Date: Sat, 13 Nov 1999 16:26:12 -0000
From: Ernie <ernies@ionia-mi.net>
Subject: An incident Halfway to Hell

AN INCIDENT HALFWAY TO HELL

By Ian DeShils


"Allemande left and dosado - swing that girl and let her go . . . "
A man with snow white hair and a lyrical voice guided the patterns with a
practiced finesse. Fiddles skirled, the dancers circled - the girl once
more came back to Casey O'Brian's arm and then the final notes swooped down
to signal dance's end.

Applause, foot stomps and whistles hailed the musicians. "We'll take a15
minute break, folks." The caller announced, "don't forget, -  there are
still raffle tickets at the concession stand - and after the break we've
got a line dance coming up."

The girl fanned herself with a piece of paper, an advertisement for the
dance, Casey noted.  "Would you like a soda. . .?" What was her name? For a
moment Casey was at a loss, then it came to him: Judy! Yes - only Judy
what? That, he couldn't remember from their brief introduction of a few
minutes ago.

"Yes, please." came the girl's shy reply. She's really cute, Casey
thought. A terrific dancer too. From their first turn on the floor he
realized that Judy was one of those rare naturals who moved as though they
had been practicing together for months. He rather liked her shyness as
well and found it a refreshing change from the brashness of the women he
worked with at Paramount.

While wending his way to the refreshment stand, Casey started putting
together little scenarios on how to get Judy's phone number without acting
like he was coming on to her. She's way too good a dance partner to lose
track of, he thought. On the other hand, he didn't have the time or the
inclination to get into the dating scene again . . .  Oh, Christ, he told
himself in disgust - here you go again - worrying over details.  Just ask
her - and stop being such a wuss!

Catching the bearded counter man's eye, Casey held up two fingers and
pointed to the Coke sign. The man nodded while he continued to filling a
row of paper cups that stretched out beside him.  Casey leaned against the
counter. Like so many other Friday nights, he again felt the comforting ebb
and flow of conversation wash over him - the little bursts of laughter that
seemed to crest like waves. He enjoyed this place. No matter how tiring the
week might be, a Friday night here always seemed to revive his spirits.
There was nothing fancy about it, just a big old VFW club and a bunch of
ordinary folks coming together for an evening of fun, yet of all the
available entertainment in LA, this had become his favorite spot to unwind.

"Hi, Casey!" A girl called.  Looking up he was Irene and Steve, a young
couple that attended almost every Friday. He smiled and waved at them, and
at several others who were headed for the seating along the far wall. Half
the people here he knew by sight, if not by name. It was the kind of
comfortable anonymity that he cherished - and which he hoped wouldn't end
quite as abruptly as Spear and the honchos at Paramount were talking
about. They were now using terms like 'block buster' and 'smash' for
"LoveStories", but, surely they couldn't know yet. The last scenes were
barely in the can - the final cut still weeks away.

These thoughts he pushed aside. Hit or not, he was proud of the work he'd
done in "Love Stories". It was a good film, a solid job of acting - he knew
it from watching the daily's and from the comments made by Marvin Spear,
one of Hollywood's toughest directors. In fact he almost hoped Spear was
wrong. A good film, yes, something to build a career on, but not a smash -
Casey no longer yearned for instant fame - his 5 year acquaintance with the
rich and famous of Hollywood had long ago cured him of those fantasies.
 	
Turning back to see how his order was coming he watched the kids behind the
counter slap hot dogs together and pour cheese over chips. Casey recognized
most of them from previous nights, except for the guy pouring drinks. He
was new - and not all that familiar with the Coke machine Casey realized as
he watched several cups overflow. A few moments later the drinks were on
the counter, "Good crowd tonight." Casey observed.

"Yeah, not bad. Can't say I care much for country-western music, but it
pulls 'em in I guess. That'll be three bucks."

As he worked his way back through the crowd Casey spotted Judy standing
with a blond girl, their backs to him, heads together. Something about the
blond seemed familiar. It was the way she stood, a hand on one hip. . .
Almost like Melva . . . The thought crossed his mind but he brushed it
aside. Melva and country music? What a laugh! Yet, as he drew nearer he
heard the blond woman's voice over the buzz of the crowd. . . And it was a
voice he knew all too well. Casey's name was spoken, along with a
derogatory term that caused him to stop dead in his tracks. What the devil
is she up to, he wondered. Stepping forward he cleared his throat and said,
"Judy, here's your soda."

