Pump Fake

receiver.

CHAPTER 1

June 2011

Anna Gilliam was thirteen years old, had long blonde hair, loved chocolate chip ice cream and disappeared eighty yards from home on a sunny, New York summer's day.

Her mom had sent Anna and her fifteen-year-old sister, Nicole, off to the local corner store in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, to buy ice cream as a treat. The shop was only a block away, but that was all it took.

As they normally did, Anna and Nicole took their Rottweiler, Sheba, with them. They were laughing as Sheba, who weighed one hundred and thirty pounds, nearly pulled Anna off her feet, such was his excitement at the scent of a walk. As their mom, Shirley, watched them disappear up the nice, middle class street, inhabited by nice, friendly neighbors she couldn't help but think how lucky she was. Two perfect golden girls with their whole lives in front of them.

Sheba, as was his wont, did his business on Mrs. McKay's front lawn. The girls said hello to Mrs. McKay who, as she did most days, was sweeping the leaves off her lawn, dropped by the huge sycamores that lined the street. Mrs. McKay smiled at the girls as they held their noses and played rock, paper, scissors to see who would pick up after Sheba with the plastic bag they carried. They played five times because, each time Nicole lost, she would laughingly accuse Anna of cheating. Anna won every time. Anna had always been the lucky one.

They swept past the house on the corner where Mr. Mann worked under the bonnet of his much loved '68 Ford Mustang. He never saw the girls but heard their footsteps and laughter as they ran by. Sheba barked loudly causing Mustang Sally, his ginger striped cat, to jump onto the hood. Startled, he reared up, and struck his head.

Mrs. Ving, a thirty-eight-year-old Thai immigrant and mother of four troublesome boys and one patient daughter, served the girls at 3:00 p.m. in Mal's drug store. Mal had sold out to the Thai family two years ago but the sign still remained above the door. Nicole had honeycomb and Anna chocolate chip. In the two years Mrs. Ving had owned the store, that was the only flavor Anna had ever tried on her weekly trips. Anna loved the crunchy chocolate bits. At home she swore by chocolate flavored milk, hot chocolate drinks and Nutella sandwiches. She was also prone to hiding the odd chocolate bar in her bedside drawer for when she got hungry late at night. Her mom had no idea how she stayed so slim with white, perfect skin. Just lucky, she guessed.

Mrs. Ving's daughter, Afre, chatted to Anna. They both were in the seventh grade at Edison Elementary and were taught by Mrs. Dawson, whom they adored because she was young, pretty and told them funny stories about her time teaching in Kenya. Anna thought the boys in her class were silly because they only thought about playing basketball at lunchtime and never tried to do well in class. Anna loved all of her classes.

Anna told Nicole she was going to hang out with Afre for a while. Sheba sat on the floor happily munching on a cow bone that Mrs. Ving always had waiting for him. Nicole left Anna and Sheba at the shop and arrived home at 3.10 p.m.

Afre watched from the doorway as Sheba catapulted Anna down the footpath towards home. A strong wind swept through the open door and under her dress so she quickly shut the door. Afre couldn't be sure but she didn't think there were any cars or pedestrians. Through the frosted glass, she could see a blurry Anna running behind Sheba towards home.

And that was the last time anyone saw thirteen-year-old Anna Gilliam before she was reported missing.

* * * *

Anna's uncle, Ben Hiffaunhouse, rang me as I was just packing up gear from a fitness class my partner Bear and I had run in Prospect Park, Brooklyn.

Yeah?

My phone manner had improved a lot since Bear told me I needed to work on it, now that we were taking in many major companies. Before, I would have just grunted.

Mark. It's Ben Hiffaunhouse. Bear gave me your number. The diffidence in his tone didn't surprise me. The last time Bear had seen Hiffaunhouse it ended with Bear holding Hiffaunhouse by the feet over the balcony of his one-story apartment.

Hiffaunhouse ran a fledgling fitness company that had approached many of our clients, trying to undercut us. When Bear heard, he paid Hiffaunhouse a visit. Hiffaunhouse was short on inches and long on chutzpah. He barely came up to Bear's chest, which wasn't unusual as Bear was six and a half feet tall. This didn't deter Hiffaunhouse from abusing Bear, arguing that they lived in a democracy and that all clients were fair game. Bear, contrary to his name, is a gentle soul but five minutes alone with Hiffaunhouse was too long by four and a half minutes. Yes, these were two fitness trainers and not two characters from The Godfather. According to Bear, the last he saw of Hiffaunhouse, the man was screaming that he was going to sue us for every penny we were worth. So I was kind of curious as to why Bear would give him my number.

