Timothy Sexton Presents

 

     BIZARRE LOVE TRIANGLE: CHAPTER ONE

    

   Solomon saw his wife belly-dancing.

     True, he’d been awake less than fifteen minutes, and the shower was stinging his eyes, but there could be no question about it; Leigh was actually belly-dancing.  Rubbing the steaming water from his face, he pushed back the curtain just to be absolutely certain.

     The unmistakable snapping sound of castanets had announced her arrival and her outstretched arms had followed, leading her into view.  And what a view!  A diaphanous purple material barely concealing her legs draped out of a wide gold band that hugged her hips, tracing the sensual curve of her belly.  Its lack of modesty was more than matched by her top: Gold coins dangling from a bra that actually came very close to achieving its intended job of camouflaging her breasts.  Her face was obscured behind a veil so that only her blue eyes were visible, peering at him enigmatically.

     Her hips swayed tantalizingly back and forth, the only sound her jangling coins echoing off the tile.  As she twirled around and arched her nude back, he noticed that underneath the sheer silk she wore nothing.  She drew closer to his pruned, proffered finger then, just as she was within reach, she pulled away.  He thought he saw a smile curl beneath the veil as she faded into the haze of the steam.

     Appearing again out the vapor, she rounded her arms above her head, castanets clicking.  Solomon was hypnotized by the sight of her sensuously rippling stomach.  She inched her way closer, bending forward, then sharply back, beginning to rotate her head, her neck, her shoulders.  Her eyes softly shut and soon her whole torso was gyrating to some unheard strain.

     Around and around she twisted, coins rattling and veils fluttering until she suddenly stopped directly in front of her husband.  She held her hands behind her back as she slowly lifted her shrouded face and stared obediently into his eyes.  Bringing her hands gradually forward, Solomon saw that the castanets had been replaced by thick cakes of soap.  “Try new Sheik Soap.  Your harem will love you for it,” Leigh Solomon said.

     Solomon saw his wife in her bathrobe.

     He blinked several times.  “What did you just say?”

     She picked up a rag and held it under the water.  “I asked if you tried that new soap I picked up for you.  It's supposed to be good.  And it's got the most adorable commercial.”

     Solomon dried his face and looked at his wife again.  “Were you just in here in some kind of belly-dancing costume?

     “No, but I like the idea.  Any suggestions on where I can get one?”

     “I know this is going to sound crazy, but I could swear I just saw you in some kind of crazy costume doing a belly-dancing routine.”

     “Hey, you supply the clothes and I'll provide the dancing.”  Bringing the washcloth to her face, she felt the heat prickle her skin.  “Your mother's right, you do take showers too hot.  She told you cold showers are better for you.  Now are you trying that new soap or not?”

     “I like my old soap.  It’s manly yet, I like it too.”

     “The commercial's very good.  It's called Sheik Soap.  Isn't that cute?”

     “Did you say Sheik Soap?”

     “Yeah.  So?”

     “What's the commercial about?”

     “Who wants to know?” she asked, lowering her voice to a seductive purr.

     Grabbing her arm and pulling her closer he said, “Tell me.  What's it about?”

     Leigh pulled herself free.  “All right, already, just calm down and I'll tell you.”  She kissed him lightly on the forehead.  “It’s about this guy all dressed up in these gorgeous long flowing robes and he's on a horse roaming the desert—Sahara, I guess, lots of sand everywhere—riding days and nights looking for his love.  Then he finally finds her and she looks up at him and says, `Boy, could you use a bath, here try new Sheik Soap--’”

     “Is she a belly dancer?”

     “You got a thing for belly-dancers lately, don't you?”

     “Please?”

     “No.  No belly dancers.  Sorry.”

     “I know it sounds crazy, but it seemed so real.  And then I turn around, I mean I don't even turn around, and there you are in your bathrobe.”  He shrugged.

     She lifted the hem of her robe off her thigh and rubbed it between her fingers.  “Not exactly as sexy as a belly-dancing costume.  Disappointed?”

     Pretending to look underneath the length of teal terry-cloth material she held in her hand he answered, “Not at all.”

