From her spot at the bar between J.W. and Doolittle, Jolene watched Corky draw three beers from the little tap in his plastic line he had run through the floor above, allowed the foam to settle a bit, and then watched him limp down the length of the bar, his mouse tail tucked carefully out of the way, to drop two off for Skip and Norton, and bring the other one to Doolittle. Corky had to grasp all three handles of the mugs with one of his little white paws, because he still had to use his cane after his accident.

“Leg still bothering you, Corky?” Jolene asked him.

“Oh, yeh,” he answered. “Doc says it probably always will.”

Corky leaned his cane behind the bar.

“What do you expect, though?” he groused. “I mean, only a fool would try to do the bartender thing, slinging bottles over my shoulders and down my arms and everything, when I was using airline size bottles. Looked good, but too big for a mouse. Sooner or later, one had to slip and break my leg.”

Jolene looked at the boards of the floor above their heads, the floor joists that served as the walls, and the occasional nails hanging down that had missed their marks in the joists. Corky had done such a great job decorating the place! The bar was made out of two long wooden blocks from a children’s building block set, one yellow and one red, placed end to end, and the bar stools were wooden sewing spools, just the right size for white mice. Flat, wooden popsicle sticks and dice for spacers made perfect shelves behind the bar. Jolene had even helped brighten things up by winding a short string of white, miniature Christmas lights between some of the nails overhead. She thought it was the least she could do for the friendly confines Corky provided for her and her friends. Skip dipped into his Post Office stuff, and brought in an assortment of colorful, commemorative postage stamps to hang on the walls. The end effect made a warm, cozy mouse hangout.

Also, Jolene’s question about Corky’s leg had been a rhetorical one, since she already knew the answer, but her heart still went out to the guy, and she had to ask anyway to let him know she was thinking about him. Doing the juggling act with the bottles had been Corky’s thing from the first day he opened up Jeers beneath the tavern above. The acrobatics brought in a lot of business before he got hurt. Now, he just had to hope all the mice would come back. At least, he still had his regular crowd.

“I should have been smart enough to use accessories from Barbie and Ken sets from the beginning,” continued Corky. “They’re about the right size, especially the bottles, beer mugs and martini glasses. I just fill the Barbie bottles from the airline bottles and do the juggling with them. It works, just doesn’t have all the drama to draw in the crowds like before.”

“They’ll come back,” she assured him.

“I was pretty good with the airline bottles, though, wasn’t I?” bragged Corky. “I could sling them around like crazy.”

“You sure could!” said Jolene. “You were great, just like Tom Cruise in that movie! Who would have thought a bottle would get away and fall on your leg like that?”

Corky shrugged.

“Live and learn, I guess,” he said.

He looked at J.W. and Doolittle as they sat sullenly, hunched over their mugs.

“What’s with you two?” asked Corky. “Looks like you’ve been sentenced to death by the blues!”

Doolittle sipped the fresh beer and hung his head. J.W. sat with one elbow on the bar, his chin resting on his paw, and his tail in a limp pile behind him on the floor.

“What mouse wouldn’t have the blues?” Doolittle said into the beer. “I mean, there’s no jobs. Even if I wanted to work, I couldn’t!”

“That’s right,” complained J.W. “Did you hear that Johnson & Johnson just laid off two hundred more? Bayer did the same thing the week before. It’s hopeless! Lab mice don’t have a chance, anymore!”

Corky looked at J.W.’s half empty mug.

“You ready for another one, yet?”

“I don’t know,” answered J.W.

“It isn’t rocket science!” exclaimed Corky. “You either do or you don’t!”

Corky didn’t have to be so rough on him, thought Jolene. It was just difficult for J.W. to make a decision. J.W. looked uncertain, his chin still in his paw.

“Oh,all right,” he finally decided. “I guess so.”

Corky limped away to get the refill. Down the bar, Skip looked up with foam covering the white hair around his pink lips, his brew already half gone.