What can I do for you?

Oh, he said, surprised, I suppose, that I would take his call. Look, I heard that part of your business is locating missing persons. Is that true?

No, that's not part of our business, I answered obliquely. And it wasn't. Officially, we ran Special Forces Fitness. Finding people was something we did on the side. Instead of fishing or golf. We didn't advertise it, as neither Bear or I had any Private Investigator certification and, more to the point, because much of the work we did bordered on the line of illegality. The police had laws and rules they had to follow. We had none. That's why we were so effective. We didn't worry about evidence or proving someone guilty or innocent. We could use any means at our disposal to question people and sometimes this was just as it sounds. We always put the victim's rights ahead of suspects. This didn't endear us to many people. The police thought we were interfering in their cases, suspects feared us and the families frequently ended up hating us because of our intrusive questioning. By the time we were finished the only person pleased to see us was the victim.

The reason I ask, Hiffaunhouse said hurriedly, is my thirteen-year-old niece has gone missing.

When?

About thirty minutes ago.

This was important. Most child abduction deaths occurred in the first two hours of their disappearance. I didn't mention it, but the highest percentage of deaths in that two hours occurred in the first fifteen minutes. The perp suddenly realizes what he has done and in a rush of fear and guilt gets rid of the evidence. The child.

Where? I asked.

Bay Ridge, Brooklyn.

Good. That was only fifteen minutes away from me.

Has your sister called the police?

Yes.

What did they say?

They are looking but they aren't really concerned. Anna, that's my niece, has gone missing several times before. One time, she took the train into the city to be with her dad. Her parents are divorced. The police are loathe to waste any manpower until they are certain she's been snatched. The last time she turned up at a school friend's house after a couple of days.

And what makes you so sure she has been snatched this time?

You'll have to talk to my sister but she's adamant she hasn't run away. Do you want me to send you a check or something? What are your rates?

I don't have any. People give me what they want to or what they can afford. Truth be told, most times we worked for nothing. Many of the people we helped were poor and we weren't in it for money. Besides, the money we made from our more wealthy clients more than compensated for the ones that didn't.

How can you run a business that way? Not that I'm criticizing, he added hurriedly, clearly worried that I would turn him down. He needn't have worried. I never turned anyone down. I had lost so many people in my life I couldn't stand the thought of anyone losing a loved one.

* * * *

When I drove up, Anna Gilliam had been missing for fifty minutes. A black-and-white and an unmarked police car were parked outside her home. Two uniforms were going door to door. As I walked up the driveway, two cops in gray suits came out the front door, followed by a woman who, judging from her red, haunted eyes must be Anna's mom, Shirley.

Hey, look what the cat dragged in. Are you so desperate for money you're eavesdropping on a police scanner, Tanner? Detective Scalin was six foot tall, white, about fifty pounds overweight, with thin, mean lips. We had bumped heads on a number of other cases. For some absurd reason he didn't like me.

At least I listen to one, I answered mildly.

Scalin had been reprimanded and demoted several years ago for turning off his radio and phone when taking a lunch break. A bank job had gone down two blocks away while he was still tucking into his spaghetti Bolognese. The bank robbers had actually switched cars in the alley behind the restaurant. Unfortunately for Scalin the media dubbed them the Bolognese bandits. Not exactly a really terrifying name for criminals but the worst possible result for Scalin. He became the endless butt of cop jokes everywhere. By the looks of him, he was still visiting the same restaurant.

Scalin's face turned red and he stepped close to me.

Listen, you piece of trailer-trash, why don't you leave these people alone? You're like one of those bottom-feeding fish living off the misery of others. There's no money to be made here. No one has been abducted at this stage. The girl has probably gone to a friend's house without telling her mom, like she has done many times before.

You won't mind if I talk to the mom then? If the girl is going to turn up any minute?

You interfere in any way in this investigation and you'll be eating prison food before you can say, 'Can you please bend over and pick up my soap?' You get my drift?

So there is an investigation? I thought the girl was staying at a friend's house?

I told you she's not staying at a friend's house. Didn't you hear what I said? Shirley Gilliam jumped in. And she hasn't run away. Someone's taken her I tell you!

