1 Week

Copyright © 2014 Dan W. Frank.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4908-3609-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-3610-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014908182

WestBow Press rev. date: 7/15/2014

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1 The Rent Was Due

Chapter 2 The Truth Sinks In

Chapter 3 Ducks In A Row

Chapter 4 Back In Chicago

Chapter 5 The Wake

Chapter 6 Tour The Lake

Chapter 7 Not So Private Eye

Chapter 8 The Supposed Calm Before The Storm

Chapter 9 Scott In St. Louis

Chapter 10 60-Day Window

Chapter 11 Scott Needs A Hand

Chapter 12 Scott Bets On A Long Shot

Chapter 13 An Odd Date

Chapter 14 Business With Angels

Chapter 15 Under Eads Bridge

Chapter 16 Cowboy Up

Chapter 17 Rocky Mountain Oysters For Breakfast

Chapter 18 Tale Of Two Cities

Chapter 19 The Fourth Musketeer

Chapter 20 Fort Sherman Memories

Chapter 21 Into The Woods

Chapter 22

Chapter 23 Double Down On The Jets

Chapter 24 S.O.S.

Chapter 25 Christopher Columbus Clone

Chapter 26 Ducks Ahoy!

Chapter 27 Face Time With Taggart

Chapter 28 Goats On The Trail

Chapter 29

Chapter 30 New Office In Bishop, California

Chapter 31 Rachel, Terrence, And Bikes

Chapter 32 The Beretta Extrema

Chapter 33 Fanning The Flames

Chapter 34 Blind Date

Chapter 35 Blindsided By…

Chapter 36 BP Bonanza With Strings

Chapter 37 Fresh Bigfoot Bait

Chapter 38 Dynamic Duo In Bishop

Chapter 39

Chapter 40 What Fred Can’t Find Is Good News

Chapter 41 Tying The First Knot

Chapter 42 Junket To Miami

Chapter 43 Last Dance

Chapter 44 Proposal

Chapter 45 A Long Day

Chapter 46 Running The Numbers

Chapter 47 Green Flashes The Iron

Prologue

Midway through his brisk morning walk to Willis tower, Hank spotted a beggar on the street. He didn’t even break his stride as the man rattled his meager cup, populated with only two tinny sounding coins.

Clank clank.

Clank clank.

Clank clank.

Hank watched a dozen people stroll by, oblivious to the man, just as he had. He then noticed the beggar’s glove. Half of the fingers were gone, exposing bare knuckles on the hand that flagged the cup to all who passed by. His other hand was scrunched up in a sock, which he kept stuffed away in his jacket pocket.

Hank stepped inside Starbucks. His daily routine was altered as a new clerk repeated his order. His thoughts still outside, Hank handed over his gold card without thinking. His preferred blend was capped, sleeved and waiting. He was a swipe of the card and ten seconds from the door. But it wasn’t right—it wasn’t that simple. The manager immediately spotted the discrepancy.

Mr. Montague always gets two drinks, Jonathan. Turning to Hank, the manager said, He’s new, sir. We’ll have that second drink up in a moment.

No problem, agreed Hank. By the way, do I have any free drinks on my card?"

Yes sir, Mr. Montague. You have three free coffees.

Can I trade those free coffees for two cranberry scones? urged Hank, perusing the counter beside him.

Yes sir, agreed the manager.

Heat the scones, please.

Hank watched the man for another moment from inside the window, not wanting to face the cold, blistery day. The elderly man had kind words and a smile for all who passed by, whether they contributed or not, but most just kept walking, as Hank had done. He placed two $10 bills between the scones and fished a pair of tickets out of his wallet for tonight’s opera, thinking this would at least get the man out of the cold for a few hours.

Jonathan met the manager at the warmer with the scones.

Mr. Montague always takes two of everything, urged the manager to Jonathan at a whisper. He buys everything in pairs. His company even has an identical pair of private jets. It never made much sense until he came in one day with his twin brother.

Collecting his drinks and scones from the counter, Hank nodded to Jonathan and the manager standing behind him.