“Why SHOULD any of the pharmaceutical companies hire lab mice, anymore?” he said. “They don’t HAVE to!”

“That’s right,” agreed Norton. “Why do R and D? Their advertising budgets are WAY bigger than their research budgets!”

“Sure!” chipped in Doolittle. “It works! That’s why I can’t kick back in my Lazy Boy without seeing their stupid commercials!”

“And if you pay attention to what the advertising companies are doing,” added Jolene, “they’re not even selling the medication! They’re selling an emotion!”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Skip.

“Look at how the action develops in the commercial,” continued Jolene. “It always starts out kind of gray and dark. The central person is uncertain, or worried, or depressed, kind of left out. The other people seem concerned about them.”

Corky returned with a new beer for Skip, and stopped to listen.

“Sounds like your life story, Skip,” said Corky as he set the full mug on the bar.

“It’s what living under the post office does for you, my friend,” quipped Skip. “You just don’t know the real me! My life is like one big happy pill trip!”

Jolene ignored the chatter.

“Then, the person takes the pill,” she went on, “and all of a sudden the sun comes out! The person is the center of attention! Everyone is a friend, smiling and laughing, patting the person on the back! Life is great! The ad company is selling an emotion and connecting it to the pill. They want you to come away remembering happiness and joy, not the list of side effects.”

“The ad companies are good!” agreed Norton with his usual smile.

“Oh, yes!” exclaimed J.W. “Nobody ever listens to the side effects.”

“They’re like a broken record, playing in the background,” said Jolene. “And the most disgusting drugs, to me, are the ones for depression and mood enhancement.”

“There you go, Skip!” exclaimed Norton. “Mood enhancement!”

“They take medications that were originally intended for really serious mental disorders, like schizophrenia and bipolar conditions, and they encourage doctors to prescribe them as happy pills,” said Jolene. “Listen to some of those commercials!”

“Right!” said J.W. “The two that get me are Abilify and Cymbalta. Those side effects are particularly scary.”

“I know!” agreed Skip, apparently on a serious note. “I think it was one for Cymbalta that I saw last night. The list of side effects went on and on. Suicidal thoughts, anxiety, panic attacks, trouble sleeping, impulsive, irritable, hostile, aggressive! Which is worse, the depression, or the side effects?”

“Exactly!” said Jolene.

“I heard one for Abilify that was about as bad,” added Doolittle. “Some of those side effects were fever, rapid heart rate, uncontrolled muscle movements, severe headaches, problems with vision, speech or balance, more suicidal thoughts. It’s enough to make you depressed just listening to all that!”

“None of them have a clue about the long range effects!” said Jolene with a shake of her head.

“No kidding!” chirped up Corky. “There could be some totally weird stuff stuck in the middle of the list of side effects, and no one would even notice! Like enlarging of the ears or something!”

“Maybe that’s what Dumbo took to make his ears like that!” joked Norton.

“No joke, my friend,” added Skip. “Hold that idea for a minute! If people thought they could take a pill, grow big ears and fly, stores couldn’t keep that stuff on their shelves!”

“Or how about this for a side effect!” said Corky. “Might increase brain capacity.”

“I could use some of that, how about you, Cork?” said Skip.

“I’d mainline it!” quipped Norton.

“Or how about this!” exclaimed J.W. “Prolonged use could cause rapid decision making. I’d buy that!”

“Or, when taken in excess, this product could create enormous energy spurts!” exclaimed Doolittle. “That’s what I need!”

“That’s kind of like that one you take, isn’t it Skip?” asked Norton. “Cialis?”

“Bring it on!” said Skip as he finished his beer.

“You guys can only wish!” said Jolene.

“Might work for women, too!” said J.W.

Corky ended the silence that followed.

“All the stuff we’ve come up with so far has been good stuff!” said Corky. “How about some bad side effects, stuff that nobody wants!”

“You mean the lists of side effects they read on the commercials aren’t bad enough?” exclaimed Doolittle.

