I might see my brother soon…”

"That would be nice!”

"But it is very difficult for Christian Egyptian Men even to travel. I only hope I will see them in heaven…” Fatima’s eyes were heavy with threatening tears. “I had a beautiful sister, Muna. Father was trying to find a suitable husband for her as well. But she was taken when she was thirteen for a feast before he could find anyone. It was for the feast of Ramadan,” she choked. “It is a terrible way to die,” she was gazing directly at me. “Your mother reminds me of her.”

I had rinsed Mom’s hair and was about to condition it when Mom stopped me, stepped out of the shower and approached Fatima. Mom kissed Fatima’s cheek and whispered in her ear to which Fatima nodded. Then, as Fatima stood there with large eyes, Mom undressed her tenderly, removing Fatima’s choli and skirt, then Fatima’s bra to reveal her large bosom with large brown areola and thick nipples. When Mom slipped off Fatima’s panties she revealed the mass of unkept pubic hair that completely shrouded Fatima’s mons.

"Is it disgusting to you?” Fatima almost sobbed.

Mom shook her head. “No, of course not. Just different. We’re not at all used to it, I’m sure you noticed.”

"Kshatryas, even Christian Kshatryas are mandated not to bare their yani as you do,” Fatima said.

"What’s a Kshatrya?” asked Mom.

"Her caste,” I said. “It’s just below the Brahman, which are the highest caste…”

"That is correct,” said Fatima.

"Uhm,” said Mom. “Can you groom?”

Fatima was thoughtful. “I do not know. I have never asked.”

"I could help you with it if you want, or we could leave it. But it would look nicer if we could trim it a bit, maybe wax the edges like they do back east.”

"I suppose I should, as I am in California. I will be nearly naked at the wedding…” Fatima said reluctantly.

"Tell you what,” said Mom. “Let’s do it east coast style, like I described. Shall we? Okay, Sam, can you go to the kitchen and put some wax on?”

I nodded and dried off, slipping into the terry cloth robe Mom had for me and padded into the kitchen. Celine, Gracie and Mara were already home chatting away on the day’s gossip.

"Is Jenna home?” I asked.

"She’s upstairs getting ready for a date,” said Mara a bit snidely.

I took out the wax and the pot we used for heating.

"I think Mom wants her to stay.”

"How come?” asked Gracie. “She’s not going to be happy if she can’t go out!”

"Yeah, well, it’s not like we all get to do what we want, now is it? The fitters are coming,” I said.

"What?” Gracie almost shrieked.

"Can you go get Jenna, Mara?” I asked as I stirred the wax.

"You get her!”

"Okay… fine!” I said. I trudged upstairs, my calves hurting a bit as I did so, almost tripping on the second to last step. “Jenna?” I called.

"Here!” she called back from our room. When I found her she wore her favourite green underwear and had laid out various pairs of her bedazzled, hip hugger jeans, all of them with gaping holes she’d made with sandpaper to be in fashion.

"Who asked you out?” I asked.

"Darren Maxwell,” Jenna said matter of factly, as if I should have known.

"Fitters are coming any minute,” I told her. I picked up her bedazzled denim vest and looked it over. It was spectacular with swirling rhinestones of green and white all over it. “This is nice!”

Jenna grabbed it away from me. “They’re not coming till Saturday,” she declared.

"No,” I said. “It’s today. They had to switch with Ashima’s bride’s maids.”

Jenna’s face contorted and became red with anger. “Where’s Mom?”

"Downstairs, shower… with…”

"Mo-o-o-o-o-om!” She stomped out in her underthings.

I followed her down, slowly, feeling a bit dizzy, and Celine, bless her, was at my side helping me by the time I was halfway there.

"Are you okay?”

"Thanks, baby,” I said as I nodded. “Just a bit… dizzy, I guess.”

"So!” Gracie was at the bottom of the stairs, arms akimbo. “What’s going on then?”

"There’s some scheduling problem,” I told her, and explained what had happened. “So they’re coming, right now.”

"You picked a great time to ask,” Mom appeared momentarily in the kitchen with Jenna on her heels. Retrieving the wax she turned to Jenna. “Daddy and the boys are off at dinner with the Carrington’s so you thought I’d just give in, didn’t you!”

"No, Mom, I…”

"Right,” Mom said. “You think I’m going to be easy? I want you to call this boy and tell him you’re going to be late.”

And just then there was a loud knock at the door.

Gracie answered to reveal three people. One was a very tall, waxy faced man with a bald head that shined as if polished with dark hair wrapped around his head over his ears. The shortish woman with him would have been ordinary looking save for her with horn rimmed glasses, teal coloured hair and an overly voluptuous, perhaps a little overweight figure. The third one there was a man of similar stature to the woman with very close cropped hair, round spectacles and about two day’s greyish stubble on his cheeks.

"Is this the Wells House?” asked the tallest of the three in a high pitched sing song voice. “We are Lawrence Gray, of All Shades of Gray Glamour Studio! We deal in Colour and Shadow, and all things that make our world more beautiful! And who are you my dear? Are you a model?” He was talking to Gracie, then looked at me. “We were not told we were working with professional models today! We were told we were decorating a wedding party. Why were we not told? Who is the client? We want the client on the phone immediately! We must speak to the client now so that we are given proper credit for our work!”

"I’m not a model,” Gracie said.

"My dear,” said Mr. Gray. “Of course you are a model. If you are not a model, it is truly a crime! How is it you have not been discovered unless you pass each day hidden from the world? And here, this vision! Perfect in every way!” He approached me and pulled my robe open before I could stop him and gazed upon my naked body. My skin burned with a full body blush.

"Look at this!” said Mr. Gray. “What a canvas she will be. WE ARE A GENIOUS! Anti! Roberta! Bring in our drawings and set up there! Why are we not speaking with the client?”

A much shorter man behind him with close cropped hair and round spectacles handed him a very fancy cell phone which allowing me to close my robe.

"Ah! Miss Khan! Yes, of course…”

As Mr. Gray disappeared out the front door, the woman, Roberta who wore her teal dyed hair in a fancy bob cut set up an easel where she then placed an enormous sketch pad.

"I’m Roberta,” she said. “This is Antoine, and of course you already know Lawrence Gray. You aren’t models, are you?”

"No,” Gracie said. “I tried to tell him… Mr. Gray?”

"Yes,” said Roberta. “So, we’re doing four or five of you, right?”

"Let’s see, there’s Mom, Me, Sammie and Jenna.”

"And Mrs. Khan,” I added. “I think that’s all of us.”

"Five then,” said Roberta. “You’re under age?” She addressed Gracie.

"I’m fifteen,” Gracie said with a hint of protest in her voice. “So is Sammie and so is Jenna.”

"A brood, then? Sisters? Funny, a blonde, brunette and a redhead in the same litter. That’s cute. Where are the adults?”

"Hello,” Mom and Fatima arrived and Roberta introduced herself. What followed was a presentation by Roberta of the product. The outfits were, even by California standards, very daring. They consisted of Pantaloons, vest, hair-veil and gold sandals and some adornments in costume jewellery to be decided later. The material, save for where the seams came together, was completely transparent, and designed to be worn without underwear. The vests were designed to leave the breasts completely exposed, but that was not the main feature. That would be a pre-set pattern of vines with flowered accents painted directly onto the skin over the breasts, belly, back, buttocks, thighs and calves. It would take at least forty five minutes each side as we would have to lay perfectly still.