Outside, he walked back to the beggar. He nodded respectfully as the man said, Thank you. The beggar disposed of the cardboard sleeve that protected patrons from getting burned on the hot cup, his jaws immediately grinding away at the first of the warm scones. Then, he saw the $20 and the tickets for the Metropolitan opera. He swallowed hard, took a gulp from the latte, his frigid fingers massaging the warm cup.

Thanks, Mister, he repeated.

Hank continued on to work. Five steps later, a long, sleek limousine eased to the curb beside him. The rear window dropped like a Broadway curtain, revealing a stately, picturesque Drusilla Easton with her Gucci bag drawn snugly to her side. Drusilla held court daily on matters of the heart. She followed Hank’s airtime, which he always considered to be a gross error in scheduling terms. There was a hint of perfume that made Drusilla tolerable. She had a cavernous mouth and sharp-barbed tongue but dull pitiful nubs for teeth that couldn’t tear the hide off of a banana.

You’re just encouraging him, Drusilla growled to Hank from the limo.

Walking on, Hank let her retain that opinion, raising no objection to refute her claim. But he would feed the beggar again. The lack of argument only confirmed that for Drusilla. His continued silence echoed inside the sleek limo like the clanking of the beggar’s coins.

When the car stopped, the door flew open. Drusilla’s Prada heels stretched for the curb like a duck thrusting out his webbed feet for the chilled lake below. At the sight of her stunning Burberry coat slung over her shoulders, Hank was transported to his weekly excursions at the family duck blind. The Burberry rag ruffled in the stiff breeze, like the wings of a doomed Mallard. Absent only was the 12-gauge shotgun that would acquaint the foul beast with eternity. Before Hank could grind his fingerprint into the trigger of his dreams, she opened her bill for a second round.

We all know, Hank, how you inherited that post as Chicago’s number 1 talk show host. But Daddy’s influence won’t keep you there if you insist on drooling over society’s dregs like that. He’ll be out here again tomorrow, rattling that same cup again, Drusilla continued.

And so will we, Two Brooms. He’ll be out here tomorrow doing his thing and so will we. Hank’s eyes wandered up and down the sidewalk, the grotesque bird stunned, still in his sights. Did I actually say that? I mean, we always call you ‘Two Brooms’ behind your back. One year for Halloween the engineers came up with a stencil and a can of orange spray paint. Hank snorted, drawing in a deep breath, But I actually just said it to your face. It comes from that kid you know, darling little boy with two scoops of those shriveled-up, nasty-looking grapes in every box. I can’t believe I actually said it. Keep on, and I could run for mayor, especially now that the water broke and the gloves are off in Chicago politics, metaphorically speaking, mind you.

Hank left her speechless, circling, treading water beside the limo like a winged mallard temporarily obsessed with the next bug on the menu and oblivious to the seething wounds to her supersized ego.

I’m going to call the Mayor and tell him you said his water broke, Drusilla yelled, flagging her cell phone.

Hank walked the dozen steps back to the limo. You do that! But before you do, please be advised that the ‘Two Brooms’ thing is a revision of the ‘Two Bricks Short’ tag we used to hang on you. We’re trying to be sweet and atone for the absence of civility in the advice you pawn off on fallen lovers who are soon to be divorce court roadkill.

Drusilla stepped out of her heels to throw one at Hank. He caught it; the second shoe was aimed much further south. Hank tossed the winged Prada heels to the beggar, who leaped from his seat, catching both. Drusilla’s chauffeur met the beggar midway with a crisp $20 bill in hand to exchange for the heels. He took the cash, but insisted on walking the shoes over to the limo himself. He stood there, waiting as she motored down the window.

Men are different, cited the beggar, cradling her Prada heals in one arm as though they were a football. He didn’t mean that crack about the brooms. When a man likes you, he taunts you, even kicks a little every now and then. It’s like a love dance.

Oh please, pleaded Drusilla, looking out over her dark shades. Are we through here? Tell me you’re not auditioning for a guest host spot!

A little sharp on the testosterone, Miss, urged the beggar, handing the shoes back through the window. You need to shave those legs carefully and slowly with a steady hand. That way he won’t think it is stubble from chaffing on one of the two brooms.

The chauffeur knew when to extricate Drusilla from the scene, the limo tires squealing, signaling her closing curtain.