The girl spun, red faced and took a step backwards. Melva turned and Casey
got a look at her in a form he barely recognized; her dark hair now
bleached a silver blond. What a change, he thought, almost like a disguise.
And not for the better, he realized. Her coloring just didn't go with that
hair and the odd orange shade of lipstick she wore.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked.

"Oh, I just happened to be passing." She replied, tossing her new bright
locks in an old familiar way, "It looked kinda interesting."

"Cut the crap, Melva, you wouldn't be caught dead in a place like this."

Judy stood aside looking at the two in consternation.

Melva offered up her tight little smile which to Casey spoke as plain as
words: The evil bitch was here to cause trouble - he knew that the same way
he knew the sun rose in the east. He glanced around expecting to see some
of her security men, but instead spied Hoot standing by the door. Shit! Now
she's dragging him into it. Damn her to hell! Casey suddenly felt trapped.
Not even friendship was sacred when Melva decided to claim her pound of
flesh.

"It's not going to happen you know, so you might as well forget it." He
told her.

"There's a contract, O'Brian. You took the loot quick enough, now we get to
name the product."

"Like hell you do. I returned that money twice and you refused it."

"Uh-huh, sure you did . . ." The sarcasm rolled from her lips, "tell me
another, Casey - I love fairy tales."

"You know damn well I did! And if you think that cockamamie agreement will
stand up in court, just try it, I dare you."

"Vitto thinks it might, anyway you signed a waver and that's good enough
for me."

"Damn it, Melva, what is it about "NO" that you don't understand? It's not
going to happen so just get out of my life and leave me alone!"

"Not likely Sweetheart. You owe a chunk of money, remember? We had a deal
and you'll stick to it or wish you had."

Casey's Irish temper flared. "Do I have to get a court order? Two years ago
you didn't give a shit, 'Hit the road' are the words I remember. Now, when
it would ruin everything for me, you and Vitto want a flick, well, in your
dreams baby!"

"Oh, I have dreams Case, dreams of seeing you on the small screen doing
what you do best. It just so happens that right now you're worth a fortune
to Vitto, so like it or not, it's time to pay the piper." Turning to Judy,
Melva said, "You do know what he does best, don't you? Well let me tell
you, Honey. . ."

Casey felt like decking her, but instead he quickly interrupted in a voice
loud enough to override hers, "Gee, I guess we all have dreams, Melva. Mine
are of you taking piss test every week. I read about the drunk driving
charge. Has the old court system got you dried out yet?" That should twist
her crank! Melva never could stand being ridiculed. He appraised her
carefully. It was 10 o'clock and she was still stone cold sober - must be
the probation, he thought.

Casey's words hit the exact spot he aimed for; Melva's face blanched before
turning beet red. She fumed, practically breathing fire, but Casey didn't
let up. Since they were finally face to face, he went for the
showdown. "So, how did you like the drunk tank?  That must have been damn
exciting for you Melv, all those hulking big cops with handcuffs and
nightstick's. Oh, that's right - I forgot. YOU like to do the cuffing, not
the other way around."

That did the trick: Melva exploded. "You God damned mother fucking Son of
Bitch. . ." she spat, her normally pretty face distorted in anger. Judy
beat a hasty retreat to the other side of the hall as Melva cut loose with
language that would shame a sailor. Casey looked at her for a moment, then
brought the outburst to an abrupt halt by emptying both cokes over her
head. For a moment she sputtered like a drowned cat then started screaming
at the top of her lungs.

"For once in your life, just shut up!" he said, reaching out and giving her
a little push. Melva slipped, losing her balance. Her arms flailed and she
sat down hard amid the spilled ice and coke on the dance hall floor, her
screeching temporarily silenced in a moment of greater indignity.