We completely understood the process, but the boss, Lawrence Gray himself, insisted on explaining the entire process in excruciating detail in the course of forty five minutes. It had taken Roberta all of five, albeit without Mr. Gray’s hyperbole. But it gave Roberta and the other man time to set up high powered light over the dining room table.

"All that remains is to begin,” said Mr. Gray. “Who shall be the first to wear our genius?”

"Uh… me?” Jenna jumped forward.

"Jenna has a date,” Mom informed.

"Ah! But I hope you will be careful with our creation! You must not bathe for twenty four hours after the pigment is applied!”

While Mr. Gray and Roberta took little miss fireball in hand using the dining room table as a platform upon which to work they’re magic. Darren Maxwell would have to wait two hours for her to be ready.

The short man with the round glasses and the stubbled face turned to my mother.

"If there is another table, I can begin work on whoever will be next,” the short man said in a high pitched nasally voice.

"Uh… sure. There’s one in the garage.”

"The workbench?” Miki said incredulously. “Mom, it’s still got that cradle-thing on it.”

"Well,” Mom said. “Put it on the floor. Let’s get some towels to cover it with, okay?”

"Mom,” I asked. “Can I go next? I really do need to be ready for the interview…”

"But what about me?” asked Gracie.

"Samantha should be next,” said Fatima who had just materialized. “The interview is very important.”

Gracie seemed a bit put out by that, but let it go. Between Miki, Gracie and I, we managed to get Eric’s monstrosity onto the garage floor while Celine, Mom and Fatima brought down fresh towels and spread them over the table.

Again, Mr. Gray parted my robe and looked upon me. “The light in here is completely inadequate,” he said. “But it will have to do. Aquamarine, I think, for the material. That Flower you like so much… clematis. Make it blue, if you please.”

"You bet, LG,” said the shorter man. He turned to me. “Ready?” I simply nodded and he patted the workbench top. “Loose the robe first, if you don’t mind. It’ll be a real bitch trying to paint through it.” I lay down on my belly and he began to work.

"So,” said Miki. “Who is that guy?”

"Larry Gray?” replied the man as he began applying pigment to my back. “He designs looks for the rich and fabulous.” As he spoke, his attention was focused entirely on his painting.

"Like who?”

"Oh,” said the man. “Like Carmen Giovanni, Ashley Simmons… ever heard of them? Of course you have. Every girl your age has a stack of magazines with articles on both of them dating back ages. You know Phong Wu? She from the family that claims to be heirs to the dragon throne of China? Anyway, he worked up her dress for the Oscars this last year. You’ll find his name in Cosmo, Vogue, London Calling and Paris Match…”

"Is this the kind of stuff he does?” Miki had an eight by ten print copy of one of the larger drawing Roberta had shown us earlier. The figure was nude with nothing but body paint on it, basically the design we were having applied.

"Not really,” the artist said, still not having looked up from his work. “The whole skin tint thing is new. Roberta convinced him to try it, she’s very into it. She likes tattoos, which is how she got into skin tinting. LG, that’s my boss, he wanted to see if I could apply my textile print designs to the skin, which is sort of what I’m doing now. That’s normally what I do for LG, design textile patterns for his clothing designs. But Roberta, she’s one of those tattoo fans.”

"Tattoo?”

"Never heard of tattooing? No? The used to use needles to inject ink below the first layers of the skin. It was permanent.”

"Eww!”

"I know,” said the man. It’s like, hah, sooo gross, gay and stupid! Disgusting. Anyway, the designs, however, were absolutely fabulous. So LG, that’s the boss, had me read up on it, and of course we now have this skin dye that’s temporary, but similar. It doesn’t tint as deep, but it does tint the skin. Can’t be washed off for about two weeks. A few of the tattoo fanatics, like Roberta, are super into it. If Roberta showed you the work she does on herself, you’d be impressed. It’s nothing like what we’re doing here.”

"It lasts two weeks?” I asked.

"Well, ten to fourteen days,” said the artist, never looking up, his focus was on what his brush was doing. “If I re-apply it in twenty four hours it can last up to a month. But I few women want to be marked that long. Common kitchen sanitizer will take it off,” he was now applying what seemed like swirling designs to my rump, and liberally down my inner thigh after he pulled my knees apart. He worked in silence for a time with several different brushes, wide and small. Before he had me roll over, which I did very, very carefully, he spent about ten minutes drying his work with a gun-style blow dryer. Then he had me lay face up, legs still parted. My skin burned the whole time. I simply never became used to being naked in front of strangers…

Mom and Fatima moseyed in after the artist had been working a while.

"Are you the mother?” the man asked. “They have such perfect skin! This one is fantastic to work with, even if she’s trying not to be ticklish.”

"I’m afraid we’re all a bit ticklish,” Mom confessed.

"Well,” said the man. “There’s no need to be embarrassed either. This one has a perfect figure, it’s a shame to hide it. I’m almost done. Will one of you be next?”

Mom looked at Fatima.

"No,” Fatima said. “Please you go first.”

Mom nodded and doffed her robe.

"Oh, I won’t be ready for a little bit,” said the man.

Just then, Jenna waltzed in looking completely comfortable in her skin and new painted adornments. Across Jenna’s body were dandelions with their leaves and stems painted to appear to be vines. I knew enough about dandelions (I’d pulled enough of them, thankfully that was no longer my chore) to know the ugly milkweed leaves. It certainly suited Jenna, I thought, I almost laughed out loud.

"Oh! Let me see!” said the man, looking up for the first time.. “Good! Roberta’s taking artistic license. ‘bout time, too!” He returned to me. “God, what is that thing?” he asked emphatically.

Jenna laughed. “That’s my sadistic brother’s idea of a comfortable roasting cradle.”

"Ewww!” said the artist. “It looks soo medieval! Sexy, too, in a Torquemada kinda way. Do you have a rack or an Iron Maiden too?”

"A what?” Jenna asked.

"Never mind,” said the man. “Is that blood on that phallus?”

Miki, Celine and Jenna all nodded.

"It made my sister sick,” said Celine.

"Gee,” said the man. “I wonder why. Which sister?”

"Sammie,” Celine said.

"Which one is Sammie?”

I raised my hand as everyone pointed at me.

"Oh! You’re Sammie. I’m Antoine. Just call me Anti! I’m very anti. Anti-social, anti-pathic, anti-whatever you can think of...” Said the artist, to which Mom began to introduce all present.

"I’m not used to knowing the model’s names,” said Antoine. “They’re usually too good for the room, anyway. So I don’t bother doing anything but treating them like a canvass or a mannequin, most of the time. Sometimes, rarely, you run into one that’s nice…” he said. “So… you actually got on that thing?” he asked me.

"I did,” I said.

"And you weren’t scared?” asked Antoine. “I mean, that’s blood, isn’t it?”

"I was,” I said, not sure I wanted to have this conversation with a stranger. Especially one who had me at his mercy, nude on a table. “I forgot I was a virgin,” I blurted anyway…

Anti didn't let me forget that part for the rest of the session. He kept cracking jokes about forgetting to be a virgin at every opportunity.