If asked why he walked to work every morning, Hank would cite the health benefits and the fresh air. Candidly, it was the mingling of diverse views and faces that kept everything fresh and vibrant. He desperately wanted to see that. Drusilla’s outrage was as intriguing to Hank as the beggar who brought her opinion out into the open. Apart from these two clashing together, the world doesn’t see the feelings and passions shrouded behind her stunning Burberry coat, Prada heels, and the tube sock serving as a glove on the beggar’s right hand.

Hank wouldn’t miss that daily unveiling for anything, when Chicago’s best and worst rubbed shoulders on the same sidewalk. It was like the live ducks soaring high aloft in a pattern in route to a destination and then suddenly brought down by decoys and men in camouflage vests. Hank relished being there in the blind watching it all unfold. Half of his interactions on the street were a continuation of the quivering, gravelly calls that brought ducks and hunters together for those magic final seconds. There was more than method to the madness—there was the sport of it.

There were other reasons Hank walked those eight blocks every morning. Something always seemed to call to him as he passed by Chicago City College. But this remained a mystery to Hank. He loitered there on the corner. There was something there, but he could never assign a face to it.

On the third floor of City College, Jenifer Knox, Hank’s program director and boss, was just finishing her 7AM class. Making the final points in her lecture, Jen drew a staggering line across the white board. The line nearly peaked at one point, but then diminished just before it came back for a strong soaring finish. It was more like a stock market graph. But Jen taught Nineteenth Century Philosophy.

What comes to mind when we think of great fiction? Jen asked the class. Much of our philosophy is delivered to us in the form of fiction, she reminded. From the Socratic Dialogues to Friedrich Nietzsche’s writings—philosophy has come to us through fiction more often than not.

Characters, said one student.

Absolutely, agreed Jen. We love our characters!

The story, setting and the way the writer paints with words, urged another student.

All great points, agreed Miss Knox. But if we did an analysis of all the books on the bestsellers list, we would find that, repeatedly, all of them conform to this graph, depicting plot outline.

This graph, insisted Knox, pointing to the board. I’d make a note of that. It might show up on a quiz.

Jen stepped away from the board for a second. Glancing out the window down at the street, she too felt something stir inside her from the crowd below, huddled on the corner waiting for the light to change. She could not put a face to it and certainly not a name. But there was a substantial pull to the sidewalk below. Enough of a pull that Jen ignored the two jittering coeds puffing their cheeks to emulate the 20 pounds of ballast attached to Jen’s hindquarters. She saw their reflection in the white board, each girl vying for who could inflate their cheeks to best reflect Jen’s sagging caboose. Still, the attraction below outweighed all of that, including the classmates who were amused by the silent ruckus.

Staying fit and trim was easy during her years as a grad student. Jen had made rules and stuck to them.

• Two slices of pizza, max—no exceptions

• There was the ten-second bell on any straw that had a milk shake on the other end

• Chocolate only at the peak of a lunar cycle

This rigid code served her well back then. There was always a grandstand of vocal taunts as she purposely detoured to walk by the construction site between classes. Those unsolicited perks fed the flames, but in the postdoc years it all became complicated. She still had it, but parading it came at a cost that Jen was increasingly unwilling to pay. It was like lying out too long in the sun on a warm summer day. It felt good then, but later, when she tried to sleep, there was the stinging, like a zillion bees, each lining up for a piece of the cake. Jen so wanted to roll it all back and find some other future. For now, those bags were perpetually packed and on display for frivolous fools not yet disgusted with their own shortcomings.

Below, the street was choked with the smells from a pretzel wagon upwind and the salt-soaked dust still lingering from the street sweeper that had just cleared the intersection. Those details weren’t leaping off the page for Jenifer, three floors up. Jen had to forcibly infuse her thinking with those textures and the all-important context that made them relevant. That wasn’t happening, either. Jen could not place these simple sights and smells in the same context with the humble satisfaction Hank felt having brought some warmth to a beggar’s fingers. When the light changed, Hank fell in step with the herd of coats and hats crossing the street.

This is mechanical, Knox continued, turning back to the class. We talk about the characters, setting and skills of the writer, and these are all important. But underlying that and typically in spite of these issues—top-selling books consistently fall into this very mechanical plot outline, characterized by a crisis peak prior to the end and then a resurgence in the final chapter. How can it be about characters or style if the bestsellers consistently conform to this mechanical graph? I’m with you. I think it is the characters that I love. But the evidence (i.e. Book Sales) suggests that it is something mechanical working in the background to which the reader is totally oblivious.