     She threw the robe down in mock anger, straightening it prudishly and shaking her head disapprovingly.  “None of that for you.  If you're going to be having visions of exotic women in erotic clothing, then you can just forget all about getting any from me.  And as for you hallucinations, I think I might know just the cure for those.”  With that she reached in and turned the hot water off, then quickly dashed out of the room.

     “Hey, that's cold.”  Maybe it was the heat, he thought.  But he just couldn't stand cold showers.  The hotter, the better.  Maybe it was some leftover fragment of a dream, but that didn't make much sense seeing as how he'd been awake for some time when it occurred.  Truly a uniquely strange experience.

     “Enjoy your shower?”  He was sitting on the bed drying off when Leigh followed the smoky aroma of sausage drifting in from the kitchen.  She came to the bed and stretched herself on it, one hand propping up her head.  He pushed her hair behind her ear only to watch it fall back.  “Seen any more belly-dancers?”

     “That was so bizarre.  I could describe to you in the smallest detail exactly what you were wearing.  You aren't hiding any costumes in the closet are you?  Maybe I've somehow gotten the power of seeing into the future.”  He sprang off the bed and disappeared into the huge walk-in closet, whistling the theme from  Twilight Zone.

     “You won't find much.”

     “I'm looking for my blue suit, thank you very much.”

     “Seriously, I like the idea of a belly-dancer.  You know I've always liked those outfits.  Like I Dream of Jeannie.  We could get me a Jeannie outfit and you some long, flowing robes.  I mean since it was your idea in the first place.”  She heard him rummaging around in the back of the closet.  “Look to the far left,” she advised.  When she was satisfied there would be no reply, she went up behind him.  “Here, let me.  Go get some breakfast before it gets cold.”  She kissed him and he surprised her by grabbing her around the waist.  Her robe rode up past her bare behind and he looked down and whistled.  “That belly-dancer must've really got to you.  Sure you wouldn't like to get me a Jeannie outfit?”

     “I can think of worse Christmas presents now that you mentioned it,” he answered.

     She suddenly kissed him hard on the mouth.  “Sometimes, you have a way of very pleasantly surprising me, you know that,” she breathlessly said at last, casting a glance backward at her exposed rear end.  She kissed him again before unloosening herself.  “This is the hardest thing in the world for me to do.  I just want you to know that and duly appreciate it later when the time comes.  I'm telling you to go eat.  Now.  I know you don't want to be late.”

     Making his way out the closet he looked back at her glowing, expansive smile.  Which turned into a mock scowl as she gestured with a fanning motion for him to leave.  When he did Leigh reached for his blue suit without even looking.  She left the closet and laid it on the bed.

     Solomon was in the kitchen fixing himself a second cup of coffee and brooding over the day ahead.  One definite appointment and two meetings with Cosmo-reading recep-tionists who would try to rouse themselves into checking if Mr. Whoever was seeing anyone today.  In the two weeks since he'd quit, he'd had nine interviews.  All of them amounting to nothing.

     Finishing off his toast, he looked up to see Leigh's arm and leg embracing the wall.  As she pirouetted through the doorway, he saw she was swathed in an array of multi-colored veils, tucked into her G-string panty and cupless bra, billowing in opposite reaction to her movements.  This time her face remained uncovered.  She slinked her way to the table and circled him, losing a few scarves along the way, then feigned a move away and fell backward across his lap.

     “Good enough for now?” she asked, pulling a stray veil off her face.

     “Good enough for anytime,” he answered, starting to pull her cover away from her.

     “That's a good way to become a eunuch if the sheik ever caught you.  Don't you know better than to mess with a member of the concubine?”

     He followed her as she raced behind the kitchen counter.  “I know you don't want to hear this and I'm really sorry to have to say it, but I have to start getting dressed.  I'm running late.”  He then reached over and kissed her before turning to leave, taking most of the top of her makeshift ensemble with him.

     Leigh shrieked in surprise and chased him.  “You dirty little sneak!” she cried, jumping onto the bed and watching him dress.  Idly, she began stripping off the veils.  “Who's it today?”

     “Essence Rare Perfume.”

     “Ooh, I hear everyone who works there gets an ounce of perfume every Christmas.”

     “And where did you pinch that little nugget of information?”