Antoine was done with me at eight, exactly the time I was scheduled to make my phone call. So there I stood, wearing only socks in the kitchen on my phone. I couldn’t even sit. As the phone rang on the other end I chewed my already bitten nails excitedly.

"fAllo?” came the reply on the other end of the line.

"Hi!” I blurted, perhaps a bit too forward. “My name is Samantha Wells. I’m a reporter with the Amador Herald and I have an appointment to speak with Mr. Jakim Golguli…?”

"Miss Wells,” said the voice. “Of course. I am Jakim Golguli. So nice of you to be punctual. I was just setting up my telescope for a relaxing evening of star gazing and conversation…”

For the next three hours that passed like minutes. Mr. Golguli was as charming and engaging a conversationalist as I’ve ever encountered. Every question he answered with aplomb, enthusiasm and calm, sophisticated authority. For the all three hours Fatima sat enraptured, listening in with an earphone and keeping her special brew of Chai Masala tea warm in my cup. Toward the end, I took a risk and informed Mr. Golguli that Playpen Magazine had requested the rights to the interview, and I asked him if he would be offended if they published it. The smile in his voice said: “Of course not.” When Mr. Golguli and I finally said goodbye, Fatima looked at me with big shining eyes.

"Astounding,” she said.

"Really?”

"It was… I cannot say I can easily dislike this man! He charms!”

I smiled. I couldn’t help but agree.

We ventured back into the Garage where Mom was being worked on by Antoine. He was the only one left here, as Mr. Gray and Roberta had left as soon as Gracie was done two hours before, she stood there, nude as the rest of us, wearing only pink pansies and watching as Mom received her red snapdragons. The four of us all had the same pattern on us, different only in the types of flowers.

"You’re father’s home,” said Mom as she lay there. “He and your brothers are in bed… I hope! At least they better be!”

Finally, it was Fatima’s turn. Again, she showed reluctance to disrobe in front of people. But there was nothing for it. All my sisters waited till she finally shrugged, and sucked off the robe to reveal her lovely body and my first glimpse of her since Mom began work on her nether thatch. Mom had expertly waxed the edges of Fatima’s pubic region and trimmed the hair till it appeared combed, and perhaps it was combed, I don’t know.

"OOo,” said Anton. “East Coast girl!” To which Fatima’s olive tinted skin turned various shades of pink and lavender. She lay face down and submitted to Anton’s ministrations as he went to work adorning her body with pink and yellow accented white roses.

"It is getting late, Girls,” Mom said. “It’s safe for Gracie and Sam to go to bed, isn’t it Antoine?”

"What? Oh, sure. Grace has been off the table for more than two hours now… I think. Right? So yes.”

"To bed then!” Mom commanded.

"But Moooom!” Miki, Patti, Danielle, Mara and Gracie all protested in unison.

"No buts! Now! It’s still a school night and I don’t need any of you skipping. Sam, just a minute…”

"Yes, Mom?”

Mom waited till after my sisters had left. They all looked jealously back at me, as if I was getting some kind of special treatment. When they were gone, she spoke in low tones.

"Daddy took the boys out to dinner with the Carringtons.”

"Yes, I know.”

Well, Daddy’s worried that Eric’s cradle will have to be scrapped.”

"What? Why?”

"Well, after last night, would you get on it again?”

I looked at it, sitting there on the garage floor. It was an evil looking thing, but other than tearing my hymen, it hadn’t really hurt me.

"Yes,” I told her. Mom looked shocked.

"Well, you’re not!”

"Mom,” I said. “I was stupid, okay? I actually forgot I was a virgin and I didn’t bother reminding Eric. Otherwise, I think it was okay…”

Mom looked back at the thing dubiously.

"We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” she said. “Bedtime.”

I trudged upstairs to my room, lay down and slept again so deeply that Thursday might have been a dream…

Friday, September 9 2218, 2 A.M.

1120 Alsatian St. San Ramon, CA

From the exterior the one hundred fifty year old home appeared like most others in the neighbourhood: wide front porch, low peaked roof that gave the illusion of a single story.

It had two advantages. First, its position. Second, it’s single inhabitant, an ancient man in failing health quite unloved by his offspring.

Ten years ago, Michael Gianni had found out, the immediate neighbourhood had been filled with such men, mostly. They had dutifully produced thirty or more children then roasted the wife in a celebratory feasts for their neighbours and sent their children off to the butcher shop with the occasional, if rare, marriage for the most comely daughters. In the process, few of them produced any sons, and that was their downfall. Sons were expensive. Sons were not a tax write off. Sons did not, normally, end up on someone’s dinner table.

Messy, though it was, the system worked for the public at large. Mother’s might cry oceans at watching their daughters culled before they, themselves could be roasted. Mostly, husbands tried to replace Mom before such a thing happened, but it did not always work out that way. A roasting license, even in California, was quite an investment. Husbands, unlike wives, wept in silence for their daughters, if they wept at all.

"Did you weep, Mr. Amaral?” Gianni asked the corpse on the bed. The young man with the too beautiful yet manly face turned back to the linen closet and returned the pillow that had smothered Mr. Amaral to it. He then went to the window, parted the drapes, and gazed out the back yard.

Outside this home’s yard was expansive and generous as the rest in this neighbourhood, surrounded by a twelve foot high fence and hedge for the best privacy, but it also hid the neighbours’ yards most inconveniently. Children and wives could sunbathe nude with complete privacy. The home did, however, sport a nice upstairs deck area that looked out over the rest of the yard complete with gazebo and hot-tub.

"Very quaint,” Gianni praised the corpse.

Outside Gianni found a staircase going down to the yard, which was practical enough. Inside the Gazebo he found it to be well appointed with orange cushions of polyester on benches surrounding the hot-tub and something he did not expect to find: a ladder that led up to the gazebo’s attic.

Above, inside the attic area, he found that not only was it spacious, that he could stand upright, but that there was a station complete with comfortable cushioned deck chair and a four to twelve x telescope that looked out over the surrounding yards. Barely any part of the neighbours’ back yards, except for what lay immediately next to the fences/hedges, lay exposed.

"Why, Mr. Amaral… I do wonder what it is you witnessed here… you old pervert!” Gianni smiled. “Perfect… just… perfect!”

Between two homes across the way Gianni noticed a figure shuffling down Beagle Street. Gianni focused the telescope onto the figure. He could see her perfectly now. The street lamp revealed her flaming red hair, and crying as if she’d lost her best friend… perhaps she had. Then he stood thunderstruck as he recognized her as one of the Wells girls. Jenna Wells, if he remembered correctly. It was quite late for the Wells girl to be out. Even if she was technically no longer veal, she was still ostensibly her father’s property, and it was quite dangerous. It was also an opportunity missed. Few police would be bothered to look into the disappearance of a woman child out so late. Gianni would have to watch in case that one put herself out like this again.

What a missed opportunity… Gianni fretted. But no matter. The plan was still sound. Within hours the body would be discovered and the county, which had levied a tax lean on this property only weeks before would list it. The home would be placed on the market and Gianni’s new laptop back in Santa Cruz would alert the factor of a dummy corporation in Houston, which would make the purchase within seconds of the listing being made.