From the corner of his eye, Casey spied Hoot charging through the crowd,
his muscled arms shoving people aside left and right. As the huge man
closed, Casey raised his hands in surrender, only his old friend didn't
slow, he just kept coming, his face set in lines as hard as stone. A chill
ran down Casey's spine - fear gripped his heart. He had never seen Hoot
look this grim before. At the last possible moment Casey did a side-step
spin and with a dancer's precision kicked the man squarely in the groin. It
was hardly a love tap, but still far from the power Casey was capable
of. He wasn't mad at Hoot, just suddenly scared to death of him.  The
surprise attack brought about the desired effect: Hoot folded. Casey,
adding insult to injury, planted a solid right to the side of Hoot's jaw
and drove him to the floor. It was over in an instant, but Casey wasted no
time in congratulating himself. He knew at best that Hoot was only stunned
and there wasn't a chance this side of hell of surprising him again.

The ensuing confusion covered Casey's escape. He slipped out the front
door, pushed past a crowd of smokers near the entry and stepped into the
alley between the buildings. There, he waited. When Hoot got his senses
back, he was going to be one pissed off individual and Casey had no yen to
be caught loitering at a phone booth waiting for a cab. What a night to be
on foot he thought! He watched the entrance while silently cursing the
sports car that spent more time in the repair shop than it did on the road.

Behind him, the building's service door opened, dimly illuminating a
section of the alley. Casey tensed, then relaxed as the counter crew began
dragged trash bags out to the Dumpster. The kids made several trips and
Casey realize just how up-tight he was when he jumped each time the metal
lid clanged. A few minutes later, Melva came out the front a step ahead of
Hoot.  Casey slid deeper in the shadows with a hollow, empty feeling
invading his gut. He knew he had overreacted. It all happened too fast to
think - Hoot's line backer size made him scarily intimidating, but knowing
the man as he did, he realized that Hoot was probably just intent on
breaking up the fight.

"Damn it to hell! "He muttered, "Why did it have to end this way?" He
berated himself for not using his head and just walking away from Melva and
her mind games. Now, the one good thing that had come from knowing Melva
was gone: His friendship with Hoot. The man's myopic devotion to his cousin
was unwavering - odd that he couldn't see what a manipulating bitch she was
and him the most manipulated one of all.

"Woman trouble, Huh?" A voice from behind startled Casey and he spun to
face the bearded counter man. "Got a light?" the fellow, asked, shaking a
cigarette loose from a crumpled pack.  Casey handed him a book of matches,
then at the sound of squealing tires glanced back to see Melva's BMW pull
away. "She looks familiar," the man said, waving a glowing cigarette in the
general direction of the retreating car. "Who is she?"

"Melva Birch."

"No shit, you mean the Divine Melva?"

"Or, the Malevolent Bitch, depending how well you know her." Casey replied,
fishing out a Marlboro and lighting up. He'd been trying to quit, but at
that moment he really felt the need for one.

"So, what was all that about, a break up?"

"Naw, an old business deal gone sour. She won't take no for an answer."

"Man, you two deal hard. Say, aren't you afraid she'll call the cops? I
mean you did knock her down. That's assault if she presses charges."

Casey answered with a short bitter laugh, "You don't know Melva. You can
bet she has something on mind right now, but it isn't the cops. Besides, I
didn't hit her, I just gave her a little push. Only her pride got hurt."

"What about the guy?"

"Well, that's a different story. I suppose Hoot could press charges, only I
don't think he will. Melva has him wrapped around her little finger." Again
a twinge of guilt invaded Casey's conscience. Poor Hoot. Why the hell
couldn't Melva simply accept the money and let everyone get along.

"I saw the action. I gotta say it was pretty neat, but you don't sound too
happy about it."

"I'm not! I never wanted to fight Hoot, we were friends. Now I guess that's
down the drain too, thanks to Melva. I just hope to God he isn't hurt."

Suddenly a muscular arm snaked around Casey's neck in a stranglehold. The
cigarette flew from his hand as his arm was twisted painfully behind
him. "You got your wish, Twinkle toes, I'm fine." Hoot's voice whispered in
his ear. "Get the car, Scotty while my dear considerate friend and I have a
conversation."

The bearded man grinned, tossed his cigarette aside and vanished down the
alley.

"So, you didn't want to fight me, huh? Well, you sure could have fooled me!
Jesus Christ Case, why couldn't you have just settled with Melva? Now you
got her pissed off and I ain't feeling so friendly myself. I owe you one,
Buddy, and if I hadn't heard what you just said, you'd be getting it right
now."

Casey struggled, trying to break free which only tightened Hoot's
grip. "No, ya don't. You had your chance, now we do it my way."