     “Some television talk show, I think.  I don't know.  Think they'll hire you?”  She flipped over onto her stomach, her legs grabbing behind her for the scarves.

     “I don't know.  Could be.  I haven't heard any bad things.”

     “You sound like they're the one being interviewed.”  Laughing, Leigh rolled onto her back and completed the stripping process.  Clad only in her haughty bra and panties she sat on the edge of the bed, back straight, knees spread, tiptoed on the floor.  Solomon knotted his tie and turned around to reach for his coat.  “Like what you see?”

     “I wish you wouldn't do that.  I've got an appointment.”

     “Do what?” she whispered, falling spread-eagled onto her back.

     “That voodoo that you do so well. Now come on, I've got to get going.”

     “Don't I do anything for you?”

     “Definitely.  But this just isn't the best of times to be doing it.”  He reached for her hand.  “Now what are you going to be doing all day?”

     “The usual.  Clean up.  Watch some television.   Maybe a little drawing if I feel inspired.   Dis, dat and de utter ding,” she answered as he pulled her to her feet.  When they reached the front door she held him and kissed him deeply before straightening his tie.  “If you're not worried about making a good impression, at least don't make a bad impression.  And don't let them make you feel defensive about quitting.”

     “I've no reason to be defensive.  I was completely in the right.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

    

  Myles Feury kept hearing voices.

     He was lying in his bed, buried deep in the middle of a detective novel, and these disembodied voices kept float-ing through the walls.  He tried concentrating harder because this was supposed to be a terrifically exciting one with lots of red herrings and blind alleys.  He had assumed it would be excellent because it'd been lying atop the best seller list for sixteen weeks now and the film rights had already been sold for half a mill.  Even so, he couldn't help feeling that it was decidedly inferior to any of the works of Poe or Conan Doyle with which he had started this detective binge.  This occurrence was a major blight because he'd been so looking forward to enjoying this book.

     "Small courtesy...inconvenience."  He looked up at the ceiling and spread the novel open on his chest.  His upstairs neighbors were really something.  When they'd first moved in the predominant sound had been a constant pounding of bedsprings coupled with the occasional high-pitched moan.  Rarely any speech that wasn't sprinkled with lewd demands.  The only sound he'd been hearing lately had been the artillery of loud argumentative grumbling.  He listened closer, trying to understand what they were saying.

     It was a common practice in the mysteries he'd lately been reading.

     A familiar squeak threatened to shower him with those penetrating squeals again, but footsteps crossing the length of the room erased that possibility from his mind.  He tossed the book onto the floor and stood on the bed trying to hear better.  Nothing.  He jumped off and mounted a chair directly beneath the air vent.  "Yes it is," he hollowly heard the girl yell.  What, he wondered, it is?

     Though as far as he knew he'd never seen them, he'd had the dubious honor of being able to use them as his alarm clock many times.  Today, in fact, with an early morning shower that rattled his apartment as bad as the jets that used to fly over the old house.  He didn't appreciate the early rising since he liked to stay up late watching old movies.  His last job had been lucrative enough for him to be able to coast for a few weeks, so why not?

     The woman continued, declaring to the man that he only thought of himself during important matters.  While the man got indignant, Myles discovered the reason for the argument.  It appeared that the man had a job that the woman didn't want him to have and he wasn't going to quit that job even though by doing so he would be making the woman happy.

     Myles was proud of himself.  His recent foray into the world of mystery novels was helping to bring out a latent talent and he'd been chomping at the bit to put it into practice.  Neither the man nor the woman had stated exactly what the problem was, but with his increasingly fecund deductive powers he had been able to come up with what he thought to be a more than valid conclusion.

     The voices loudly hushed and were followed by the faint slam of a door.  Not wanting to feel chauvinistic, he nonetheless had no doubt it was the woman who had left.  Jumping off the chair, he tried to build a mental picture of the two.  He knew they were the same height because their footsteps were practically indistinguishable.  Somehow she came across as mousy looking, her  hair always falling in her face.  Maybe it was because she was insecure.  But angry.  Like someone who'd gotten a really bad haircut.  He'd become well acquainted with that type during his brief sojourn working in the style shop.  Limp, falling hair had a way of completely taking over a person's life.