We crave the same plot graph in fiction again and again. Across all genres, a graph of the plot is the same for all bestsellers. Bestsellers consistently conform to this insanely mechanical graph. What does that say about us? How is it that we think we are in control? We profess to like this character over here or that one yonder. But at the end of the day, bestsellers conform to this mechanical graph, or the writer has to get a job peddling shoes or delivering pizza.

That’s one option for the essay that is your final exam. Explain this to me. How can it be about the characters, the dialogue and the arguments? The arguments, Jen repeated. For philosophers it’s all about the arguments. But the bestsellers list pulls us back to the ground again and again. The mechanics of plot come out on top always. Tell me why.

The room echoed with orchestrations of whining and whispered complaints.

We’ll be back here on Monday at 7 AM, urged Miss Knox, dismissing the class.

Haley, Barbra—a moment please, ladies, urged Jen.

Doctor Knox, I apologize, Haley gushed.

It was thoughtless, agreed Barbra.

Indeed it was, and there is no law against being thoughtless. That’s why we’re here, Jen continued. We correct thoughtless behavior and replace it with thoughtful decisive actions. That’s why I get paid. Sometimes, though, the best of us slips, and that usually degrades into a reaction, which is what has just occurred here.

Ergo, for your papers, you precious ladies can explain to me why this plot graph phenomena is wrong or just a figment of my imagination. Then darlings, we can all laugh. Convince me why this is wrong. Find an explanation I’ve missed. I want to feel the weight of your papers in my briefcase by Monday just like I feel those extra pounds jiggling on my thighs.

Jen paused before walking away, slipping her manicured finger under Haley’s chin. How about one more puffy cheek for the road? The first one was so amusing.

But I had a date this weekend, protested Barbra.

"The tense is right dear. Had!" Jen insisted.

Hank Montague was late as usual as he negotiated the lobby of Willis Tower in Chicago on his way to work. Still, his gait was a congenial stroll rather than a dash. The elevator doors were nearly closed when he flagged the beam with his hand and waited while the herd of executives scrunched to make a hole. Tucked onboard, Hank turned to face the polished mirrored doors.

Sporting a leather bomber jacket and no tie, Hank was an island in a sea of pinstripes, buttoned-down collars and topcoats. Hank alone had hair long enough to accommodate a bounce in the surging breeze as executives exited on successive floors. Hank’s attention focused on the headline of the Tribune protruding from beneath the arm of a junior executive who stood next to him.

Bending over, Hank tried to read the article upside down. Growing uncomfortable with the intrusion, the executive surrendered the front page of his paper to Hank and readjusted his tie as space in the elevator was reallocated yet again. Hank raced through the article about his brother, Fred, who was making a stir in St. Louis during a doctoral committee review. Hank got off at the thirty-second floor, digging in his pocket for quarters to buy a whole newspaper, with the full story on page nine. He thought for a moment, and then resumed digging for change. With a second complete copy tucked under his arm, Hank resumed reading.

It wasn’t the content – it was what the article didn’t say that perplexed Hank. He knew about the debate over his brother’s doctorate degree. But Fred had sent him a new manuscript days earlier. The article was totally oblivious to the insights of this new manuscript, which Hank knew was on his brother’s front burner.

The doctoral debate was so old. It wasn’t really news. It certainly wasn’t news to anyone who had read the new private manuscript Fred circulated to trusted friends and family. Two groups of executives disembarked from the bank of elevators as Hank combed through the Tribune. He was baffled by the omission. What is Fred Jr. up to? Hank wondered.

As the elevator doors closed on another herd of pinstriped sheep, it occurred to Hank that he was due on the air in less than ten minutes, and this wasn’t even the right floor.

He started to wait for an elevator, but there wasn’t time. There was no congestion on the stairs. Ascending four floors left Hank winded, but he made it.