Gianni made a note of the brand of the Telescope. Bushnell. It was not likely it would be here when he returned, and it was of quite nice a quality… he’d purchase one after the sun came up…

1110 Beagle Street, San Ramon, CA

September 9, 2218, 3 AM

"Everything was okay!” Jenna whispered through her sobs. “And then his Dad came in.. and he had this big scary grin on his face. I thought we were both in trouble…”

Gracie and I listened with rapt attention as Jenna relayed the time she’d had on her date. We were all three of us cuddled on Jenna’s bed, her bare hips wrapped in a towel, slowly soaking up the blood. Jenna was leaning against Gracie who had her arms around Jenna. Jenna’s legs crossed my lap as we both caressed her, trying to sooth away the hurt.

Jenna wiped away a tear and gritted.

"He turned the light on, Mr. Maxwell did and he goes: “Nice body art!” and he starts asking about it, so I tell him about the wedding and all that stuff… so he says: ‘why don’t you take your panties off and show me all of it!’ and I can’t say anything because Darren has my shirt all the way up anyway… so I stood up and took them off… so he asks me to take off everything. And I did… you know, I did because of the way he said it… like Dad would say it. Then he took all my cloths and walks out of the room and I’m standing there completely naked and I was sooo scared!” She sobbed again. “Then he comes back,” she continued at length. “And he says I get to walk home naked if I don’t do exactly what he tells me to.

"And I was ready for Darren! He could have had me and it would have been alright, but Mr. Maxwell… he made it all ugly! He wanted to watch while Darren fucked me! And it hurt a little… But it was almost okay, you know? But Mr. Maxwell, he just stood there looking all mean… Then Mr. Maxwell gets behind Darren and starts fucking him!”

We both, Gracie and I, gasped.

"He did not!” Gracie said.

Jenna just nodded. “He made Darren suck him off five times. It’s why I’m so late! He never touched me at all, but he made me watch,” she was weeping openly now. “And he fucked Darren while Darren fucked me!”

Neither Gracie nor I had an idea what to say or do other than to hold her as she wept.

"Then he told me he was a meat inspector… and he’d have me culled for being a lesbian if I told anyone” Jenna kicked me. “Because of YOU!”

"Me?”

"Everyone knows you’re a lesbian! Maybe Mom is cooking two years early because she knows too! I told you guys!”

"Jenna, STOP!” Gracie admonished in a shouting whisper. “Just stop it!”

We were quiet for a long time.

"What are we going to do?” asked Jenna.

"Tell Mom!!” Gracie said.

"What? NO!” Jenna protested.

"Sam, don’t you think she should tell Mom?”

No, I didn’t… I shook my head. Not because of Jenna, or any present need to make her feel better, but to protect Mom.

"Well,” Jenna declared. “I’m not dating Darren the Faggot again!”

"If you don’t tell Mom,” Gracie warned. “Daddy will probably spank you.”

"I don’t care,” Jenna said. “Don’t tell Mom.”

"But…”

"Gracie, she’s right,” I said. “We can’t tell Mom. It would break her heart!”

"Maybe I should be spanked anyway,” Jenna said. “I was so stupid!”

By Morning, with very little of the sleep Fatima had ordered me to get, Daddy was indeed angry with Jenna for staying out so late.

At six in the morning, Jenna took her spanking bare bottomed while my sisters and I were made to watch, as we always were.

"I still think we should tell,” Gracie told me, wisely as it turned out. But we did not.

Jenna, for her part, seemed to feel better after having taken her punishment. It brought the whole episode to a close.

Mom wrote notes for Gracie, Jenna and me to be excused from PE. Water and our new adornments would simply not mix well while they were “setting.” Mine were flaking a bit, which worried me till Jenna informed me that was normal.

As senior Friday mornings are dominated by PE, the three of us spent time in study hall, and I had ample time to edit my interview and make notes that turned into my first article for Playpen. I turned those into Miss Emerson later that afternoon as an essay on Indian Conservatism right after I emailed the lot to Ashima.

"This is really good, Sam,” Miss Emerson told me. “It’ll be a nice piece for the Sunday Herald.”

"The Herald?” I said, alarmed.

"Of course.”

"Oh! Please don’t give it to them!”

"Why ever not?”

I was not supposed to talk about the interview, much less write an article about it for publication in a separate periodical, and now I was in trouble. I thought fast.

"It’s not my best work!”

"Really!? If this isn’t you’re best, I’ll be interested to see what is. The paper wants everything you write and has since they saw your interview with Congresswoman Sanchez.”

Oh shit! I thought…

"Miss Emerson,” I told her. “I swear, I’ll make it up to you somehow! Just please don’t give them that article! At least not yet!”

Miss Emerson looked at me very suspiciously.

Jenna, sitting next to me, had completed her work. Something, surprise, surprise, about sexual desire.

"What did you do?” Jenna asked knowingly.

"I wrote about something I shouldn’t have,” I admitted.

"Why should you not write about India?” Miss Emerson asked. “You are studying to be a journalist, aren’t you?”

Just then my, well, Ashima’s E-PAD beeped. Reflexively, I glanced at it.

"Great work,” it said big and bold on the display. “Playpen is ecstatic!”

Miss Emerson snatched it off my desk.

"Playpen?” she snapped. “What are you doing receiving emails from Playpen? And at school, no less? You know the rules!”

That was how I found myself in Principal Farmer’s office. Principal Farmer hung up the phone.

"Do you know who that was?” asked the woman towering over me even though her desk separated us.

I sat huddled, feeling the urge to bolt. My E-PAD sat on her desk. It was nearly two in the afternoon and I was missing class.

"Uh,” I whispered. “No…”

"That was our attorney. Apparently, Playpen Magazine now has the first rights of refusal to everything you write, period. That’s as of Wednesday, and this is the first I’m hearing of it! Not to mention the fact that it puts the school in an extremely awkward position! We now have a contract with a client we cannot possibly fulfil, thanks to you, and we may lose a considerable amount of funding because of it!” She pushed the E-PAD at me brusquely.

"That’s yours,” she snarled. “Please ask Miss Emerson and Miss Masters to see me before you leave today.”

I nodded as she turned her attention to something on her desk. Momentarily she looked up.

"Get out,” she said calmly.

What else could go wrong today?

At least I did manage to complete all the quizzes for the day… so I did not lose any grades.

After school we, Jenna, Gracie and I, sat on the bleachers watching the junior and senior combined varsity cheer leading squad practice together for the first time this year. Of course, this included our middle sisters, Miki and Patti.

"I really wish I was still on the squad,” Gracie said. It had been the highlight of every week of her junior year. She absolutely loved it. The thirty two member combined squad would do all twelve season games and if the team went to the play-offs at regionals, they’d go as well. The junior squad did all the basketball games while the senior squad competed in the Cheer leading competitions. Gracie was positive they’d make it to State that year.

"Why?” Jenna asked.

"Look at this flip coming up,” Gracie said.

AS we watched three senior girls were launched into the air each by three other girls. When they came down the three below them caught them and lay back in an unfolding motion. The effect appeared like three small explosions of motion, at the end of which the entire squad popped up shouting “Minute Men!”

"Wooohooo!” Gracie applauded. So did Jenna and I. It was that impressive even to a girl (me) who had zero desire to be a cheerleader.

It also broke our melancholy a bit, especially when the entire squad bowed to us gracefully. Even Amy Vickers and Rachel Wozniac bowed and gave each other high fives. Don’t worry, they still hate each other.