Hoot's red Buick pulled up along side, the same car that Casey had helped
him pick out the summer before. He was thrown into the rear seat, Hoot's
knee landing in small of his back while his hands were jerked behind him
and lashed together. Hoot then pulled Casey to a standing position and with
an open palm slapped him so hard stars danced before his eyes.  "That's for
the sucker punch," he said, roughly shoving him into the seat
again. Crawling in beside Casey, he slammed the door.

Casey blinked back tears, not so much from pain as from frustration. He
struggled with the binding, which only seemed to get tighter as he
pulled. The car rolled forward into the light. The crowd of smokers still
surrounding the entry, were now only steps away. Hoot grabbed Casey's arm
just above the elbow, squeezing painfully, "No yelling. Just sit there and
be quiet!"

Something began to wet Casey's upper lip. He snuffed; then a great deal
more ran down to invade his mouth. Hoot glancing his way, noticed it. "Aw
shit! Now you've got a nosebleed!" he said, as though it was all Casey's
fault. Whipping out a handkerchief he mopping up the offending drip, "Lean
back." he ordered, holding the cloth in place while Scotty pulled the car
into the traffic lane.

"Where you taking me?" Casey demanded. He realized they were heading away
from LA, going north.

"Just a little trip. Melva don't want to see you right now, and believe me
you don't want to see her. We're gonna hammer this out Case, Melva want's
her due."

Casey was about to say 'when pigs fly', but thought better of it. The fact
that the Malevolent Bitch would involve herself in a kidnapping put a
different light on the whole thing. She must be crazy, he thought. Hoot
dabbed at the blood a few more times, then satisfied that the flow had
stopped he settled back in the seat.

"Exactly where are we going?" Casey asked again.

"Never mind," Hoot replied, "But you might as well relax, it's gonna be a
couple of hours. Are you comfy?"

"Oh hell yes! I never knew how great it was to sit with my hands tied
behind me. Thanks for thinking of it." Casey responded sarcastically.

Hoot chuckled. Casey squirmed on the seat trying to find a position were
his arms didn't ache, but failed miserably. "Do you suppose you could cut
me loose? I'm not about to jump out of a moving car."

"Well I could, but you know something? My nuts still hurt. If I cut you
loose I just might have to show you how that feels. But hey, I'm versatile
guy - how do you want it: Tied or loose?"  Scotty guffawed and Casey
settled back in silence. He was well aware of Hoot's tit for tat philosophy
- the punch was paid for obviously, but that kick was going to take a bit
longer. He tried relaxing which seemed to help - or else his arms were
going numb. The ache lessened and after awhile the steady plunk-plunk-plunk
of tires hitting expansion joints had a mesmerizing effect that let him
slide away from the discomfort. Quite suddenly, he felt exhausted. Like a
wave receding the adrenaline drained away leaving his muscles feeling as
heavy as lead. Twisting in the seat to give his hands a bit more room in
the corner, his foot bumped against Hoot's leg.

"Are you OK?" Hoot asked.

" I guess so."

Hoot's question - the little tinge of concern in his voice put Casey's mind
at ease. There'd be no more rough stuff from Hoot . At the same time he
wondered what was in store for him at the end of this ride. Probably
something painful if Melva had anything to do with. Sitting trussed like
this convinced him that the rumors were true. Melva did have mob
connections, but surely that didn't include Hoot. No way - he knew Hoot too
well to even consider it - they were friends, or had been until tonight,
anyway. But then why the kidnapped and why was the bearded man along? Was
he going to end up beaten until he agreed to do Melva and Vitto's bidding?
Casey dismissed the notion. Whatever was going on he knew in his heart that
Hoot wouldn't stand by and let that Scotty guy do a beating. Hoot couldn't
have changed that much in the few months since he last he saw him . . .

His fatigue settled into to an almost numbing weariness. Tiredly, his mind
drifted, floating just above the steady hum of the engine. All was quiet
until Scotty inserted a tape in the deck and the opening bars of Melva's
"Lover Boy" filled the car. It had been a while since he heard that one, he
thought. As much as he now detested Melva, that song brought back some good
memories of his salad days with her that he had almost forgotten. "Lover
Boy" was the third video he worked on and as it turned out, one of the most
played of all time, a real chart topper for Melva. He recalled the warm
feelings he had back then as she stood before the whole crew and thanked
them, praised them in glowing terms for their hard work. It had been a
tough shoot, hours of grueling rehearsal, hundreds of takes, yet it had
also been a milestone for him as well. It was his first shot at lead dancer
and it had gained him a two line mention in Variety.