“A-a-a-a!” said Corky with a dismissing wave of his hand. “Fever, rapid heart rate, headaches, blurred vision, panic attacks, irritability, trouble sleeping! People have that stuff all the time!”

“Yeh!” agreed Norton. “Somebody hears that, and they say, big deal! Sounds like a normal afternoon to me!”

“Now, you’re on to something!” said Jolene. “A lot of people have those symptoms all the time, probably from meds they already take! They figure, if that’s all it causes, I can handle it! Tell me something I don’t already know!”

“Right!” continued Corky. “We need stuff that NOBODY wants! Like use of this medication might cause one of your legs to drop off at the knee!”

“Hey!” said Skip. “That might be kind of cool! I’ve always thought I might look good with a peg leg! Ar-r-r-r!”

“Okay, okay!” said Corky. “Something really bad, like shrinking of the head!”

“Now, I would think twice before taking that pill!” conceded Skip.

“Or large growths on the nose!” said J.W.

“That is something I wouldn’t want!” said Jolene.

“Or use of this product can cause your teeth to fall out,” said Corky.

“Not bad enough!” said Norton. “Dental implants have come a long way!”

“Okay, smart guy!” said Corky. “How about prolonged use of this medication could cause your body to shrink.”

“All over, or just parts of it?” joked Skip.

“All of it!” pressed Corky. “Prolonged use might make you turn into a dwarf!”

“Oo-o-o-o!” mused Doolittle. “The Little People!”

“Kind of like the pills people took in the Sixties!” said Jolene. “Like Allice In Wonderland!”

All of them stopped talking on that note. Everybody seemed lost in thought.

“I have an uncle who said he used to know Little People,” said Corky.

That was kind of out of the blue, thought Jolene.

“Did he see them in the sixties?” she tested to see if he was still joking.

“No,” said Corky. “I mean I think he actually saw them. He said he did, anyway. He lived in England at the time.”

“What kind of Little People?” continued Jolene.

“Well, did you ever hear of the Borrowers?” asked Corky. “There were some books about them. They were supposed to be like six inches tall. Lived under the floor of an old country mansion.”

“Actually, I HAVE heard of the Borrowers!” exclaimed Jolene. “I loved those books when I was a little girl mouse!”

“Same ones, I think,” said Corky. “Except when my uncle knew them, it was maybe the generation after the ones from the books. People didn’t call them Borrowers, anymore. By then, they called them Swipers.”

“Swipers?” echoed Jolene.

“Yeh, I mean, they pretty much kept all the stuff that they borrowed, anyway,” explained Corky. “Wooden thread spools for furniture, needles for sewing, scraps of cloth for clothing, cotton and match boxes for beds, maybe some dollhouse furniture, whatever they could find to use if you’re six inches tall. Scraps of food.”

“Hm-m-m!” said Jolene. “Swipers. Kind of puts a different spin on the kids books.”

Corky shrugged.

“It is what it is, I guess,” replied Corky.

“How did your Uncle know them,” Jolene asked.

“Well, like I said,” Corky went on. “They were all under the floor of this old house, Little People, mice and all, kind of like neighbors. They all had to live together down there. They were probably kind of in competition with each other, especially for the food scraps. Only so much to go around, I suppose. The Cook and the Housekeeper had suspicions that something weird was going on, and they were always like looking for them.”

“What would you expect?” piped up Skip. “They were swipers!”

“And then there were the rats!” added Corky.

“Yes!” agreed Jolene. “The Borrowers were always fighting with the rats, because they were so big.”

“Big rat bastards, eh?” mused Norton. “I hate rats!”

“Was that the only Little People your Uncle ever saw?” questioned Jolene.

She was fascinated, and she didn’t want to let it go.

“Actually, my Uncle heard rumors that there were more somewhere,” said Skip.

“More of them turned up in the books,” Jolene chipped in. “Long lost Country Cousins, or something.”