"How hard is that move, Gracie?” I asked.

"Hard!” Gracie said. “It’s hardest if you’re catching, cuz you have to catch and drop and not drop the girl you’re catching in the process. It’s easy to hurt yourself too.”

"Ever do it?”

"We started doing it last year, but only toward the very end of the year… we never did it publically or even outside. I really want to see them go to nationals!” That’s Gracie, no grudges at all!

"I wish you could go too,” said Jenna.

"Me too,” I said.

"Well,” Gracie said. “At least I get to watch and enjoy it this way. I just hated the drama. Maybe Patti and Miki will get to go next year…”

It was four by the time we arrived home from school, Jenna, Gracie and I were in better spirits than we had been during our melancholy laced time on the bleachers. Jenna and I rarely teased Gracie, but today we took turns chiding her about being the last virgin among us. We’d always suspected she’d be the first to lose her virginity.

"Maybe I’ll make Jenna take my cherry!” Gracie chided back.

"Not!” Jenna protested. “Hey, isn’t that Jake Tucker’s truck?”

Sure enough, as we approached the home Jake Tucker’s huge white pick-up was in our driveway backed up to your garage, which also lay open.

"Hello, Ladies!” said Jake, who stood next to our father and both brothers.

"Hi, Jake!” we crooned.

"Sam,” Daddy said. “Can you come here a minute?”

"Me?”

"Yes, you,” he pointed down to the spot immediately next to him with a rigid index finger.

I crept up slowly, quite convinced I was in trouble, my sisters hanging back and not in the least supportive. I motioned for them to follow with the word “please” forming on my lips, which they did not. In the meantime, Mom with Reba had appeared and both ventured up to our little group. The other thing, and the one that really bothered me, were the looks on Eric and Jimmy’s faces. The brows showed concern. Then I saw that they were all standing in front of Eric and Jimmy’s roasting cradle.

"Sam,” Daddy said. “Mr. Tucker has something he wants to ask you.”

"Uh, yes I do,” said Jake. “If you don’t mind.”

"I don’t mind,” I said, turning a bit red at the way he was looking at me.

"Uhm… I, uh, I need to know if this thing, the cradle… was it completely horrible to be on?”

"What he means is,” Daddy said. “You told your mother you’d get back on it…”

I nodded.

"How bad was it to be on?”

I shook my head. “It wasn’t. It’s just that… I was, you know, a virgin…”

"Yes!” Jake said. “Yes, I know!”

"Well…” I said. “The shoulders are not quite comfortable after a while…”

"What about the probe?” Daddy asked. Mom’s hand went to her mouth, and she looked back at me while Reba, standing next to her, looked back and forth from the cradle to me.

"It was fine,” I said. “I was ready for it, though.”

Eric and Jimmy had hopeful looks in their eyes.

"I mean,” I continued quite nervously. “It wasn’t their fault. I should have told them before they put the thing in me…” God it sounded horribly incestuous.

Even Eric was weepy, and Jimmy just came and hugged me. It was the first time since Wednesday either of them seemed able to look at me.

"I’m so sorry,” Eric said as I hugged him.

"Okay, then!” Jake clapped his hands together as if something momentous had happened. “Sammie, thank you. Boys, shall we?”

"What’s going on?” I asked.

"Mr. Tucker is taking it to the machine shop,” said Daddy. “They’re going to replicate it and… well, we’ll see.”

"Party’s over,” Jake said. “Let’s load her up!”

And they did, hefting the heavy sculpture into the truck as if it weighed nothing at all… and I assure you, it weighed quite a bit!

"What is that thing?” Reba asked.

"Don’t ask,” Jenna said.

Reba frowned, looking back at it. I did manage to notice that the blood had been cleaned off it.

"So, hey… I asked your Mom if you could spend the night at my place…”

"That’s assuming,” Mom said. “That you don’t have any pressing work to do.”

"She doesn’t,” Jake said as he passed by. “Ashima’s swamped with everything Sam’s shovelling in the door, so please, hold off on giving her any more for a while!”

"Good,” Mom said. “Are you staying for dinner, Reba? Or is Ester cooking?”

"Ester? Cook?” Reba giggled a bit hysterically.

"Then I guess you’re staying for dinner… do NOT tell me you boys are all running off right now?”

"We’ll be back!” said Daddy.

"Yes, I’m sure you’ll be back at some point next week when you’re finished fussing with your new toy… what about dinner? It’s almost ready!”

It was a light dinner, and Jake and the boys inhaled the food in less than ten minutes (they could easily have done it in five, but they were trying to be polite) and bolted.

"So what are you going to do tonight?” Gracie asked Reba.

"I dunno,” Reba said. “Probably watch a movie or something…”

I imagined this had something to do with Reba’s new boyfriend, but I said nothing, not wanting to embarrass her.

"Sammie doesn’t get out enough anyway. She’s always working any more.”

"I’m not Jenna,” I smiled, and Jenna punched me in the shoulder.

"Well, it’s okay,” Jenna said. “For some odd reason you and Reba get along well. Must be the hair!”

The whole table laughed, and I punched Jenna in the shoulder.

"Mom,” Jenna said. “Can I take a shower yet? I’m filthy!”

"Me too,” I said. “I truly did feel grungy, having been used to taking two showers a day since the beginning of school.

"What is it, five?” Mom asked. “How many hours is that since they finished with you, Jenna?”

"They finished at seven last night,” Jenna said.

"Twenty Two,” said Danielle. “Twenty one for Sammie and Nineteen for Gracie.”

"Okay, I think that’s more than twenty hours,” said Mom. “So I guess you both can shower.”

"Great!” I said, jumping up and rushing to get ahead of Jenna, who, likewise made a mad dash to the linen closet.

That quickly, she beat me to the shower, and I almost slipped getting inside.

"It’s flaking!” Jenna complained, and I looked at what she referred to.

The paint that had been laid on her skin was, indeed, flaking everywhere it had been. Looking down at mine, I saw it was, likewise, flaking off.

"What do we do?” Jenna asked.

"I don’t know,” I said.

"Well,” Jenna said. “They’ll just have to redo it… or not.” She went into the shower and started soaping herself as I was about to put on a robe and talk to Mom about it. Almost instantly, when water cascading over Jenna’s skin took away the soap and most of what remained of the flaking paint with it, the real end result was revealed. Just under the skin was a beautifully tinted layer of dye that had embedded itself, and was even more brilliant than I would have thought. We marvelled at it after I called attention to it.

"I really don’t want to go out tonight,” I said. “And what’s up with Mom? She was all protective of me and suddenly she can’t wait to get me out of the house!”

"Maybe she’s sick of you!” Jenna said. “I am!”

"Right…”

It was nice to put on something other than that hideous school uniform. I borrowed a pair of Jenna’s bedazzled jeans (the only pair with no holes in it) and walked off with Reba toward her place.

September 9, 2218, 4:30 PM

Orinda, CA

The cats and dogs development in San Ramon was the one of the most well thought out developments Gianni had ever seen. Dead centre was the school, which served the entire neighbourhood in what was called, aptly, Westminster Square. North and south ran the dog streets parallel to Interstate 680 while the cat avenues ran east and west.