Mrs. Gilliam, we've already had this discussion, said Scalin's partner, Rixon. Rixon was small, lean with thinning brown hair. I remembered reading something about him being under investigation for assaulting a suspect. What a pair. We'll continue doing a door by door and start a preliminary investigation while you call all her friends. Remember, she's done this six times before. I'm sure she'll turn up. He stared stonily at me and then at Scalin. Let's go.

I watched Scalin climb awkwardly into his car; the car sank appreciably on his side.

What's a preliminary investigation mean? Shirley Gilliam asked me.

In this case, I'm pretty sure it's steak with extra fries.

Shirley Gilliam filled me in on what had happened and what the police door to door had discovered.

So no one has seen her since she left the drug store... I checked my watch. Time was ticking away for Anna Gilliam. Fifty three minutes ago, correct?

Shirley nodded. Even though it was a sunny day and she wore a sweater, she stood with her arms wrapped around herself, shivering. Shock. Despite her pretty features, her face was gaunt with worry, her eyes wide and hurt. Her other daughter, Nicole, hugged her and Shirley pulled her in tight.

My eyes wandered over the Gilliam's modern house, new car, immaculate garden and pedigree dog lying in its kennel. She probably thought that nasty things like child abductions only happened to poor people. That somehow living in a nice house and nice suburb made you immune. It didn't.

I had a case six months ago where a mom had her daughter snatched when she was in the local supermarket. She had her kid right next to her when she went into the frozen section. She picked up two pizzas, turned around and the girl was gone. That's how quick it can happen. In the blink of an eye. Two lives changed forever.

I never found that girl. She is still listed as missing.

So, Nicole, I said, you and Anna basically ran to the store?

We didn't have much choice, said Nicole, trying not to cry. Sheba is always so excited he almost carries us there.

Yeah, dogs are like that, I said as I walked over to Sheba. I have a dog too. His name is Little Bear. And you know what? Whenever I'm outside he's all over me. Always wanting attention or to go for a walk. I bet Sheba is like that too, isn't he?

Yeah, he jumps all over us. He's so big he normally knocks Anna right over, said Nicole, following me.

I patted Sheba, who lay in the kennel's doorway. He licked my hand and remained lying down.

You know the thing I like about dogs? They're so goddam healthy. They're outside in the rain and cold and yet they hardly ever get sick. How many times have you seen Sheba sick, Nicole? See? You can't remember, can you? Phenomenal animals, aren't they? That's why when I see a big, lively dog like Sheba just sitting still, even when there are strangers in the yard, I know something isn't quite right. And you see this pile of yukkie in the kennel? That's Sheba's vomit. Now why would a big, healthy dog like Sheba start vomiting when he was just perfectly healthy an hour ago? Yeah, it's got me puzzled too.

I took Sheba's big head and studied his eyes. Drool ran over my hands. Sheba gazed placidly back at me.

Now, that's interesting. You see that, Nicole?

What? Nicole got down on her knees to see Sheba better.

His eyes. You see his pupils, how they are dilated?

Dilated?

Yeah, see how they're enlarged. That's not normal on a dog.

What does it mean?

It means someone gave Sheba something to make him sleepy and he vomited it up.

Who?

Now, that's the question.

* * * *

The thing about working out how a magic trick is being done is knowing there is a trick in the first place.

I knew Anna had been kidnapped. Now for the how.

Sixty-seven minutes had gone. Tick tock tick tock.

I rang Mole, who accessed the CCTV footage from the DMV of the cameras on the corner of Dudley and Heythorne, the last set of lights before Mal's drug store. It was a long shot as the perp could have come from another direction but it was the main road leading to Anna's street. In the other direction were several secluded dead end streets. Chances were he passed through those lights sometime in the past sixty minutes. Helping us was the fact it was a Sunday and the traffic was quite light.

Tick tock tick tock.

Mole rang me at the ninety minute mark. He spoke like we were in the middle of a conversation. Mole wasn't one for wasting words.

I narrowed the search to between 3:15 and 3:30. If the perp went south, that is the time frame he would have went through those lights. Helping us is the fact that it's a quiet street. Only eleven cars went south through the lights between those times.

Anything stick out?

The fourth one through the lights is interesting. A white ford pickup.

So?

Its license plates and registration sticker were covered with tape.

Shit.