     The man was a more difficult bird altogether.  There wasn't much to go on and the detectives in the books were always advising to keep your hunches to a minimum and then only when they were burning your gut like a belly full of lead.  It was a face, not a hunch, that the woman moved too nimbly to be very large and if they both had equal footfall then that meant it was also a fact that the man had to be slight.  And if the rate at which they used to make love made any difference, probably good-looking.  She certainly always seemed to be enjoying it, constantly begging for more.

     Snatching the yellow pages out of its dulling brass holder and quickly leafing through to DENTIST-DIABETES, he wondered how one went about becoming a detective.  Ten listings.  Following a lead, he thumbed to INVESTIGATORS, which counseled him to see also LIE DETECTION SERV; PROCESS SERVERS; SECURITY GUARD and PATROL SERV.  Surely there'd be at least one job somewhere for him under all those umbrellas.  Especially for someone with his unmistakable talent.  It wouldn't necessarily have to be as an investigator right away.  Just something that he could use as a foothold.  That was his true talent right there--he didn't mind learning all he needed to know.

     When he first became a waiter it was with the objective of becoming the very best waiter he could be.  The practice menu had fallen apart from his studying it until he could recite everything on it, including prices.  He learned what garnishes and sauces went with which entrees, his determination spurring him to even badger the splenetic cooks, their oily hair menacingly wrapped up in nets, into explaining what ingredients were in each sauce.  Any questions as to what a meal consisted of brought a swift, accurate reply.  The realization that this ambition was quite futile, however, came crashing down upon him within a few weeks.  If the cooks were slow in getting his order out it didn't matter he could recite the Declaration of Independence standing on his head, it was he who paid the price.  It made no difference if he did manage to get the food to them on time, or answer all their stupid questions or any of a hundred other things they'd never notice; he was still treated like a servant.  He committed himself to affording them a memorable and pleasurable dining experience exactly as the booklet instructed, but they did not return specifically for him as the booklet promised.

     The money had proven to be somewhat more than decent, but the lack of respect made it not worth the trouble.  Detectives, now they got respect.  When was the last time a novel about a brilliant waiter made the best-seller list?  And where were the blockbuster movies detailing all the excitement that went on behind the dirty dishes?  Oh television waiters would only make it in sitcoms or as extras.  Detectives always got the hour.  Myles was about to write down the names of some agencies when the thought maybe he'd first better check his accuracy.

     Shooting into the closet, he stripped off his robe and threw on a pair of faded jeans and a rugby shirt.  He expertly plucked his keychain off its hook on the fly and exited into the hallway, mashing a button for the elevator.  Waiting for its arrival, he studied Mrs. Whittington's door, noticing little nicks in the wood around the lock, as if someone had been trying to break in with a screwdriver.  It would serve the old bat right if someone did.  When she had first moved into the building, Myles had offered to go shopping or do odd jobs for her, but she had just looked at him like he had the Plague, telling him to mind his own business.

     The efficient peal of the elevator startled him and an indefinite feeling of guilt thrust him swiftly into the car.  As he pressed the button, a glossy piece of paper on the floor caught his eye.  It was the back cover of a magazine, revealing a beautiful girl, clad in a leather miniskirt, with a bottle of whiskey towering over her.  An ad.  Nothing of any consequence there, he thought, glumly letting the paper float zigzaggedly to the floor.  The elevator stopped and he stepped through the parting doors.

     Heading straight for the offending apartment.  The Solomon's, according to the slot in the door.  The name surprised him, sounding too blond.  He'd reckoned them both as auburn at the lightest.  Well, maybe the woman could be blonde, but not the man.  Then again, maybe they hadn't changed the tag when they moved in  That was one of the first things Myles did, if only because he didn't want the name Leckperanke on his door.  The Solomon's--if that was really their name--were the only ones on the floor without a welcome mat.  Figured.  They were too busy fighting or loving to have any company.  Plus the man was probably always at that job the woman hated.  He began to search for a place to hide while he spied.  Sort of a stakeout.

     The stairwell.