It was soon after "Lover Boy" when he first heard Melva's nickname. It was
shocking at the time, in those days Melva was still perfect in his eyes,
the perfect woman, the perfect boss - it wasn't until later that he found
out Melva was known as the Malevolent Bitch by a great number of people,
including a former boyfriend, Larry Burke who had crossed her once and now
walked with a decided limp. Luckily, he had never come close to fitting
into the boyfriend category - boyfriends came and went while he stayed on -
more than three years as a full time employee, longer than practically
anyone except Hoot. The drinking, the drugs and the parties took a toll of
everyone, Casey included and in the process he discovered that Melva was a
far different person than the warm, caring one who had heaped praise upon
them that day. She could be as sweet as honey when it served her purposes,
and twice as mean as a rattlesnake if the least bit annoyed. When they
parted he was in debt to her up to his ears, only the debt didn't seem to
bother her at the time. "I eat pretty boys for breakfast" she screamed,
"Get out, and don't show your face here again." No questions of money or
contracts then, just hit the road and don't come back.

Casey couldn't even remember how the argument started, only the
ending. Yet, like all endings it was also a new beginning. He got it
together and a year later landed the lead role in "Love Stories."  It was a
terrific break, an unheard opportunity for an unknown like himself and he
had lied through his teeth to secure the roll. No outstanding commitments
he assured the studio - Melva didn't give a damn anyway - or so he
assumed. What an idiot, he thought- and the worst part was that after
signing the Paramount deal he could have raised the money in a
heartbeat. He could have walked in and cleared the advance account with
Birchline, probably even bought out his contract for next to nothing - but,
oh no, he had to be the Big Man and wait until the Big Check arrived.

 It was during the final weeks of filming that his stupidity came back to
haunt him.  He found that old contract hanging over him like the sword of
Damocles with dear Melva taking practice swings. Still, phone calls and
legal threats were one thing, kidnapping was something else again. She must
be crazy if she thinks she can get away with this! He had always suspected
that Melva was behind Larry Burke's mugging, but mob connections or not,
there were too many witnesses at the dance hall for her to pull this kind
of shit. The woman had finally lost her mind . . .

After the city lights were well behind them, Hoot leaned forward and gave
directions to Scotty. The car threaded its way down the next off ramp and
onto a two lane and then mile after mile of black lonely highway unrolled
itself in front of the headlights.



Chapter two

Paul Markey sat in the kitchen drinking coffee and chatting with Sofia the
cook when he heard the service door slam. Looking up he caught a glimpse
Melva kicking off her shoes in the utility area.

"Well, here you are at last." He said, "You know, I've been wait for. . . "
His carping came to a halt as Melva entered the kitchen.

"What the hell happened to you!" He exclaimed.  Her hair was a mess, matted
down and wet and her clothes in the same condition, the cream colored
fabric of her blouse stained brown and stuck to her skin, but it was the
look of fury on her face that cut off all his questions. Without a word she
stormed through the kitchen and disappeared. A few moments later another
door slammed, upstairs this time - the sound of it reverberating throughout
the Bel Air mansion.

Jose, Melva's chauffeur since she lost her drivers' license, came in
carrying a wet stadium blanket. He dropped it in the laundry basket and
washed his hands in the nearby sink.

"What the devil happened to Melva." Paul asked.

Jose shrugged, "She wouldn't tell me, Mr. Markey."

"Where did she go?"

"Van Nuys." He reached into his jacket pocket and extracted a flyer. "This
is the place." He said. "She went in and a little while later came out like
you saw her. I don't know what happened."

Paul looked at the flyer.

'Friday Night Hoedown, open to the public. Square dance, Line and Pairs -
fun for everyone!' below that, the band's name and admission price.