It had been built early in the last century just as the entire country was coming to grips with the idea of women being born to be chattel. The homes were built with an abundance of females in mind. But even as this community accepted the notion, small cities starved and found themselves unable to procreate without the protein garnered from consuming human flesh. Those that accepted, survived.

Towns like San Ramon were some of the first to be re-developed with the new reality in mind. The homes from that had dated from the early and mid 21st century simply would not suffice. Modern families were often huge by comparison to the one or two child families from before the great war. How they managed to maintain their economy, Gianni never could understand.

For this particular development, the state of California had levelled an office park and contracted a developer who would build homes to state specifications. The result was adequate, but the homes, Gianni thought, could not have been more homely. There were no more than five different models, and little variation among those. Imagination had also been lacking. They sported concrete front porches and plain, stucco faces that Gianni thought suited livestock rather than human beings… of course, the people here were little better than livestock, all things considered.

As expected, Houston Futures Inc., Gianni’s holding company, had acquired the property on Alsatian scant seconds after it was placed on the market a mere two hours prior. A bonded moving company had already been contracted and was presently moving the contents of the home into a semi-trailer. They’d be done within the hour and would place all the contents in storage for the Amaral family to bicker over at their leisure. Gianni, for his part, needed the home immediately, and he intended to have it.

He’d spent the morning driving around the extreme east bay, getting to know the various back roads through Livermore, Pleasanton, up to Brentwood and now he found himself in Orinda where he absent mindedly drove into the parking lot at Tropicana Blue.

Johnny DeSilva did not seem very happy to see him in his surprise. This did not sit at all well with Gianni. It took some doing, but Gianni finally managed to get the gist of Johnny’s conversation with Glen.

"You must be kidding!” Gianni laughed.

"I told him he had no idea who he was dealing with!” Johnny assured.

Gianni just nodded, suppressing the urge to slit Johnny’s throat.

"You’d be better served to say nothing at all,” Gianni warned. “Let him do what he will. It’s not your concern and you should know that. The professor wont’ be happy.”

"You going to tell him?”

"Not if you keep mind your manner,” Gianni said. “Just don’t go spilling my business to those that do not have a need to know. I do not appreciate it.”

"Okay,” Johnny acknowledged. He knew, Gianni was satisfied. Move on.

"So, what are you up to tonight?”

"Oh,” Johnny said. “I have to see a man I need some information from. I’m courting his daughter as well. She’s not exactly my type, but she’ll do for fun for a roll, I think.”

"Oh?” Gianni said. “You’re not worried about alienating your man?”

"Naw,” Johnny said. “He knows I’m not serious. He seems to think the girl needs to get a dose of reality. I’m going to pick them up, so if you’ll excuse me…”

"What kind of information is your man providing?”

"Oh, come on, Mike! You just got through lecturing me about need to know… you know the rules!”

"You don’t trust me? Of all people, you don’t trust me?” Gianni looked at him sideways. “There was a time when you relished sharing these kinds of things with me, and I’ve never, ever betrayed you!”

It was Johnny’s turn to look at Gianni sideways, clearly unsure.

"Golding,” Johnny said finally. “Dr. Abraham Golding. He’s been bringing me files from Tucker-Kline on some new concoction their working on. Something to do with an oral pain suppressor and blood oxygenator…”

"Interesting,” Gianni said. “That’s very interesting. The professor would be appreciative of knowledge of what they’re up to. So why don’t I tag along.”

Johnny shook his head. “I can’t! I have to keep my dealings with Golding very low profile.”

"By bringing him and his daughter to the club?”

Johnny gave a nervous laugh.

"Maybe I can be low profile in your club as well?” Gianni grinned.

The ride in Johnny’s big Coup de Ville, surprisingly, brought Gianni right back to San Ramon, into the very neighbourhood he’d been in only a few hours before. Johnny chattered nervously the whole way, which was a new side to Gianni’s former mentor. Gianni was forced to come to the conclusion Johnny was deathly afraid of him or a very, very good actor. Either way, Johnny was no longer at all trustworthy, and Gianni would be forced to deal with that problem sooner rather than later. How would be the question.

"Remember Cole the Match?” Johnny reminded Gianni.

"The fire bug? How could I forget.”

"Pro, now. He’s living in San Francisco.”

"You’re kidding!”

"Yeah. Found out by accident. When I opened the club he came in a couple of nights after, left me this, and bolted. Never came back. He didn’t bother to check see who was running the place, but he seemed to get that it was a family business of the Cosa Nostra variety.”

Gianni took the card as the care parked in front of one of those ugly houses on a cat street. Marmalade. Most people probably thought it was a Jam street out of place.

"This is my friend, Michael Gianni,” Johnny made the introduction to Abraham Golding. The tall, frail looking man in his late 40s had silver gray hair and a thin face. His features were central European-Jewish. He had a stately, intellectual look about him with thick wire rimmed glasses.

"Nice to meet you,” said the man without a hint of enthusiasm. “Please, come in.”

The home had the residual mustiness one might find in a used book store. Binders filled with yellowing paper were stacked neatly on the floor along with various old books. Fresh pot-pourri in an aerator sat on the middle of the coffee table, its scent mixing with the smell of old paper. The author of that flowery concoction stood at the kitchen entrance. She was a professional looking woman, perhaps twenty five, also noticeably Jewish, but of Germanic extraction.

"My wife, Ester,” Golding introduced.

"Mr. DeSilva,” Ester greeted. Yonkers was thick in her voice. Her stance stance was a bit stiff, and when she turned sideways to Gianni, he understood why. She was just showing, about four months pregnant. She stood, fists clenched, jaw set, fingernails digging into the palms of her hands.

Gianni could only guess that some spat was source of Abe’s lack of enthusiasm. The way Ester looked at Johnny told Gianni there was very little love there. Johnny represented a threat to her. The New York native probably knew his type, if she didn’t know his business with her husband. But Gianni had every reason to believe she was at least well on her way to getting that out of her husband.

"How many are you expecting?” Gianni asked politely of Ester.

"Three this litter,” Ester said, attempting to act warmly toward her guest and almost succeeding. “All girls this time. Abe and I can’t afford boys yet.”

"I thought I’d treat all of us to the club tonight,” said Johnny. “I know Ester’s been bugging you for a night out on the town.”

Ester looked like she was forcing herself to remain cold, and failing. The invitation obviously pleased her as her cheeks were flushing and eyes had widened, and were darting to her husband and back to Johnny.

"Oh, I’m not sure,” Abe said. “My daughter’s having a friend over this evening…”

"Abe,” Ester said. “Actually, maybe it’s a good idea.”

"I’d rather not leave Rebecca hear by herself,” said Abe.

"She won’t be,” said Ester. “She’ll have her friend.”

"If you don’t want them to stay here,” Johnny said. “They could come with us.”

Man and wife reacted with a frown.

"But I’m being a poor hostess,” Ester said. “I have vodka and orange juice and some very nice Cognac. Screwdrivers anyone?”

While Ester was in the kitchen, Johnny sat.

"You know, Abe,” Johnny said. “Your deliveries have been arriving late… considering prices paid…”

"I’ll get what you want,” Abe said. “It takes time.”

"That, I get,” said Johnny. “So, how about you show me a little good will tonight.”