Yes. Well, the perp probably thought he was really clever.

What do you mean thought?

He obviously knows nothing about Dissemination of Geographical Features.

He's not the only one.

It's a computer program commonly used by archeologists or geologists that interprets differences in amorphous irregularities.

Huh?

It tells you what is under bumps in the ground. Like buried buildings.

And I want to know this why?

Mole spoke slowly, like he was teaching kindergarten. Because the same technology that recognizes building shapes under the earth can also interpret the bumps made from a little bit of duct tape.

So you can work out this guy's license number?

Your astuteness astounds me.

I get that a lot.

* * * *

One hour fifty-four minutes.

Tick tock tick tock.

I'm in, said Bear through my headset.

I felt the tumblers click, opened the front door and slipped inside.

I'm in the front, I whispered into my throat mike.

I was in a living room. One sofa, one recliner and a small plasma TV. Scattered across a coffee table, among empty pizza boxes and beer bottles, were many magazines; Teen Vogue, Sassy and CosmoGirl were a few of the titles that caught my eye. A BMX bike was leaning against the drawn Venetian blinds and caused strips of light to peep through the gaps. I stepped over a skateboard and moved into the passageway. The house was preternaturally quiet. I passed a bathroom and a bedroom that were so messy a football team could have been using them. Empty.

Where are you? I murmured.

Kitchen.

I passed a bedroom, which was being used as a storage room, and entered the kitchen. I saw a big shape crouched next to a closed door. Bear.

Basement, he said, indicating the door. Car's in the garage so he must be down there.

There was a trash can next to the door and I pushed it away with my foot. I glanced down and saw the remains of an ice cream cone. I touched it, then licked my finger.

Chocolate chip.

Tick tock tick tock.

I pointed at the can. Bear looked down and nodded.

We moved quickly down the wooden stairs, guns ready. Suddenly, a scrambling noise as a dark figure tried to escape through a small window. Bear caught him. The man screamed as the pincers from Bear's prosthetic cut deeply into his leg. With one hand, Bear negligently threw him into the brick wall, where he lay still.

The room, lit by a single, bare globe, was filled with old boxes, tools and an ancient furnace. Lying in a bed in the corner was a small blonde girl, still dressed in jeans and T-shirt. She was not moving.

Bear held up a glass vial sitting on the bedside table. He smelt it and his head reared back.

Ether, he said.

I gently put a finger on Anna's neck.

Thump, thump, thump.

Slow and regular.

She was still asleep from the drug her abductor had given her. By the looks of it, she had been asleep the whole time. I looked at my watch.

One hour fifty-eight minutes.

CHAPTER 2

November 2012

I lived in Jamaica. Not on a beautiful, Caribbean island with sun kissed beaches, but in Jamaica, Queens, New York. The closest I ever got to a sun kissed beach was sweeping the sand that accumulated inside my Winnebago, courtesy of the scummy trailer park I lived in. This was actually a step up. Until last summer, I had lived in a rotting thirty-year-old trailer that had enough holes in it to throw a ball through one side and out the other. All it took was a couple of Arab zealots sent by another mad fucker eight thousand miles away, a bomb and a dead girlfriend.

Life was sweet.

A white van was parked on the road outside the trailer park. My guardian angels had returned. On the side of the van was printed Breast Pump Supplies. You had to be kidding. I was obviously at the bottom of the FBI's to-save list. I checked there was nothing stuck in my teeth in the reflection of the van's blackened windows, combed my hair, waved, and drove through the gates of Heavenly Falls.

What use they'd be out there I had no idea. I'd probably be dead by the time the cavalry arrived. Perhaps that was the point. I was just a worm on a hook to them.

I parked my '89 Beetle and walked around the tarp that covered the twisted remains of my old trailer. As usual I felt sick to the stomach as I passed it. But there was no way I was ever going to get rid of it. Melanie died there.

It struck me, not for the first time, that I was a dark hoarder. But where most people collected items that marked special occasions of great sentimental value, like weddings and birthdays, I kept things that reminded me of murders, violence and death. I suppose that says something about me but I'm not sure what.

Standing next to my burnt out trailer was a four-foot tall whiteboard on which I had earlier written What do FBI agents use as contraceptives? I picked up the old rag that was draped over one corner and erased it. Then wrote, Their personalities.