Markey stared at it blankly. Why would Melva go to a country-western dance,
he wondered. Suddenly he remembered Casey O'Brian, the square dance fanatic
who used to work for her. The kid was hot right now, a new film at
Paramount, and Vitto had been moaning about how he wished he had made a
film with O'Brian when he had the chance. Yet it didn't make any sense as
far as Melva was concerned, she fired O'Brian nearly two years ago and he
distinctly recalled that his Birchline advance account was cleared. Still,
something was going on and he felt strongly that it had to do with
O'Brian. Markey picked up the phone and dialed the home number of his
personal secretary,

"Angie, I'm sorry to call so late, but can you by any chance tell me status
of Casey O'Brian's contract with Birchline?"

"Why, yes I can, I handled that three or four weeks ago. Miss Birch sold
that contract to Mr. Marnelli. Remember, I mentioned that the O'Brian
account was off the books."

"I thought O'Brian sent a check himself."

"He did, and I turned it over to Mr. Marnelli. Actually, he sent two checks
for the same amount about a ten days apart, I turned them both over since
Mr. Marnelli was the one who settled the account. "

As he suspected, it was O'Brian and Vitto was up to something - Damn his
hide!

"Thanks, Angie - have a nice weekend." He said, breaking the connection. He
quickly dialed Vitto's number. The man must have been waiting by the phone;
he answered on the first ring.

"What the fuck is going on, Vitto! Melva came in a few minutes ago soaked
to the skin and mad as hell. What have you two been cooking up?"

"What happened?"

"I just told you! Now you tell me what you've been doing behind my back."

Vitto in his most placating voice, said, "Nothing, Paul, honest. Melva just
thought she'd give O'Brian a chance to fulfill his contract - that's all."

"Bullshit!  Two weeks ago you were talking about that old release he signed
with Stud and I told you then that a release isn't a contract, it's only an
instrument to prevent people from suing later on. You never listen - and
now you've got Melva involved. God Damn it, Vitto, you know exactly how
little it takes to get her started. You've been playing at this for a
month, haven't you?"

"Hey! Don't go all goody two shoes on me, Buster - remember we're milking
the same cash cow here. O'Brian might be worth 10, maybe 12 million in
sales when his movie hits the theaters. What did you expect me to do, let
him walk away without giving it a shot?"

"I don't give a fuck what you do, - only leave Melva out of it. Jesus
Christ, man, you can't have her pressuring people to do porn flicks, what
kind of a stink do you think that would raise? If it's only money you're
worried about, think of this: You flush Melva down the drain and you lose
more than you'll make off an O'Brian film."

"Hey, I didn't twist her arm, she volunteered. Melva agrees with
me. O'Brian is trying to weasel out.  She holds a contract, damn it . . . "

"You mean, YOU hold his contract. How come you didn't tell me that you
bought it from Melva."

"O'Brian was under personal obligation to her, I didn't think I needed your
approval!"

"You don't, but what good does it do you?"

"What do you mean?"

"Read the fine print, - O'Brian has to approve any transfer or the contract
becomes null and void.  I've got news for you, Vitto, not only did you
nullify that contract, but O'Brian has no obligation to reimburse your
expenditure. I sure hope you cashed his check. $52,000 wasn't it?"

"You're shittin' me, right?"

"Like hell I am! It sounds to me like you didn't cash his check, I kind of
figured that when Angie said she got two of them. Listen Vitto, O'Brian
just made a bundle at Paramount - he's not going to be falling all over
himself to do a $52,000 dollar skin flick. He might, however, send you a
real nice thank-you note for paying off Melva."

For once, Vitto was speechless.

"You know," Markey continued, "I've got a feeling Melva doesn't know about
those checks.  Am I right?"

"I was going to tell her . . . If it didn't work out tonight " He
protested.

"Sure you were! All I can say, Vitto, is if whatever happened there that
turns into a major problem for Melva, I'm holding you responsible. Now, let
it go! Leave O'Brian alone, and maybe I can negotiate your money back. As
for Melva, you stay away from her, not even a phone call - understand?  She
has enough problems right now! One more thing, I can't see Melva going to
that dance alone - who all went with her?"

"Just Hoot, I think."

"Hoot? He left for Chicago tonight!"

"Yeah, well before he went he was going to join her at that club. I don't
know if he did or not, you'll have to ask Melva."

"You're not telling everything, are you? Exactly why was Hoot there and not
one of the regular men?"

"Well, they're buddies, you know and I thought . . . Maybe he could help
change O'Brian's mind . . . About doing the video . . . " He wound down
without admitting exactly what he had asked Hoot to do.