In the studio, Hank Montague took two gulps from a steaming cup of Starbuck’s dark roasted coffee. There were legions that scoffed at the boutique brand of Java. The full-bodied vapors from the steaming cup were like a guillotine for those who derided Starbucks. Taking a second whiff, Hank was feeling that superman motif settle into his bones, and soon it would transition across his vocal cords, leaping into the microphone and then out across the airwaves. Hank sat poised at the microphone, awaiting a cue from the engineer in the sound booth, as the last commercial went out live across the air.

Hank Montague live—here for your thoughts and questions.

Today’s topic: What if one of New York’s Twin Towers survived the 9/11 attack on the World Trade Center, urged Hank? He allowed a full seven seconds of dead air before continuing. It was enough dead air to garner the attention of his engineer.

The 9/11 attack has been in our collective rearview mirror now for nine plus years. And yes, we are finally rebuilding one tower, albeit it is a dramatically different structure. But let’s step away from reality for a moment. We don’t come home from work to find our father and mother both gone. Typically one or the other survives most scenarios. Children don’t lose both parents in a divorce. I am asking you to rethink the tragic loss of the Twin Towers in typical human terms when one survives.

Again, Hank let dead air reign for a full five seconds.

If one of the Twin Towers had survived 9/11, the surviving tower would have served as a seedling. The scar of that surviving tower standing there alone would have demanded that we rebuild the fallen tower. And yes, we are rebuilding some ten years after the fact. But a surviving tower would have ushered in something far more immediate. We’re not talking about towers here. It’s a bigger question. What happens if that significant other is suddenly ripped out of your life? What if you lose that job you’ve cherished? Lose a wife, husband, or job—do we dust ourselves off and try again or not?

Mark from Vermont, you’re on the air. Your thoughts?

I think a surviving tower would have led to a more heightened military response against Osama bin Laden. That surviving tower would have been a rallying point for vengeance.

Could be, said Hank. Although it seems like I read somewhere, ‘vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord.’ Do you think we would have been served by increased military action against a country we had already bombed into oblivion? We got our pound of flesh. What would be the point of getting two pounds of flesh? Mark! Are you there?

They took down two buildings right—the Twin Towers, argued Mark, the caller. Doesn’t that entitle us to two pounds of flesh? Or heck, why not take preventative measures and take five pounds of flesh?

You’re sounding like a broken record, my friend, and we’ve played that tune over and over. Next caller please, said Hank, giving Steve the call screener the sign to cut the call.

Alice in Arkansas—welcome to Hank Montague live.

I caught my husband out with a younger woman.

Ok then! This is more in keeping with our premise of one tower surviving. So what did you do, Alice?

I caught the two of them out at a restaurant. I went inside, confronting her in a booth. Told her what I thought. I had just bailed him out of jail that afternoon, and here he was, eating dinner with her. He started to say something, so I grabbed a full pitcher of ice water and dumped the whole thing in his lap. That ought to cool down the tackle box, I told him."

Score two for confrontation and vengeance, railed Hank. Dermot in Seattle—what’s on your mind?

I lost my son in Iraq two years after the attack on the towers.

Our condolences, Dermot. What difference has it made?

Well I haven’t felt the need for vengeance like your previous callers. Maybe that’s because there really is no replacement for Dean. I have two other children, and I would have to say that the net impact has been to make the relationships with my son and my daughter much stronger. The loss of Dean brought all of us closer together.

Everyone is closer? quizzed Hank. Can you attribute that to anything? Was it that way from the start? Was this closeness something that evolved?

Actually, at first I was just stunned. But then my daughter moved her family back home from LA. They gave up great jobs just to be closer so we could have weekly family get-togethers. I felt like she was trying to fill a void, and it made me want to do something.

So, then, what did you do? Hank asked.

I sold my son’s car and used the money to buy a van that had been converted to accommodate a driver in a wheelchair. I then gave that van to the Veterans’ center. They lend it out to veteran amputees while they are being fitted for prosthetics. At first it was like I was in this loop of anger, loss and depression. But my daughter moving home interrupted that cycle. That moved me to give the van to the Vets. It’s like I was caught in a loop and then I stepped out of it.

By helping others, you and your daughter broke the cycle of anger, depression and loss. You put all that to bed and moved on by reaching out to others?

Basically, yes, Dermot agreed.