My black Labrador, Little Bear, was jump-playing again. Behind my Winnebago there was an open field, a dumping ground for unwanted tires, fridges, cars and the like. Little Bear was running around jumping over as many as these objects as he could. And not over just small items like tires and chairs, but over fridges and beds, too. As I watched, he bounded over the hood of a wheelless, rusted pickup truck. He glanced at me as he ran past as if to say, What can you do?

I shook my head. Ever since he had the new prosthetic attached to the stump of his left front leg he was like a fucking, Olympic high jumper. Bear had the same aerospace engineer who tooled his own prosthetics make one for Little Bear several weeks ago. The prosthetic was nothing like a dog's leg at all. I remembered seeing Oscar Pistorius run in the 400 meters at the Olympics. His prosthetics were S-shaped, rectangular, and extremely springy. The guy bounded along like Usain Bolt morphed with a cheetah. Little Bear wore a similar, slightly modified prosthetic. The results were amazing. Now he was like fucking wonder dog, jumping over this, soaring over that. And he knew it. Little Bear was unbearable at the best of times. Now he treated me like I was his sidekick, Robin to his Batman.

As I watched, Little Bear leapt over a five foot stack of tires, landed on a rusted trampoline that was missing one leg and soared over an upside-down trailer to land next to me. He looked up at me.

You know you're a real smartass? I said.

He yawned.

Well, am I going to get blown up today? I asked him.

He cocked his head to the side as if to say, What? I have to save your butt too?

You sleep in there as well, boyo. I gestured toward the Winnebago.

He sighed and ran around the Winnebago, his head poised, sniffing. Little Bear had his leg blown off by an IED in Afghanistan and if anyone could detect a bomb it was him. He did a circuit around the Winnebago and then went straight up the stairs. He stopped and gave me a look which said, What are you waiting for, Braveheart?

Dipshit, I muttered, following him inside.

As I entered, I checked the light that was linked to the motion sensor cameras that were fitted underneath and on top of the Winnebago. It was not blinking so I probably wasn't going to get blown up today. I know Little Bear had already cleared the van but I liked making sure. He was running around minus one leg, so he wasn't exactly batting a thousand.

I sat at the small table, kicked off my shoes and automatically hit the button on the recorder. Jade's voice filled the Winnebago.

Ice cream please...tooth hurts...go there...

I pulled out the memory card and checked the date. It was from three weeks ago. I put it in the shoebox standing next to the recorder and pulled out the next card from the thirty or so in the box. Each card held a week's worth of recordings of Jade's dreams. It was the only way I ever heard my sister's voice. For twelve years her mind had been locked away in a mute-trance. Then, two years ago, out of the blue, she had uttered three words that were crucial in my solving a kidnapping case. That still freaked me out.

There was no way she could have known anything about the case. She had spent her days sitting like a statue in SeaView Sanatorium for chrissakes! Yet she had known. Jade was like an old, broken radio. And suddenly, from nowhere, a blindingly clear voice had cut through the static. But that voice only spoke the once, just those three words. Afterwards, silence. Then, a year ago, she began talking in her sleep. At night, disjointed words and phrases popped out of whatever place she was in. Each day I listened to the memory cards, trying to find some clue as to what had happened that day fourteen years ago and, even more importantly, a way to help her find her way back. But her dreams, like everyone's, were obscure and convoluted, and, most of the time, were nonsense phrases.

The light was flashing on my answering machine. I hit the button. A man's voice.

You don't know me. But I know someone who can help you. Go to Ladies For Gentlemen and look for the whore with the mermaid tattoo.

* * * *

You would think the one place you could find a woman is in a brothel.

Especially a Chinese woman, dressed only in a pair of black, lace panties and with a mermaid tattoo covering the whole of her back. Kind of think she would stand out. Especially since it was the eagle eye of yours truly doing the looking.

Apparently not.

I had been wandering through the bar area of Ladies for Gentleman--or as I liked to think of it, Whores for Bores--for ten minutes without any luck. White woman with pink panties, black woman with white panties, yellow woman with blue panties. Even a brown woman with no panties. It was a hell of a job, but I was no shirker. I'd keep at it until the job was done.

I wasn't searching for just any Chinese hooker in black lace panties, though normally most people wouldn't put this past me. On this occasion, I was seeking Blossom Chang, a Chinese hooker who, I was told, might have some information on my parents. It was probably another wild goose chase anyway. After fourteen years the trail was as cold as an Arctic Christmas. But when someone kills your parents, time hasn't much meaning.