Abe stiffened, said nothing, and sat. When Ester brought a tray with four tall glasses, a bottle of vodka, one of orange juice and one a bottle of Remy Martin Cognac that made Gianni do a double take. That particular bottle, which the Professor always had on hand, Gianni knew to be 50 years old and sell for nearly 500€, far more than what should have been in Mr. Golding’s budget.

"So, Mrs. Golding,” Johnny changed the subject. “Who do you favour in the Senatorial Race?”

"Oh… I’m not quite sure yet,” she said as she poured. “Congressman Jackson seems to be competent, but his wife, that woman is a menace!”

About an hour’s worth of animated discussion had passed when young Miss Golding arrived. Following Johnny’s lead, Gianni stood to be introduced to the young schoolgirl, clad as she was in the blue and gray uniform of Franklin High School. She was tall, about five foot eight with narrow hips and a rather nice sized chest that seemed ill suited to her figure. Gianni thought her too top heavy, aesthetically. Johnny made a good showing of being pleased to see her, even though she was quite below his usual standards. Her face was more hansom than pretty, though her shining eyes that were alight when Johnny gave her attention did enhance her beauty somewhat. Gianni’s initial impression of banter with Johnny was that she would be the typical unsophisticated high school undergrad, easily impressed and not likely to be any more than mediocre company.

"Dad,” she took a breath after introductions were made. “Sam’s outside. Can she stay the night?”

"I… uh,” said Abe.

"Her Mom said it was okay. You can call.”

"I’m sure it’s alright,” Ester took charge. “But I will call her anyway.” And she disappeared into the kitchen.

Rebecca turned and went back out the front door.

Gianni sipped his cognac wondering if this trip would be worth the trouble. He could probably have easily garnered all he’d found out thus far by doing simple internet searches. And quite frankly, he’d much rather be watching the Wells’ household. He turned to a shocking pair of impossibly green eyes that captured the entire focus of his vision for a terrible long moment.

She was small, in every way, though not tiny. Anyone who might see a photograph of her would think her much taller, for her proportions were not those of a young woman of her stature… five foot two or three, Gianni judged. Her skin was perfectly fresh, and might have been made of the finest bisque porcelain. If she wore any makeup at all, he could not tell, and she certainly need not have. He’d never been this close to her, and never had any woman… girl really… had this effect upon his senses…

"Johnny, Mr. Gianni, this is my friend Samantha Wells…”

Friday, September 9, 2218, 6:30PM

785 Marmalade Ave, San Ramon, CA

I had to wait outside for Reba while she asked if I could spend the night (something I thought was already arranged). Truthfully, I did not really want to be there in the first place. I was tired and, thanks to Jenna’s little adventure the night before, really could have used some sleep. But finally Reba appeared and let me in.

Inside there were four people. Mr. and Mrs. Golding I had seen before, of course. Besides them were two very well dressed men dark in three piece suits. One had the most striking blue eyes, and I automatically assumed this was Reba’s Johnny. But no, the one with the interesting nose and dangerous smirk turned out to be Johnny. In his way, I thought him hansom enough, I suppose, if crocodiles could be considered hansom. His leer, however, filled me with… big word here: trepidation! It’s the only word that seems appropriate. There was something dangerous about him on a fundamental level, an aura that filled the entire room. Yes, he scared me. It was a little exciting, and I suspect that’s why Reba was so fond of him.

The other man was beautiful. In a manly way, I should say. He had not quite a rugged look about him. Hansom, but also beautiful. He towered over me and, while the gaze he favoured me with those piercing blue eyes was not at all what I’d call a leer, it lingered in such a way that is almost impossible to describe. It was the type of gaze that makes a woman feel adored. His jaw was slack, and very likely mine was too. I was also hot from the weight of his stare.

"Samantha,” Mr. DeSilva said. “This is my friend Michael Gianni.”

"Pleased to meet you,” Mr. Gianni’s baritone voice was husky. He offered me his hand and mine disappeared into it.

"As well,” I managed.

"So,” Johnny DeSilva said, turning to Reba. “I brought you a dress and some baubles to wear,” he produced a bag. I caught the look on Mr. Gianni’s face, it was a knowing smirk, as if the man had some knowledge of some plan Mr. DeSilva had. “Mrs. Golding, I’m pretty sure I picked the right size.”

"You did not!” protested Mrs. Golding.

"I hope I did,” Mr. DeSilva said. “Or we’ll have to go back to Coulter’s.”

"Oh my god!” cried Mrs. Golding as she pulled out a long, shimmering golden evening gown. “It’s beautiful!”

"As I said,” I hope it fits.” Then he turned to me. “What are we going to do about you?”

"What’s this store? Coulter’s?” asked Mr. Gianni.

"Yeah,” said Mr. DeSilva. “I outfit all my girls there. Mr. Coulter runs a tight ship.”

"What are we doing?” asked Reba excitedly.

"I thought I’d take us all to dinner and a show,” said Mr. DeSilva.

"Uhm,” I said. “I don’t want to be any trouble. Maybe I should just go back home…”

"Nonsense!” said Mr. DeSilva. “We have plenty of time. Why don’t you ladies go get yourselves dolled up and then we’ll head out to Coulter’s to get Miss Samantha something appropriate to wear.”

Reluctantly, I headed upstairs with Reba and Mrs. Golding. My hair was still wet, but Mrs. Golding actually managed to make it look halfway decent, brusque though she was. She made it quite obvious she did not appreciate that Reba and I were tagging along. Then they put on their dresses.

As I said, Mrs. Golding’s was shimmering gold, go figure, and Reba’s was a shimmering shade of Scarlet. They were both beautiful, but both rather immodest. Reba’s entire mid section was exposed almost to her pubic mound as were the underside of her breasts, but even above that her large dark nipples were easily discernible. It could not be worn with any underwear. Mrs. Golding’s was even more immodest, leaving one breast covered by only see-through material. By the time we landed downstairs again it was nearly seven thirty, and the men seemed impatient.

"You look amazing,” Mr. DeSilva said as he took Reba’s hand, and helped her into her coat.

"Well,” Mr. Gianni said. “Everyone here has a date except you and me. Would you do me the honour?” He made a little bow. Remember, here I am clad only in a t-shirt and Jenna’s bedazzled jeans while he’s in this very fancy suit, and he’s bowing to me!

So what else, I simply blushed and smiled, took his offered hand and let him lead me outside to Mr. DeSilva’s enormous car.

With Mr. DeSilva and Reba up front, Mr. and Mrs. Golding took the back seat, while Mr. Gianni and I face them in the backwards facing seat.

"So,” Mr. Gianni began the conversation. “How long have you and Reba been friends?”

I told him about my family, who my sisters were, my Parents, and what they did. Before I knew it, we were all getting out at a store in what I later found out was Lafayette.

From the outside, Coulter’s seemed to be like any other fancy dress store. The window displays sported glossy white, headless mannequins wearing fine jewellery and dresses more or less as modest as those worn by Reba and Mrs. Golding. Inside it had that sound absorbent quiet one gets from plush carpeting and a hanging ceiling.

"Welcome, Mr. DeSilva,” said a stout man in a very fine double breasted suit. He stood on the blue patterned carpet in the middle of what amounted to a lobby area surrounded by racks of dresses.

"Mr. Coulter,” Mr. DeSilva said. “It seems I am in need of another dress for this young lady. We’ll be going to my club tonight, and I’d like her to look like a celebrity. Can you take her in hand, please?”