     He closed the door and peered through the crisscrossed wires in the little square window just as a tall black woman wearing black hose with a funky design stitched into the materialized out of the elevator.  No way, he thought, couldn't be Mrs. Solomon.  The possibility that they weren't white was something he'd never even considered and the name on the door certainly did nothing to change his mind.  A huge, satisfied smile plastered itself on his face as she entered an apartment down the hall, proving him right.

     Whenever he forgot to run a comb through his hair, as he had this morning, it had a habit of sticking straight up.  He tried flattening the severe new cut with a rub of his hand so he wouldn't look so conspicuous as he began to wonder what sort of work the man did and why the wife was so dead set against him doing it.  Since it was so almightily important, it had to be a respectable position probably in some august corporation, full of swarming gofers and with real leather furniture to sit in while you waited to get in to see whomever it was you were waiting to see.  But why would the woman not want him working in a place like that?  Stumped, he started to check his reflection to make sure his pinfeathers were behaving when the elevator opened again.

     An extremely attractive woman with black hair and an even blacker expression proceeded straight to the Solomon apartment.  She had short bangs that were definitely not falling in her face, but that did beautifully frame her eyes and set off her surprisingly high, modelish cheekbones and unplucked, unrazored eyebrows.  He'd misfired on her height, too; she was a tad shorter than he imagined, but she was wearing a jogging suit which explained the heavy footsteps: She was athletic.  As soon as she reached for the doorknob, he bulleted downstairs to get back to his room so he could hear what they were saying.

     Into the bedroom he ran and straight onto the chair, ear painfully against the duct, only to find that phantoms were being uncharacteristically subdued.  Or perhaps, he thought, whirling into the living room and twirling a chair up against the wall with the vent set into it, they simply weren't in the bedroom.  Aha!  In here snippets of those familiar voices came reverberating through the grille.

     Straining to understand individual words, all that filtered through was indistinct feminine mumbling.  Her voice somehow didn't match her face, which reminded Myles of some old movie star.  He couldn't place her just yet.   With the only clue being his deep--baritone more than bass--voice, the man remained an enigma.  Myles was caught by surprise, nearly toppling over, as he clearly heard the man roar, "I'm telling you, I know what I saw and heard."

     Another disagreement.

     From the sound of her notoriously athletic footsteps, the woman was pacing, causing him to hear only weirdly detached fragments of her reply.  "...ouble believing...didn't say...'elieve you."  What didn't she believe?  Myles's heart began pumping voraciously.  There was a real mystery going on up there and he was determined to get to the bottom of it.

     And then suddenly everything went silent.  Rearing higher onto the chair, feet perched precariously on the back, he balanced himself against the wall, listening.  The stillness became deafening, his ears beginning to throb from the calvary of blood, provoking him almost into blurting out for someone to say something.

     "I'm sorry, but if I don't get over to Mishkin and Dunbar right now I may not get in to see the personnel manager."  Mr.  Solomon's voice cut through the lone cadence of Myles' own breathing with such a clear and wearing force that Myles was afraid to turn around for fear that the man was standing there behind him.

     The woman's garbled reply was punctuated by another slamming door, sounding just like his front door, squeak and all.   This time it had to be the man who had left.  Myles recklessly jumped down from his homemade spy satellite and bolted out the apartment, hoping to make it to the elevator button first.

     Answered with an empty elevator, he stepped inside, anticipating for the last time how this Solomon would look.  Leaning back against the wall, he at last was able to picture clearly someone with a conservative haircut, a strong chin, and eyes that knew everything about you the first time they saw you.  The mystery man had to be something else to get a wife like that.

                The car lunged to a stop, the doors divided, and there loomed before him, for the first time, Solomon.  The body that connected with those sonorous exclamations drifting through his walls.  A body that was taller than Myles had speculated, thought not nearly as tall as himself.  His hair was, indeed, blond, though of the sandy persuasion.  And straight, badly in need of a cut.  His eyes, Myles had to admit, were something less than piercing.  They seemed, in fact, to be looking backward in at himself.  Quickly averting his gaze, Myles stepped out, waited for the whoosh of the shutting doors behind him, then shuffled to the stairwell, wondering what to do next.