You want to party? someone said in my ear.

I turned to find a small Japanese girl dressed in only red silk panties standing behind me. Well, she was Asian. I was getting closer.

Hi, I'm looking for a Chinese girl, I said.

I can be Chinese girl.

Ah, yes. I'm sure you can. But this girl has a tattoo of a mermaid on her back.

She leaned close to me.

That's nothing. I have a tattoo of a monkey fucking a tiger. Come to my room and I will take my panties off and show you.

I glanced down automatically. Her fingers had already slipped under the sides of her panties.

No, no, I said grabbing her hands. I'm sure it's fantastic. I've always wanted to see a tiger being fucked by a...monkey? It's number one on my list of things to see before I die. Just after elephants being screwed by rhinos. But, unfortunately, I'm really just into mermaids. You know, only girls with tails and scales do it for me.

You one sick white boy, you know that? I like you. My name Jukan. You come to my room now. I show you my tattoo and we fuck.

Jukan grabbed my hand and began pulling me towards the stairs that led to the bedrooms. I stopped when another small Asian girl stepped in front of me. She had black panties and, if I wasn't mistaken, I could see the end of a mermaid's tail on the side of her waist.

Hi, I'm Blossom. You were looking for me? she said.

Go way. He no want mermaid anymore. He want rhino screwing elephant, said Jukan, while pushing between me and Blossom.

Jukan, I was just joking ab--

Step back, monkey girl. He asked for me first.

My cell rang.

Tan, it's Liz.

Liz, my ex. Oh boy.

Oh, hi, Liz.

Is this a good time?

Get out my face. I know why you like mermaid. You smell like dead fish, said Jukan.

Sure, I said.

Blossom slapped Jukan, who screamed and jumped on her. They fell to the floor. Jukan began pulling Blossom's hair while Blossom continued slapping her in the face, both screaming the whole time.

Smelly fish!

Monkey girl!

Tan? Tan, are you there?

Yeah, still here.

Tan, where are you? Who is that?

I'm at home. Sorry, I was watching a show on TV about Japanese martial arts for women. Very educational. I'll turn it down. There is that better? I stepped through a doorway and found myself in a small living room with a beaded-curtain doorway at the far end.

Even over the cell I could hear her sigh.

Yeah, sure you are. Tan, I don't care where you are or what you're up to. I need to see you.

I get that a lot.

Yeah, but I won't be serving you with a subpoena. I have a favor to ask.

Sure, anything.

You won't like it.

What is it?

Not over the phone.

Okay, where then?

Tonight at eight. I'm having a small party.

A party? I don't know. I think I'm kind of busy tonight.

Why? Have you got some other dive you have to be at?

Liz, you're completely wrong. That's the old me. These days I'm trying to develop the inner me through meditation and serenity.

A girl's high pitched squeals came from behind the curtain. I glanced around, pulled open a closet door and stepped inside. I pushed aside the lingerie hanging there and shut the door.

You could say I'm in a quiet place right now, I said.

Tan, come to the party. It will be good for you.

Why do I have to come to a party? I hate parties. Can't we meet somewhere else?

No. It has to be here. Why do you hate parties so much, anyway?

Everyone is too happy. I can't stand happy. And you have to talk to people. People I'd walk ten miles to avoid, crammed so close I can smell the beer and garlic on their breath. And I've got to talk to them. And be polite. I can't do polite. You know that. What was that?

Nothing.

Oh, and you know I hate dressing up.

Tan, you know you'll just wear a pair of jeans.

She knew me too well.

Yes, but they'll be my good pair.

There will be women there. The type you like. Bite to her voice.

How do you know the type I like?

Dumb and slutty.

She had me there.

So, this is how you ask me for a favor, is it?

Silence.

Tan, please.

And, of course, that's all she ever had to say.

CHAPTER 3

Liz's little get-together was in Forrest Hills, Queens. Cars lined the street in both directions. BMWs, Mercedes, Ferraris. All brand new. Top of the range. My Beetle felt right at home.

Service entry around the back, said the tall, black guy in a black suit. It was nine o'clock at night and he was wearing sunglasses.

"Will Smith, right? Men in Black? Good job, you look great, I said, climbing out of my Beetle. No one told me it was fancy dress."

Then why did you dress up as Sonny Crockett from Miami Vice? he said, dead-pan.