“Well, there you go!” exclaimed Norton. “Maybe they’re all over the place, thousands, maybe millions of them! Who knows how many? Maybe they sneak around and swipe stuff all over the world!”

“Not too much different than us, wouldn’t you say?” added J.W., seemingly on a philosophical note. “We’re all over the place sneaking around and swiping stuff, too!”

Corky waved his hand as if to dismiss the accusation.

“Call it what you want,” he said. “I don’t care. Borrowing, taking, swiping, whatever. I just rip stuff off and keep it! No one ever misses it!”

“How about little Sally Ann that owned the Barbie and Ken stuff?” teased Norton.

“Little Sally Ann lost more pieces than she had in the first place!” defended Corky. “Her little brother Danny probably ate them, or maybe they got sucked up by the vacuum cleaner!”

“Maybe there’s some Little People here right now spying on us!” said Skip, raising his hands palms down and shifting his shoulders from side to side. “Oo-o-o-o! Kind of creepy!”

“People upstairs at Jeers have been complaining that things have come up missing,” offered Corky. “Maybe that’s why!”

“Big deal!” interjected Doolittle. “So some meaningless stuff comes up missing! Let the Little People have it! I bet no one ever appreciates them for the good things they do! Like that cook and housekeeper at the mansion in England. Did they ever stop to think about all the rats the Little People drove away? Oh no! They never stop to be thankful for that!”

Jolene looked at Doolittle. She was trying to see where he was going with this new side track.

“The Little People and white mice have a lot in common!” continued Doolittle. “We’re both unappreciated! I mean, white mice make a big contribution! Look at all the stuff that gets tested on us! But do we ever get credit for that?”

Jolene seldom saw Doolittle hot about anything, but he was hot about this.

“Like the monkeys and the space program!” exclaimed Doolittle. “Where would NASA be without all the help from the monkeys? Human beans would never have reached the moon without them!”

Jolene stared at Doolittle with a slight smile on her lips.

“That’s human BEINGS, Doo!” she said gently.

Doolittle stared back at her with a look of astonishment.

“You’re kidding!” he cried.

Jolene shook her head, still smiling at him.

“And all this time, I thought they were beans!” he said. “Oh well! Whatever! Anyway, I’d rather hang out with a monkey any day, than a human BEING! Monkeys are funnier, and a lot smarter!”

“Here here!” spoke up Skip. “I’ll drink to that!”

“A noble sentiment, my friend!” said Norton, clinking Skip’s mug with his own, like a high five. “But one without much weight, since you’ll drink to most anything.”

Corky brought both mice refills without even being asked. Jolene, however, wanted to steer the conversation back to the Little People.

“I’d like to visit your Uncle and see if we could find these Borrowers, or Swipers, or whatever they’re called now!” said Jolene, still taken by the idea. “We should all go over to England and see if we could find them. Anybody interested?”

All the mice were quiet for a change, apparently thinking about Jolene’s question.

“I’m out,” said Corky. “I couldn’t just close up the bar and leave. There’s no one that would run it for me while I was gone.”

“I don’t know,” said J.W., probably unable to decide. “I’d have to think about it.”

“I’d go!” offered Skip. “Nobody upstairs at the Post Office would ever miss me!”

“Scratch me off the list,” said Norton. “I’ve got too much stuff going on right now. Besides, i’m not interested in Little People, anyway.”

“I’ll go!” exclaimed Doolittle. “Sounds like fun to me, going to England and all! There’s nothing here to stick around for! It’s not like a bunch of lab mice jobs are going to open up!”

“Okay!” said Jolene. “The three of us can go, then! Nothing like a good adventure to spice up our lives!”

She looked at Skip and Doolittle.

“You guys want to drop by my place later to make some plans?” she said excitedly.

“You betcha!” replied Skip. “I can make it by eight.”

“I’ll be there!” answered Doolittle.