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          "Don't take this the wrong way, Anton, but I honestly thought the title alone would bring in more people than that.  I mean, sure, from a purely literary standpoint it's a terrifically apt title.  No question.  But from my end over here, it's also a title that begs to be examined, probed, explored.  Where the natural curiosity of the people of this town defected to is beyond me.  And don't get me wrong, I'm perfectly aware that today is the busiest shopping day of the year and all, but I mean come on, gimme a break."

          "No reason to be ashamed, Duke.  That's pretty much the sole purpose of titles, after all.  I mean we writers could just do like our composing brethren do and call our little masterpieces opus number two or whatever.  But we're the ones who made sure to cover our asses with pithy little statements over the cover page.  To make people pick up that book, or come see our play.  It's certainly among the most provocative I've ever come up with, that's for sure.  And, besides, you're right.  Even as I was writing it, I thought it was something that would pique a crowd's curiosity.  I thought surely they'd come just to see it for no other reason than to see whether it was a dark drama or an outright farce.  I always thought it sounded like a farce, to be perfectly honest, though I suppose I’d have to admit that it came out like more of a dark drama.”

          "And they probably would have come out to see it if we'd gotten a decent write‑up in what passes for a newspaper in this burg.  Or for that matter any write-up at all.  I tell you one thing, my boy, that rag can damn well forget about getting any free passes, that's for damn sure.  The publisher over there, one Mr. Edward Janneck, is still pissed at me for trying to start up a rival a few years back.  They've got a monopoly, you know."

          "Most papers do now.  What do you make of that excuse from FOYT about opening their Christmas Carol a week earlier than scheduled because of the extra week between Thanksgiving and Christmas this year?  I must say I was rather shocked to see the coverage they bought with that little bombshell.  How long did you say they've been doing that play?"

          Duke leaned back in his chair and conspiratorially nodded his head.  Anton had noticed, and promptly wrote it down in his notebook, that Duke Forberry was a world class head‑nodder, able to make the gesture fit any and all occasions.  "Fountain of Youth Theatre had been doing that stupid play for twenty years before Durwood even took over.  They've never moved it up before when Thanksgiving came early and goodness knows it's come early more than once a half-century, I’ll wager.  How ironic that it should suddenly become so important the year a new theatre threatens to mar the faded jewel in their rusty crown.  Let's face it, Durwood knew we had something good on our hands and he was afraid.  Ever since he fired an ancient landmark named Esmond Ranford Marplot I've wondered if even he is beginning to get worried that the Fountain of Youth Theatre is becoming old folk's home."

          Which was the non de plume Anton had thrust upon the state of Florida's oldest community theatre within six days of his arrival.  Though it seemed like years at the moment, that arrival had been but eight short months ago.  During the following seven months, three weeks and two days Duke had been prone to bouncing around the room anytime he and Anton had disappeared into the office to discuss strategy, share a bottle of Scotch, or just sit down to a chat.  The phrase "whirling dervish" seemed especially apt when describing Duke Forberry's manner of animation during those times.  Yet Anton now watched with regret as the man wearily lifted his large feet and placed them on top of the colossal wooden desk, revealing his advancing age.  Duke may not have had any scars yet, but he certainly looked like a man on his way to a beating.    

          "So do we continue with the run?  Or do we write it off and start on Macbeth?" Anton asked.

          "We certainly do not write it off," Duke thundered.  "Antichrist, Superstar is a brilliant play.  I still think it's destined to bring you the Pulitzer and, by God, if only sixteen people a night want to come and see history in the making, then only sixteen people a night will get that chance in this hick town.  I'm behind you one‑hundred percent, Anton.  I will be proud fifty years from now to be known as the man who gave Anton O'Masia's first blockbuster its first full scale production.  Nobody's going to take that away from me.  I'll go down in history along with that woman who first published James Joyce's Ulysses.  We First Amendment firebrands are a hearty breed, you know.  We're not the type to back down from a skirmish."

          "Yeah, that's what I hear.  By the way, Duke, what was that woman's name, anyway?  It seems to have slipped my mind." Anton's eyes twinkled in amusement as he watched the other man's mouth and eyebrows contort in a ballet of mnemonic urgings.