I glanced down at my jeans, tee shirt and jacket. Damn if he wasn't right.

I'm here for the party.

You got an invite? He sounded doubtful.

Just my pearly smile. I gave it to him. Lucky he had his sunglasses on. Wouldn't want to blind him.

That wouldn't get you in to my grandma's bingo club, and you only need a walking stick or no hair to get in there. But if you're game enough to wear that outfit, who am I to stop you? I'm kind of interested to see what the boys on the door will say anyway. Here, Tommy, park it for me, will you? He threw the keys to a weedy, white kid in a red jacket who appeared no older than fourteen.

You want me to park it or dump it? said the kid.

You old enough to drive? I asked him.

You old enough to buy a real car, Grandpa?

Grandpa?

I'll have you know that car has had more hotties in it than you've had shaves.

The kid climbed into the Beetle and then called out, If by hotties you mean garlic pizzas I believe you. He drove off down the street. Probably to park it in a tow-away-zone.

You think he'll park it carefully? I said to Will.

Does it matter?

I sighed and walked over to the wrought iron gate, which was guarded by another two men in black suits. I was in a Men in Black convention. As I neared the gate, I was blinded by a flash coming from the six foot high hedge that surrounded the property.

Did you get it? said a girl's husky voice.

Who cares? You saw the piece of shit he was driving? He's no one.

Two dark figures stood in a slight hole in the hedge, sheltering desperately under its flimsy cover from the heavy rain. Dressed in thick coats and hats they looked like extras from The Perfect Storm.

This 'no one' is going to be in a warm, dry house in a minute. Guess who'd I rather be? And for your information, the '89 Beetle is a classic, I said.

Sorry about that, said a woman's voice. Hey, can you get me inside?

I tried to make out the girl's features but in the dark, under the hedge, it was impossible. Her voice was interesting though, mountain water running over jagged rocks.

Sorry, I don't even know if I can get in.

I turned to go, and then paused. Do you get paid a lot to do this?

Not really.

So, you enjoy standing in the pouring rain at night taking strangers' photos?

Gee, let me think about that while I empty the water out of my shoes. What's your name? Are you one of the coaches?

Coaches? What are you talking about? I could always dazzle the ladies with my quick repartees.

You do know whose house this is, don't you?

Will Smith's?

She laughed. She had a nice laugh, knowing and warm.

Troy Decker's.

Oh.

Yes, oh. Troy Decker, the quarterback for the New York Turbos. What are you doing here if you're not part of the team?

That was a very good question. And one that Liz would have to have a very good answer to when I saw her. She knew I wanted nothing to do with football. Football killed my parents and I would never forgive it for that.

I'm Troy's astrologist. I better get in there. He really needs to know if the stars say he should play this week. He never plays unless I give him the all clear.

The male photographer called out to me as I walked away. Hey? What did the stars say? Will he play?

You, jerk, shut up. He was joking, the girl said.

Name? said the tall, white guy in the black suit at the gates. He stood under an umbrella held by his associate. Water ran off it in a steady stream.

Mark Tanner.

He ran his hand down the list. Near the bottom of the second page he stopped.

He glanced up, puzzled. Mark Tanner, dancer?

"I'm more limber than I appear. Do you want to see me do a pas de deux?"

Buddy, I've got no interest in seeing any of your parts. All that matters is that you're on the list. I'm sure you'll fit right in. I've never heard grown men snicker before but I swear that's what he and his black suited friend did with their heads together under the umbrella.

I feigned not to hear this parting shot. I had my dignity. Of course, with the rain running down my back it was slightly hard to find.

Decker lived in an impressive two-story, Spanish Colonial, which featured white stucco walls, several ornate balconies and numerous distinctive arches. Three black guys in suits stood outside the front door drinking. They were as big as Bear and appeared as if their suits had been spray-painted on. Even though I no longer followed football, I recognized one of them as Brad Davis, the New York Turbos' running back.

Is Liz Johnston around? I asked him.

Who wants to know? He eyed my dripping wet form with some dubiousness. I didn't blame him. I looked like a failed extra from The Day After Tomorrow.

Mark Tanner.

Are you a new coach?

Do I look like one?

He eyed my ripped jeans and stained runners.

Man, it's hard to believe, and I never thought I'd live to say this, but they actually dress better than you. Are you a friend of Decker's?