Hank hesitated, hovering over the microphone. There are numerous philosophies and cultures that view life as a circle—that the whole point of living is just to return to where you were. But you seem to be saying that by letting go of vengeance, we kick the rage and loss to the curb, and that act creates a new place to go to, a place to which we were formerly oblivious. Are you much closer now with your surviving children?

Much, much closer, urged Dermot. Since I lost my son, that left us with only the two kids, and they were both in California. We raised our family. We were empty nesters. But now it’s like we have two new kids that were unexpected. My wife and I don’t really know where they came from. They just materialized in this tragedy.

Beam me up, Scotty! taunted Hank. They materialized out of tragedy. That really is at the heart of it, folks. Thanks, Dermot. That’s going to have to be it, folks. The lesser God on the wall is singing that familiar song. You’ll have Herb Weston as a guest host for a few days; yours truly is off to New York for a conference of American Broadcasters. My father is the keynote speaker. That could be interesting. The closest I have been to my father in months is his signature on my paycheck, and that’s pretty distant, since payroll is electronically deposited.

Hank paused, allowing several seconds of dead air while he reflected on the previous caller and his own family.

If there is a real-life Twin Tower scenario with one tower surviving, it will be in New York this weekend. I just haven’t been able to figure out who it is that is standing tall, me or my father. I guess it depends on who you ask. If there is a surviving tower between us, I know who my father thinks it is. I’m not so sure.

I am thinking of our last caller, Dermot from Seattle who lost his son in Iraq. It makes you wonder. My father and I—are we stuck in that same vortex? Dermot called it a loop. To me it’s a vortex. Does one of us have to die to change that? And what then? Dermot lost a son in Iraq, but then gained a son and a daughter at home in Seattle. If one tower did survive—if something happened to me or my father—would the survivor take the loss living in a cycle of depression and regret? Would we make life a circle returning again and again to whence we began? Or would we chart a new course and break the cycle? My money is on Dermot in Seattle.

This discussion touches a few nerves. But that’s why we do this. It’s your thoughts and passions that make this a horse race. Speaking of which, I have a plane to catch. And you—I’ll bet you have towers of your own to ponder. What would happen if one of your towers survived? Don’t focus on the loss. As a fellow pointed out a few years back, stuff happens. Accidents happen! What if you got home tonight and you were the surviving tower? How would that story read? Would you fill in those blanks or sit there and stare at them?

Steve Collins, the call screener, looked squarely at Hank as he left the broadcast booth. He’d always known there was a risk to hitching his wagon to Hank Montague’s on-air charm. Hank, though, ruled the airwaves surrounding Chicago. Hank’s morning talk show ranked #1 in Chicago, the nation’s third-largest market. Beyond that, Hank had a brass key. His father, Fred Montague, Sr., was president of the Cascade Network. It was a sure bet that Hank would always have a job. That’s part of what put his show on the edge and earned those ratings.

Hank paused as he left the broadcast booth. If you want to fly fast and high, you have to drive hard, urged Hank, anticipating Steve’s disapproval.

You did that, boss. Drive hard! Fly high! It’s all good when you’ve got a parachute for when things don’t work out. But us folks down here in ground control, we don’t have a parachute. What do we do?

Let’s look at the positive side, Steve. I gave you a ringside seat. You may actually get to write your own answer to the surviving tower scenario. Most folks just closed their garage door and went home for lunch amused and maybe mildly intrigued. You may get to live it and answer the question. I thought this was just a novel idea, but now I see this surviving tower syndrome everywhere I look. There is this thing between me and my father. Now there is the radio show host and his call screener. We are surrounded by Twin Tower scenarios. And you, Steve—you’ve got a front-row seat!

Steve’s gaze immediately focused past Hank, looking over his shoulder.

Knox? Hank questioned, hearing the prominent heels of Jenifer Knox, director of programing, echoing down the hall.

Steve nodded, affirming Hank’s suspicion.

Don’t man the lifeboats yet, Hank reassured.

Miss Knox, Hank said, as he turned to face Jenifer.

You and your father have issues? Jennifer teased.