"Certainly, sir,” smile Mr. Coulter.

"And as she is my date,” said Mr. Gianni. “I will be happy to pay the tab.”

"Of course, Sir,” nodded the man. “Miss…”

"Samantha Wells,” Johnny said. “Remember that name, Mr. Coulter. She’s going to be famous after tonight.”

"Of course, sir,” Mr. Coulter said. “If you will step this way, Miss Samantha.”

I followed him into the dressing room.

"Miss Samantha, forgive me please,” Mr. Coulter said. “But the things you have on make it difficult to assess your figure. May I ask you to please remove them?”

"All of them?” I asked.

"It would be best,” he said contritely. “I assure you, I pride myself on my professionalism.”

I nodded, and undid Jenna’s jeans, slipping them off. He waited quite patiently for me till I slipped off my t-shirt. I hadn’t worn a bra (which is not normal for me. I may be small, but my boobs do better in a bra when I’m dressed). When I stood straight, he let out an almost inaudible gasp.

"You must be working with Lawrence Gray, or someone trying to emulate him!” said Mr. Coulter.

"Yes,” I said. “You know him?”

"Indeed,” said Mr. Coulter. “He’s well known for his humility among those in my profession. Now let me look at you please… the work is quite beautiful, I must say. It demands a certain style to it… I do hope your gentleman is aware of our prices, because the dresses I must select for you are quite dear. Those appear to be a blue clematis, I think, am I correct? Very well then… aquamarine and royal blue… I shall return.”

I stood there hugging myself. In the multitudes of mirrors in front of me I saw myself naked wearing only the skin dye the artist Antoine had applied to me the night before. They seemed to almost have a glow about them, blending perfectly with my skin as if they were naturally a part of my colouring. They made me feel pretty, and I couldn’t help but smile as I modelled them for myself twisting my body around so I could see the swirling vines crossing my back and front, over my breasts, belly, buns and hips. I would have expected for them to centre a flower over each nipple, but they did not. My untrained eye would not have found it vulgar, but an artist, of course, would.

When Mr. Coulter returned he brought with him two dresses. One was a greenish shade of Aquamarine, the other Royal Blue. He held up the Aquamarine one first, then the royal blue one.

"Maybe if you try it on,” he handed me the Aquamarine dress and helped me slip into it. It came down passed my knees, the skirt being draped around my hips and overlapping in front, corners down. The bodice was attached to the skirt by the narrowest of fabric that barely covered my belly and draped then over my breasts. It had an embroidered pattern on material that was translucent, and revealed every crevice of my body. I felt completely naked in it…

"Hmmm…” Mr. Coulter’s appraisal looked dubious. “It does go well with your eyes, but it seems to clash a bit with the design. The colour is definitely fine… but the style… so slip that off, and let us try this one…”

Once I had the royal blue dress on, Mr. Coulter began nodding and humming pleasantly almost as soon as the skirt was fastened.

"Fabulous!” Mr. Coulter seemed pleased. “Do see yourself, then!” He indicated the mirror.

It was single strap that wrapped around my left shoulder and draped over my chest, then wrapped around my hips front to back, tying on one side. The floor length skirt, therefore, was slit all the way up my right side to my hip. The material was inter spaced strips of opaque and transparent blue that strategically covered my naughty parts, but also seemed to complement the design and the flowers, leaving them strategically exposed. Not a bit of them, however, were left uncovered by material save those across my lower back and left shoulder blade. I was pleased. I didn’t feel nearly as naked in this as I had in the other, and it seemed to have much more in the way of class. For the first time in my life, I felt beautiful without Mom standing next to me…

The shoes he brought me were burnished silver sandals, only one inch heels (thank God!), and seemed to go well with the dress. A matching purse, also burnished silver, completed the outfit. Into it, I placed my things, ID, E-PAD, pencil, small paper pad and keys.

Outside the five waiting for me looked stunned save one. Mr. Gianni, instead, had a Cheshire smile almost instantly after his eyes grew large…

Both Reba and Mrs. Golding now sported hair broaches, ruby and amber respectively to match their dresses. Reba’s was fashioned into a small rose while Mrs. Golding’s was in the shape of an orchid. Additionally, Mrs. Golding now wore two strands of pearls around her neck, and Reba had a heart shaped gold locket.

But it seemed I was not yet finished. Mr. Gianni put a hand on my shoulder and began pulling a necklace around my throat.

"Oh my God!” Mrs. Golding whispered as she watched.

In the mirror I saw the row of twenty nine 1kt sapphires draped over my collar… I had absolutely no idea what it was at the time, I just thought it was pretty…

Friday, September 9, 2218, 8PM

Coulter’s Clothier, Lafayette CA

The woman-child Gianni adorned was as stunning as any Gianni could possibly imagine. Moreso, even. He thought absolutely nothing about laying down 25,000€ for the dress and another 40,000€ for the necklace and earrings, even if she could not wear the latter due to un-pierced ears. It was more than a bargain to be this close to her.

How could it be, he thought, that this girl had not been snapped up by anyone before now? How was he so lucky?

Gianni shook off his stupor. The situation, he knew, had all the makings of a disaster. Gianni considered he might need a surrogate to move into his place now more than ever. That Simon was waiting in the wings to replace him here in California was now, more than ever, necessary. It was also unbearable. How to mitigate this? He’d have a surrogate move into the house on Alsatian! That’s what he’d do. It would free him up and allow him to move more discretely.

Gianni reasoned that Simon would not be ready for a time in any event. He would make the most of things, and, in the meantime, the Professor need never know about how… infatuated he’d become with this subject…

Purchasing the baubles for the Goldings was another part of his mitigation of the events. An expense for three women would be far easier to explain than an expense for one… if the professor ever found out there would, indeed, be disappointment…

Friday September 9, 2218, 8:45PM

Tropicana Blue Club, Orinda California

I still could not believe what I wore! I was not used to wearing dresses at all, much less evening gowns. It’s so easy to forget how humble I must have looked when Mr. Gianni first saw me. I sat in front with Mr. Gianni as he drove the enormous car trying to think of something to say to break the ice that had formed in the silence.

"So,” I finally tried. “What do you do, Mr. Gianni?”

"Me?” He said. “You should call me Michael, Miss Samantha. Mike, if you like. We are, after all, on a date, are we not? I have a very obscene job as a head hunter.”

"You collect heads?” I asked naively, which brought a pleasant laugh.

"Not exactly,” he smiled. “I investigate people with talent coveted by my clients. Mostly with large companies looking to lure the employees of a rival company. Like Mr. Golding, for instance. He is employed by Tucker Kline, and there is no shortage of firms in the same business who would love to have him on their payroll.”

"Ah!” I said, understanding. He did not make me feel stupid, though I felt it anyway.

"And you, Samantha? What do you want to do?”

"I’m studying to be a journalist.”

"Truly?”

"Yes.”

"Why?” he asked, glancing at me. “Why not just get married and have babies?”

"I…” I had not honestly thought about that. So I evaded. People interest me. You know, the things they do, good or bad… I find them fascinating.”

He laughed as he pulled off the freeway. Just up ahead, I could see a massive line of cars waiting to get into a particularly full parking lot.

"That’s a politic answer,” he said with a little smile.