No. Never met him.

Don't tell me you're a friend of Liz's?

A friend? Yes. What else I wasn't quite sure. We had been lovers and soul mates until I left for Afghanistan. After, it had never been the same. My head was full of too much shit. There was hardly room for me, let alone a girlfriend, so I had ended it. Now? I wasn't quite sure what you would call it. But, yes, we were definitely friends.

Yes, I know Liz, I compromised with.

He gave me a keen glance.

Not too well I hope. That won't go down well with Decker.

Decker and Liz? This was the first I'd heard about it. Not that Liz owed me. If anything it was the other way around. Liz had cared for me three years ago when I got back, wounded, from Afghanistan. I was as surly as a caged tiger with a tooth ache. She changed my bandages, fed me and put up with my moods only to get dumped. I was a real catch.

I'm sure Decker won't care, I offered.

He was clearly amused. You don't know our Decker, do you? What do you do?

Apparently, I'm the Lord of the Dance.

You might have to be, to avoid Decker. Liz was in the kitchen last time I saw her.

Hey! he called out as I moved away. Promise me you won't tell Decker about you and Liz unless I'm there?

So you can offer emotional support?

He laughed. Good one. No, I always like a good laugh.

You're a real caring guy, aren't you?

You got me.

I moved from room to room, searching for the kitchen. Most of the men were obviously Decker's teammates. The men at the party fell into three categories; black and big, white and big and me. I hadn't been around footballers since I last played when I was fifteen. They seemed a lot different from what I remembered. My mind remembered football environments as noisy, laughing, bragging, swearing get-togethers. And that had been just the girlfriends. The men here were well dressed, scattered around in small groups, talking quietly. Despite what I'd seen in movies, I didn't see anyone doing lines off a girl's stomach or playing drinking games. Most were sipping mineral water or diet Cokes. Made me wonder what had happened to the real men of today. Oh yeah, I forgot. They were busy getting facials and lipo-suctioning a six-pack.

I had wandered through quite a few rooms and still no kitchen. Had Davis been pulling my leg? Did rich people still have kitchens? Or had they also gone the same way as aging gracefully and monogamy? I stopped at a table to take on replenishments. Judging by the size of the house I'd need it. I ate a pigs in a blanket and gagged. Vegetables! Did they have no shame?

Someone laughed behind me.

It got you too, did it?

A short skinny guy with glasses stood next to me holding a plate of food. Must be the team accountant.

Vegetables! I said.

He nodded. I know. Cruel, isn't it? I had a pot pie that was filled with beans and broccoli. It's supposed to make us fitter, give us more energy. Personally, I think I'd get more energy from eating a Mars bar but what do I know?

I looked at him again.

You're a player? I said, surprised.

He gave a short laugh. Don't worry. I get that a lot. I'm Sam Jeffries. I do the kicking. The good thing about it is I can eat anything I like.

Good luck with that. I dubiously eyed the spread of so called healthy foods.

Try the kitchen. There's some real food in there.

Is this kitchen actually in this dimension?

Having trouble finding it? Come on, I'll show you the way.

He led me through such a convoluted series of rooms I was going to need a Sherpa to navigate my way out. When we entered the kitchen, I wondered how I could ever have missed it. I could park three Winnebagos in it and still have room for a patio out the back. Gathered around a huge walnut-colored table was a small crowd. The men, judging from their size and build, were mainly players. Most had their jackets hanging on the back of chairs and their sleeves rolled up their forearms. The women were uniformly pretty, if not outright stunning, and wore evening dresses. Real food was spread out on the table. Cakes, pies and deserts. I should have thought of that at the start. Follow a footballer to find the food. It was right up there, along with follow a politician to find the sex scandal and follow a movie star to find the good drugs.

A roar went up as we entered. I recognized Troy Decker immediately. Tall, with dark hair and a mousy-blond trimmed beard. His right cheek, I noticed, was bruised. Decker raised his hands in the air and shouted, And still undefeated champion!

You cheated, Troy! laughed yet another big, black guy. I recognized him also, due to the long white dreadlocks that fell to his shoulders. Sachelle Hawk Hawkins, the leading wide receiver for the Turbos for the last five seasons. How can I beat you when your damn agent is holding the stopwatch?

I had seen Decker's agent occasionally on the TV. Patrick Chester, a good looking thirty-something white guy, with a thatch of brown hair, as