 

That night, the three met at Jolene’s place, which was in the basement of an old shoe store. The apartment consisted of several shoe boxes pushed together with mouse holes to get from one to the other, so there was plenty of space. The mice met in the big living room, that was actually a boot box. Jolene could do wonders with decorating. In her living room, she had comfy chenille trimmed with ricrac covering the match box furniture.

“We can leave in a couple of days,” said Jolene. “That will give us plenty of time to get our things together and find a freight train south to the coast.”

“A couple of days!” exclaimed Doolittle. “I’m ready now! I came all packed and ready to go! Can’t you two throw your stuff together by tomorrow morning?”

Jolene had to smile. She had not seen this much enthusiasm from Doo since she gave him a lazy boy for his birthday. She glanced at Skip.

“I guess I could be ready tomorrow,” she said. “What about you, Skip?”

“Sure,” he answered. “I think you’re right, Doo. No sense in putting it off.”

Jolene felt the immediacy of the adventure drawing the three together, and they were like school kids caught up in the heat of conspiracy.

“I can hardly wait!” cried Doolittle. “We can hop a box car down to New Orleans and get on a ship going almost anywhere from there!”

Skip looked back at them with a spark in his eye, nodding in apparent anticipation.

“What fun!” said Jolene with a laugh. “Just think! Little People!”

 

 

TO BE CONTINUED

 

 

 

Nick was in a holding pattern. He was parked beside his suspect’s car (a Beamer, of course) in the parking lot outside the office building. After all his legwork to find it, he had the address and license plate saved in his cell phone, so he knew he was at the right place. It had already been an hour, but hopefully, someone would show soon. Nick’s client only wanted him to talk to the person at first. That might be enough to make the problem go away without further effort. Nick preferred to make contact in the parking lot rather than inside the building, where things could get messy. Outside, though, it was mid-August, and hot and humid, a real Missouri mugger, so he had every window in the car open. Even then, he could feel the sweat at the back of his neck.

There were trees along one side of the parking lot next to the street, and Nick had parked his old Corolla as far under one as he could, but not far enough to get much shade. Nick could see some of the round, spiky balls from the trees on the ground, so he knew they were Sweet Gums. People didn’t like to rake up the Gum balls in their yards, but Gums were native to Missouri, and they would turn pretty colors in the fall. Right now, Nick just wished he was further in the shade.

Something brushed the side of his face, a fly, maybe, and the first time, Nick merely shook his head to make it go away. The second time, though, he heard the sound it made, and it wasn’t a fly. He glanced sideways for a better look. It was a wasp and a big one!

Nick hated wasps, and he began waving both hands frantically around his head. Even then, he could hear its buzz, and it bounced again on the side of his face. Now, he was completely freaked out.

“GE-E-ET AWAY!” he cried.

Now, it had all his attention. He flapped his hands around his head and looked for the wasp, but he couldn’t see it. Just as he spied it hovering around the rear view mirror next to the windshield, it made a beeline straight for him.

“OUCH!” he cried again, looking at the small red spot on the back of his hand. “You stung me!”

Don’t bother them, and they won’t bother you? Wasn’t that the deal? Well, forget that shit!

The sting was already beginning to burn, but it would have to wait. Nick couldn’t waste time, or the crazy thing might sting him again. The wasp was still buzzing around in the front seat, and he tried to shoo it out the window. Of course, it didn’t go out, but flew into the back seat instead.

“All right, goddammit!” he swore, oblivious to everything but his dive-bombing attacker.

He twisted his legs from underneath the steering wheel so he could get on his knees to lean into the back of the car. He didn’t see it at first, but then he spotted it in the back window behind the headrest.

“Game on, bitch!” mumbled Nick under his breath.

Nick was all over it. He grabbed a paper from the nightmare in the back seat that he called his filing system, and attempted to dislodge the wasp from the base of the window.

“Is everything all right?” came a woman’s voice from outside the car.

Nick twisted his head to look out the window. The woman stood beside Nick’s car watching him. Great, he thought! Good first impression with his butt sticking out the car window. Hard telling how long she had been there!