          "Actually, I don't rightly recall.  But it's not important anyway.  The important thing is that nobody else would publish Joyce until her.  Well, nobody would touch your play until me, right?  And when it's recognized as a classic thirty years down the road I at least, if nobody else, will know what my part in it was.  And how ironic it will be that this town--which in my opinion could certainly stand a little more positive historical footnoting, we have quite a lurid history of well-known murderers passing in and out and settling down, you know, you might even want to do a little research, I'm sure there's a play in it somewhere--passed it over like yesterday's fishing report."

          "I appreciate that, Duke.  I truly do.  But in the meantime there are other concerns I know you must worry about.  You know, little things like paying electric bills, rent, actors‑‑"

          "I'm not closing up.  Forget it.  Put the thought out of your brilliant but unnecessarily troubled mind.  I know you're eager to start directing your gangster Scottish play, but don't you think your own flesh and blood is more important?  Good God, man!"

          Anton's hands reached in hopeless surrender for the fault-line running almost the length of the ceiling.  "It's your funeral.  If you want to go broke putting on a play no one wants to see, I guess it's up to you."

          Duke laughed and shook his head.  "Yeah, and they've been begging for Shakespeare in this town longer than I can remember.  Listen, I thought the creative side of this business wasn't supposed to care about economics?"

          "That's just we what we want you to think.  That way, see, we can act like it doesn't really concern us and put ourselves above it when we get our agents to start haggling over a few measly and unimportant million dollars."

          "Ah.  Clever, that."

          Anton stood up and stretched his arms.  "So.  We'll do it again tomorrow, and then the Sunday matinee.  Then do it all over again next week and that'll be the end of it."

          "Hopefully not," Duke replied, thrusting his gargoyle face forward.  "Who knows?  Maybe those sixteen people will start some serious word of mouth.  We might have thirty‑two people tomorrow and sixty‑four people Sunday."

          "Exponentially speaking, you are an optmistic fool, aren't you?  Imagine having sixty‑four people in this part of the country come to see a play called Antichrist Superstar! on a Sunday afternoon."

          Duke laughed again, his jowls doing a waltz on either side of his mouth.  "You said right from the beginning that I'd have to be crazy to put this play of yours on deep in the heart of the Bible Belt.  Wouldn't it be the ultimate irony if it actually became a hit?"

          "Say, Duke, have you ever noticed how much you love using that word?  Irony?"

          "Of course, it wouldn't surprise me.  When I want to be, I can be quite verbose.  Talkative.  Loquacious, even.  I guess you writerly types pick up quicker on things like that.  Do I really use it that much?"  He pursed his lips.  "Hmm, I honestly never noticed."

          "Mmm.  How ironic."

 

CHAPTER FOUR

The Plot Intrudes

 

          Saturday afternoons in the fall were usually Pastor Matthew Schaffner's favorite times of the year.  In the peace and quiet of his study he could usually count on sitting in the comfort of his reclining rocker, maybe watch some college football if it wasn't Notre Dame, and put the finishing touches on his sermon for the next day.  However, there was something of a nip in the air outside that gave hint that it might as well be officially winter for the rest of the country and Christmas was fast approaching his small dominion, which meant no more lazy Saturdays for the next month.

          The economy of Fountain of Youth had been driven for the past half-century by the military bases dotting Escambia and Santa Rosa Counties.  Massive cuts in the defense budget over the past two years was now beginning to hit the town hard and business was slipping right out from underneath the area.  Pastor Schaffner felt passionately that it was up to him to restore their faith in something.  The people of Fountain of Youth and the surrounding communities were going to get hit hard on the paycheck this holiday season, which meant not enough money to go around, which meant multitudes of unhappy people, which meant a cornucopia of new parishioners if he worked hard and smart.  And if there were two things in the world that Pastor Matthew Schaffner was it was a hard worker and a smart cookie.  He had just the thing to give them to replace their lost faith in the government.

          God!

          And it was about time they came crawling back, too.  This God Is Dead nonsense had been going on quite long enough, thank you very much.  And just look at what it had gotten everybody.  The most sinful expanse of land the world had seen since the heyday of Sodom and Gomorrah, and maybe things were even worse now.  Who knew?  So, on this unseasonably chilly Saturday, Pastor Schaffner was anything but peaceful.  For he had no sure-fire matchstick with which to light the torch of redemption for the town.