Issues—no! We just don’t have anything to say to each other. Nice outfit, said Hank, tugging at the upper lapel of her jacket. It was pantsuits and jackets with matching slacks this year, all arrayed and coordinated with subdued accents. Last year’s tight skirts could not accommodate the recent intrusion of twenty pounds now loitering on Jen’s frame. The wild accents vanished with the short skirts. There was no reason to go looking for the specific contours of the newly acquired bulk. Hank had heard rumors that Jen’s trailing girth could cast a significant shadow at the right hour in the wrong corridor. That was more than he wanted to know, really.

Don’t change the subject, said Jenifer, escorting Hank back up the hall to a private corner.

Where did you come up with this concept of one of the Twin Towers surviving 9/11? Tell me this is not another one of your obsessions with pairs.

Actually, it was a magazine article. This guy was making an argument for biblical parallels to the Twin Towers. He takes it all the way back to Adam in the Garden of Eden. He claims that there isn’t always a surviving tower, which obviously there wasn’t on 9/11. Thus, when there is a surviving tower—then we really need to make the most of it. His thoughts, not mine, but it made for some interesting discussion.

Absolutely, said Jenifer. It’s not a topic I would choose. But it had a quaint loitering buzz that was rather appropriate for casual Fridays. Just next time, let’s not air our family laundry on air to a national audience.

To be totally honest, it never even occurred to me until that last caller from Seattle. But then there it was. The shoe fit, so I drug it out of the closet.

Jenifer looked away for a second, then right back, but said nothing until Hank grew uncomfortable with her silence.

Hank took a deep breath, pulling Jen around the corner to an isolated window that offered more privacy.

So here we are Miss Knox—two Twin Towers. Do we fix this? Does it take us both down? Or is this just the periphery of a larger, undisclosed issue?

I guess you’ll have to figure that out on your own this weekend in New York.

"You mean you’re not coming? You see! There is that Twin Towers thing again. Fredrick Montague is the keynote speaker for a convention of broadcasters and Miss Jenifer Knox isn’t even on the plane to New York. You weren’t just bumped from first class. You’ve been flat out grounded, Jen. What happened to Jenifer Knox the mistress? I think this guy is onto something. These Twin Towers are everywhere. You’re grounded, but I’m sure someone is standing tall in your shoes. We should get this guy on for a weeklong segment.

That was last year. Last year—Hank! We’re past that.

You may be past it, but I’m sure my father is still out there making a pass at the flavor of the month. This month just doesn’t happen to be Jenifer Knox. I would bet that distinction would be lost on my mother. It’s good, though. Somehow I could never picture you as my stepmother.

It’s history, reassured Jennifer. Have fun in New York. We’ll talk when you get back.

Hey, I was serious about booking this guy to talk about all these Twin Tower scenarios. Who knows what he might dig up?

Give it a rest, Hank! The Twin Towers guy is your brother, Fred Dubois. I didn’t just shuttle my way to the top on silk sheets and room service. Fred has got a media trail like Halley’s Comet. And now he’s on this bit about teaching angels. Why did he change his name to Dubois anyway?

It’s a long story. The better question is why are the headlines focused on stuff he turned up two years ago? That ship has sailed and docked, and he has since discovered a New World, but the public discussion is marooned on teaching angels.

All Hank heard was the cadence of her heels on the cold floor as Jennifer walked away. In the elevator, she clinched her arms together, sporting a smile as the doors closed. Hank regretted being so crass. Jenifer and his father were history. He had known that for some time. On one level, Hank just wanted to hear her say it. Still, she was right. He had issues with his father, and now their issues were contaminating other relationships. Even Hank recognized this, while glaring at the cold steel elevator doors. There was no time to fix it now. There was a plane to catch.

Just then the doors sprang open again. Jenifer spoke candidly with several coworkers and executives boarding the elevator. As the doors closed, she did an about-face, her heels thundering straight back to where they had stood conversing moments earlier.

Forget something? asked Hank.

Jen’s clinched fist shot up from her side. Hank caught it, freezing the motion inches from his cheek. He’d earned a slap and totally expected Jen to pay up. Instead though, she smiled. Her lips casually parting, the smile lumbered across her face until Hank loosened his grip. With her fingers free, Jen depressed the dispenser on the tiny bottle of perfume concealed in the palm of her hand. Her aim was directed to his cheek and jaw. The cologne was delivered right on target.