“Yes, everything’s okay,” Nick muttered. “Just after a wasp.”

Nick collected himself and got out of his car to stand near the woman, straightening his sport coat and tie as he did so in an attempt to restore a semblance of dignity.

“Is this your car?” he asked.

“Ye-e-es,” she answered slowly, seemingly on the defensive now that Nick was next to her.

Nick fished in his pocket and handed her a business card with Nick Sword, Private Investigator in simple print along with his cell number. As she read it, Nick looked her up and down, not just because she was good looking, but because he did that with everybody. She was a brunette with short hair that was kind of spiky on top, and she didn’t wear much makeup. She was a few inches shorter than Nick, but still rather tall. Nick was 6’ 2”. She wore an over-sized top that came down past her waist, and a faded pair of blue jeans. Nick couldn’t see her eyes behind her dark sunglasses.

“You’re a Private Investigator?” she asked. “What do you want with me?”

“One of my clients is a large employer that has had several job applicants with resumes I have traced to you,” Nick began.

“Okay,” she countered. “One thing I do is write resumes. So what?”

“Well, one thing I do is check them out,” continued Nick. “My clients want to be sure their prospective employees have actually done the things they claim. In the past few months, several of the applicants’ resumes have turned out to be completely bogus, and the resumes have all come from your office. I mean, almost everything on them was total bullshit, from college degrees, to job histories, down to families and kids.”

Nick paused to give her a chance to reply, but she just stood watching him, her mouth in a straight line, arms folded across her chest.

“Oh, you’re good with the resumes, I’ll give you that,” Nick started again. “You weren’t easy to locate. Most of your people were loyal. They didn’t want to give you up. And a lot of the stuff you come up with for their histories is hard to poke holes in. Phone numbers, names, addresses, universities, they all check out on the surface. You’re good.”

A small smile had formed on her lips, although the sunglasses continued to hide her eyes.

“I do a service for people,” she stated firmly. “They all come to me willing to pay whatever I charge,”

“Yes, but it’s all lies!” Nick said, his arms outstretched from his sides, his fingers doing weird things like trying to form words.

Stop that, Nick reprimanded himself! He talked too much with his hands. His girlfriend told him that all the time.

“Most of the people who come to me have been looking for jobs for months and months and months!” she went on, warming to the subject, “some of them since they lost their previous jobs in the Great Recession. Being on the open job market, you know, is a big equalizer. Have you ever been on the open job market?”

“Actually, I have,” retorted Nick.

“Of course, you have,” she continued, almost without a pause, “and apparently without much success. That would be why you’re a private eye.”

Nick bristled at the slur, but he had to admit, she wasn’t far from wrong.

“Most of my clients are very smart,” she pressed. “If they don’t have the qualifications I give them, they could, if they ever got a break!”

Nick had his mouth open to comment, but she was really on a roll.

“To tell you the truth,” she added, “you are the first person that has ever followed up on one of my resumes! Now, what does that tell you? It says that employers either don’t give a shit, or they’re afraid of a law suit. Either reason is pathetic! That’s a pretty sad commentary on our business community, don’t you think?”

What Nick thought was that she really didn’t want an answer, since she didn’t pause long enough to give time for one.

“Anyway,” she said with a smile, “if you ever want a real job, and you need a resume, let me know, okay? Otherwise, in the event that never becomes a reality for you, just buzz off! Right now, I need to go for a dinner date!”

Dinner date! Nick looked instinctively at his watch.

“Oh, crap!” he thought out loud.

“You’ll think crap!” she burst out, stopping halfway into her car.

“No, not you!” Nick said.

The woman raised the middle finger of her right hand as a parting gesture before she disappeared into the BMW.