          Asking them to put their faith in God was one thing.  Telling them to do it was something else again.  But showing them that they had no other choice, ah that was the true way to salvation.  Never before in the history of this miserable world were so many people so distressingly blind about so many things.  You practically had to go out into the multitudes, take them by the hand and draw it on their palms as though they were all little blind Helen Kellers like in that movie his daughter Beth enjoyed so much.

          He bit on the tip of his pen, wondering where to begin.  What evil best to point up to show them the way?

          A tap-tap-tapping came at his parlor door.  A matronly woman with reddish-brown hair who had been a true traffic-stopping beauty only a short decade and a half earlier poked her head in.  "Matthew?  There's a young lady outside who wishes to speak with you."

          Schaffner's eyes rose to Heaven.  "I've asked you not to disturb me when I'm writing sermon," he said, eerily sounding to anyone else who might have been listening just like Jack Nicholson explaining to Shelly Duvall in The Shining that she was never to bother him when she heard the typewriter and she wasn’t to bother him when she didn't hear the typewriter.  Of course, Pastor Schaffner would have found that comparison verging on slander.  It was he after all who had led the--unfortunately unsuccessful--attempt to get that particular piece of cinematic profanity banned from local movie screens.

          "She's very upset.  I really think you should talk to her."

          "What's wrong with her?"

          "I don't know.  She won't tell me."

          Sighing, he put down the pen and paper.  "Is she of the congregation?"

          "Yes.  It's Erica Withershins."

          "All right, show her in.  But I don't want this to become a common occurrence," he cautioned, one slender manicured finger hovering ominously in the air.  Straightening his back, he put on his concerned counselor face, which basically consisted of lowering his brows until they threatened to overrun his owlish eyes, and pursing his lips.  The effect, or so he chose to think, made him look strikingly similar to a likeness of St. Augustine in a nineteenth century painting he had once come across in a Parisian church.  Though he by nature, of course, wasn't much one for saints, he'd always held a fascination for St. Augustine that he could never quite adequately explain.

          The door creaked open and into the room entered a younger, sultrier version of a famous actress he'd seen on television, but whose name at the moment escaped him.  Schaffner was pleasantly surprised to see that, although her rather ample bosom probably drew its fair share of stares from oversexed young men, unlike the majority of girls her age she wasn't parading that portion--nor any other portion--of her flesh around for all the world to devour.  She wore a black turtleneck sweater and a modest white skirt that actually came below her knees.  Of course, there was no telling whether her choice in wardrobe could just as easily have been dictated by the unexpected onrush of cool weather rather than spiritual cleanliness.

          He'd always liked her, though she'd become less involved in the church after her parents had divorced.  And then about six months ago he noticed her popping up fairly regularly again in the congregation during his sermons.  A very welcome addition, indeed.  Standing up, he invited her to sit across from him.  "Erica.  It's been a long time since we've talked.  I hope nothing's wrong with your mother."

          "No.  It's nothing like that, Pastor Schaffner.  Thanks for your concern, though."

          "It is my job."

          She looked at him sideways and smiled.  "I never thought of it that way, but I guess it is, isn't it?"

          "Most people think I'm here just to tell them that it's wrong for them to be doing this or that.  Or that I need money from them so we can buy more pews.  They don't understand that those things aren't at all what my job is about.  It's about helping people.  In many ways, it's similar to being a doctor."  He leaned forward.  "Except there's less blood and my bill won't put you right back into the hospital."  He watched with professional satisfaction as the corners of Erica's mouth turned up and she laughed.  The job was already half over.  "Mrs. Schaffner tells me that you are upset about something.  If it's not your mother, what is it?  Your father?"

          "No.  The whole family's okay.  Separated, but fine."

          "It happens to the strongest of marriages, Erica."

          "Oh, I'm okay with it, Pastor.  They actually get along better now than they did when they were married."

          "Mysterious ways..."

          Erica nodded.  "Actually, I came to see you because of this play I saw last night."

          "The Dickens thing down at FOYT?  Granted, it's not the most representative piece concerning the true meaning of Christmas that they could have chosen.  But, it's an institution by now.  Can't be changed.  And at least it does offer a sound Christian moral in the end."

          "No, Pastor.  I'm not talking about that play.