Kinky, said Hank. I’ll think of nothing else all the way to New York.

The words weren’t fully formed when his jaw rang out with the forceful abrupt slap of Jen’s open palm. The moist cologne on his cheek brought a sting to the slap that loitered well beyond the thrust of her blow.

I never slept with your father. I may have encouraged him around the ears, but I never climbed in bed with the man. If you’re going to play a tape in your brain, it ought to be the right one.

Jen took three steps back toward the elevator and then stopped.

There’s more? Let’s clear something up, Hank urged, waving Jen off. Don’t think I am going to turn the other cheek just because you’re a woman. That slap was a solo act, lady. An encore just ain’t happening.

Your brother introduced his thesis, citing an email he received from a woman in Las Vegas who went to a Barry Manilow concert. He then used this as a catapult to launch his thesis on teaching angels. Thus, we have a candidate for a doctorate in theology with a thesis on how we are supposed to teach the angels. And this from a woman in Vegas with a passion for Barry Manilow. There is a simple concept your brother really needs to get behind. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

Hank was on Jen’s flank as she tried to exit to the elevator. She spun when he slipped his fingers inside the clutch of her elbow—Hank ducked low and away, anticipating another slap. His palms flared wide, smoothing the air and the space like an umpire calling a runner safe after he’d tagged the base. Seriously Jen! Can we just for one second put all our baggage aside? You resent being derailed to ride herd on the bosses’ kid. You go ballistic at my sexual taunts. I’m sorry. It’s a lousy job. But you’re an extremely sensual woman. If I try to relate to you on some other plane, I face a blank page. And being Dad’s former squeeze, I even lose the margins on the page. But can we put all that aside and give it an old-fashioned wake and focus on what’s not being said? My brother Fred is not stupid. If the press is having a field day, it’s because he wants to keep them busy. He’s hiding something, Jen. There is more to this story, urged Hank.

While Jen thought, Hank retreated to the ribbon of windows. Resting his swollen red cheek against the frosty glass, he relaxed, soaking in the therapeutic effect of the cold. The building had become a 108-story icepack.

Ouch, said Jen. Slowly she maneuvered, placing her cheek on the cold window to embrace Hank eye to eye. I knew the cologne would make it really sting, but it should be wearing off.

Hank lowered himself a foot to find a fresh piece of frigid relief. Jen slid down to his level, her cheek and sultry extended arm squeaking on the glass, punctuating her descent.

You tortured my father like this, didn’t you? Hank demanded, his cheek pressed hard against the glass.

Every day, dear. And with skirts so tight, the stitching sang, confessed Jen. I’ll put my research assistant on it over the weekend, she agreed. She can report back to both of us, and if there’s something there, we’ll talk about it, Knox continued, prying herself off the glass, now entombed in a heart-shaped fog.

Yes, talk is good, Hank urged, massaging his jaw. And a whole lot more comfortable.

Jen took two steps toward the elevator, but then changed her mind, returning to face Hank.

When I was a girl, we would visit my uncle’s farm up in Wisconsin. He had a dairy herd, and he raised hogs, which he sold. He milked those cows every morning and after that he fed the hogs. But he never really knew any of those animals beyond the milk or meat they could provide. What Uncle Ralph could extract from his animals in either meat or milk was the limiting factor. It was the only means through which they connected. This was true for Uncle Ralph, and it was true for the cows who lined up every morning to be milked and fed. But Uncle Ralph had this dog—Butch, an Australian Shepard. Butch and Ralph found ways to connect beyond what Butch could provide.

Uncle Ralph would reach down from his rocking chair and stroke Butch’s ears in the evening as the sun went down. Ralph would pluck the cockleburs off Butch. They connected outside the milk and the meat, so to speak. And because of this, Butch was always ahead of Uncle Ralph wherever he went. That dog would gather cows scattered all over that pasture while Ralph leaned up against a fence post.

So you’re saying that you’re not here as a source of milk or meat? Hank asked.

I’m saying that if we could connect apart from the sexual tension, you might find a totally different relationship lurking on the inside.

But not with all the jokes and taunts. Is that it? said Hank.

"Do you want help with your brother or not? It’s not in my job description to keep tabs on Fred Dubois in St. Louis. But if we can connect on something else,