How did he allow this to happen again, Nick thought to himself, as he hurriedly started his car and screeched out of the parking lot, at least as much as a Corolla could screech? Kiki was cooking dinner for him tonight, and he was already late! He ran a red light to get onto the Interstate. Naturally,(it was Murphy’s Law when you were in a hurry to get stuck in traffic) the brake lights were coming on ahead of him, and the cars were slowing to a stop. Probably a wreck. Nick swerved off on the next exit ramp to try his luck on the city streets. By the time he parked in front of Kiki’s apartment building, after all the stop lights and the Friday night traffic, he was really late. He skipped the elevator and took the stairs two at a time.

As soon as Nick let himself into the apartment, he could feel the oppressive weight of doom in the air. The lights were off and the blinds were shut, leaving only thin ribbons of light on the floor beneath the windows. The drape was pulled across the balcony door, shutting out most of the late afternoon sun. Sid Caesar, Kiki’s dog, a cross between a Chihuahua and a Jack Russell Terrier, that was about the size of a small wharf rat, and who always seemed to mirror Kiki’s moods, darted out of the shadows and attacked him, growling and tugging at the bottom of one leg of his jeans.

“Stop it, Caesar,” Nick said, hobbling forward, shaking his leg and dragging the dog with him.

In the dining room, the food was still on the table, but the hostess candles, Kiki’s idea of a candlelight dinner, were blown out. The food was lasagna, most likely Lean Cuisine, since Kiki was not exactly a gourmet cook.What must have been Nick’s had an upside-down cigar stuck in the top of it like someone’s twisted idea of a birthday candle. Nick knew the message. If there was one thing that was a deal-breaker for him with a woman, besides not having a job and living with her mother, it was smoking. Kiki knew that. Nick hated cigars worst of all, which Kiki also knew, so it was the ultimate insult. This stogy had been lit, too, for added effect, even though Kiki didn’t smoke, andt it stunk in the lasagna. She had also gotten cheesecake for dessert, and the slice next to Nick’s plate had what looked like cat litter dumped on it, cat litter straight from Rosey’s cat box with none of the “gold” sifted out. Nice touch.

All in all, she had left a string of clues that didn’t take a private detective to figure out they spelled deep doodoo. If there was any doubt, the Asshole! sign on her bedroom door took care of that. Nick knocked on the door.

Her name was Kathleen, which she hated, and she called herself Kate, although no one else did, but everyone knew her as Kiki, which she also hated.

“Come on, Taft,” he said. “Open the door, please. I’m sorry I was late, but I was on a job for a client.”

Kiki’s favorite action hero was Steven Seagal, and Nick could hear her in there listening to “Under Siege”. She listened to Seagal movies all the time, and Nick had them memorized. His nickname for her was Taft for Seagal’s character, Forrest Taft, in “On Deadly Ground”, Kiki’s all-time favorite. Nick could imagine her right now sitting on her bed with Roseanne Roseannadanna, her cat that she kept shut up in the bedroom to keep peace with Sid Caesar, curled up beside her, the movie poster hanging on the wall behind her with Seagal, aka Forrest Taft, dressed in his fringed and beaded cowhide jacket.

“Will you open the door, please?” Nick pleaded.

Nick’s text message tone, the opening notes of the music from Dragnet that went   du-u-um da dum dum, went off, and he dug the cell phone from his pocket. What now? He had all he could handle at the moment. It was from Kiki.

“Not just no, but HELL NO!!!!!” it read.

He started to reply to the text, but stopped, not wanting to play her game.

“Will you at least talk to me?” Nick said to the door.

A few minutes later when she answered, it was again in a text.

“Wait for me on the couch,” it read.

Nick sighed and went to the couch, dragging Sid Caesar along with him. The little bastard was tenacious. Nick couldn’t blame Kiki, since he was the one who screwed up in the first place. The cigar in the lasagna continued to fill the air with its stench, and Nick could hear the denim of his jeans tearing as the dog’s attack, if you could call it that, gained intensity.

After about ten minutes, a length of time that was probably either what she deemed as suitable punishment or just where there was a lull in the Under Siege action, Taft emerged from the bedroom dressed in her knee-length, multi-colored blue cape she had bought on the internet that was supposed to be a replica of one of Seagal’s outfits he had worn to the Oscars, accompanied by bright purple knee socks. Nick thought the cape was hideous, but he wasn’t about to tell her that, especially not at the moment. She perched on the opposite end of the couch, and Sid Caesar let go of Nick’s pants to hop onto her lap.

“Yes, him is my little Caesar man, isn’t him?” she baby talked to the dog as she rubbed his ears. “Always protecting mommy. Yes, him is! Oh, yes, him is!”

“My suspect took forever to come out of her building, and I totally forgot about the time,” Nick apologized. “Can you forgive me, baby?”

Kiki punched both thumbs on her phone, and Nick’s text tone went off again.

“Don’t you baby me!” Nick read.

“Come on, Taft,” Nick tried again. “Can’t we at least talk to each other?”

The dog lay on his back on Kiki’s lap as she rubbed his belly.

“Tell your doggy daddy that mommy found a good Aikido teacher.” Kiki said to Caesar.  “His name is Master Cho, and mommy has already been to one lesson.”

Aikido was the school of martial arts that, who else, Seagal practiced. Nick had been taking Karate lessons for a couple of years, just in case he ever needed it, so he considered himself an expert of sorts.

“That’s great!” responded Nick, glad that Kiki was at least speaking now, even if it wasn’t directly to him.

Caesar looked like he was asleep on Kiki’s lap.

“Tell your daddy that mommy will show him what Master Cho teaches her after a few more lessons,” cooed Kiki.

Nick started to talk to the dog, but caught himself.

“Seriously, I want you to catch me off guard with it any time you want,” said Nick, just to make her feel good. “It will help me work on my moves and give me a little bit of a workout. I mean, I wouldn’t hurt you or anything. Just for fun.”

Kiki didn’t say anything. She didn’t even look up, but just kept petting the sleeping Caesar’s belly.

“Don’t get me wrong,” said Nick. “I realize that it will probably be quite a while before you feel comfortable enough to try any kicks or any of that stuff. It took me a while, although I’m over that now. I mean, I’m into some pretty advanced stuff.”

Enough said, thought Nick. It would probably never happen, anyway. Taft would most likely be intimidated by Nick’s experience. After all, he had a couple of years under his belt (a white one, as a matter of fact). She would find that watching Seagal do his martial arts stuff in the movies was a far cry from actually performing it against real competition.

Nick’s text tone went off again. What now, he thought, looking at his phone. It wasn’t Taft this time.

“I need you. Urgent. Meet me at my office parking lot in about an hour?”

The sending number looked familiar, and he checked it in his phone. It was the resume lady! Now, what was that all about?

“I’ve got to go, Taft,” he said, rising from the couch.. “I don’t know what this is, but it could be important.”

Nick didn’t figure that his leaving would make the situation with Kiki any worse. He wanted to see what this woman wanted that could be so urgent. And what was with the text? Why didn’t she call? Was there some kind of a conspiracy all of a sudden with women texting and not talking?

As soon as Nick began moving toward the door, Sid Caesar hopped off Kiki’s lap and started humping Nick’s leg, his front paws locked around Nick’s calf.

“Caesar, ask your daddy if he’ll take you for a walk before he goes,” said Taft. “And stop doing that. You know mommy doesn’t like it.”

“Yeh, sure,” answered Nick. “I’ll take him out.”

After screwing up dinner, he couldn’t refuse. With the dog still doing his thing, Nick limped stiff legged toward the door and picked up Sid Ceasar’s leash from the wall hook. He could do doggy duty. Whatever! It didn’t appear that Nick would be getting any with Kiki in the near future, but that didn’t mean everybody had to do without. The dog could have sex with Nick’s leg.

Yes, him could. Oh, yes, him could, Nick thought to himself as he waited for the elevator.

 

TO BE CONTINUED