"Well, it obviously didn't work." Paul snapped, not quite able to keep the
rancor from his voice. "I was hoping someone could tell me exactly what
happened there before I speak to Melva. If you hear from Hoot, have him
call me. I'm staying here tonight." Markey, didn't bother to say good bye,
he just hung up. "Asshole," he muttered.

Paul gave Melva a few more minutes to get cleaned up, then made his way
upstairs carrying a tea tray. Oh, this is going to be fun, he thought. Damn
it to hell, if it isn't one thing after another . . .

#####

Melva was on the phone the minute she entered the room. She knew exactly
who to call to straighten out that lying, miserable Son of a Bitch!  I'll
teach him a lesson he won't forget, she thought as she punched in a
number. It rang and she stepped out of her sodden clothes while waiting for
the answering machine to kick in. Finally the recording came on and she
paced naked, waiting for the beep.

"Manny, if you're there, pick up, it's Melva." The line went dead for a
moment and then a deep masculine voice said,

"Hi, Babe, what's happenin'?"

"I've got a problem. There's someone that needs a Larry Burke lesson."

"Whoa, there Melv, I don't know nothing about Larry Burke. You got that?"

"OK, OK, but you know what I want. His name is O'Brian, Casey O'Brian and
he lives at 6829 Laurel Canyon Boulevard . . ."

"Hey, isn't that the same Casey that used to work for you?"

"That's the one."

"I can't do it, Melv, he knows me. Hell, I got drunk with him one night at
your house."

"Well, get someone else! It's worth 10 grand to me to see that Bastard in
the hospital."

"What the hell did he do?"

"That doesn't matter, - can you handle it?"

"For 10 grand? Sure! I take it you want this just like the others; - short,
sweet and painful?"

"And then some. Make that son of a bitch wish he had never laid a hand on
me."

"OK, Melv, but I'll need the money up front - I'm gonna have to hire this
one."

"I'll send it over by courier tonight. Thanks, Manny, I feel better
already."

Melva had just gotten out of the shower and into her robe when Paul rapped,
"It's me Babe, I've got some hot tea - you looked like you could use some."

"I could use a God damned drink!" she responded, pulling open the door,
"Come in, just don't start grilling me - I don't feel like talking about
it!"

"I just wanted to make sure you were OK." Paul said soothingly. "Now, sit
down and have some tea - Sofia is putting together a snack."

"I'd rather have drink! Come on, Paul - please - just a little one?"

"Sorry, Honey - you know you can't. When it gets tough like this, just
remember; they don't serve booze in jail, either. Try thinking of something
nice, like your trip to New York."

"You know how I hate those fucking award things!"

"Look, that's only one night. We'll stay a few days and do some
shopping. I've got tickets to that show you wanted to see. We'll have
fun. Now drink you tea and relax. Would you like a back rub? . . ."

Chapter 3

Casey had dreamed of meeting Melva Birch and it happened one evening while
he was tending bar at the Plaza Hotel. Melva breezed in surrounded by band
members, a tour manager and publicity agent and Casey promptly forgot
everything he knew about mixing drinks.  He was a star struck kid of
twenty-one; she a gorgeous Megastar more beautiful in person than on the
album covers stacked in his apartment. Casey had idolized Melva for years,
even had a treasured collection of all her music videos, those delicious,
near pornographic bits of art work where almost naked men and women writhed
in sexual abandon as Melva sang. He had watched them all a thousand times
and now Melva Birch, the goddess of sex, sat before him in full view,
laughing over some joke that Casey didn't hear. He stood gaping like an
idiot until the waitress lay the order on the bar, then finally gathering
his wits he went back to work.

As a child, Casey's angelic countenance caught everyone's attention; the
OH's and Ah's that showered on him had been almost more than the quiet boy
could handle and as a result he became extremely bashful in front of
strangers. He overcame it to a certain extent by performing in school
plays, and in the course of that got hooked on the idea that as an actor he
could anyone he wanted. As a man his curly auburn hair and clear green eyes
accentuated an exceedingly handsome, masculine face, yet his still somewhat
shy, youthful charm was by far his best asset.

The Plaza catered to the well heeled, some famous, some not and while Casey
was well aware that his looks had landed him this highly desirable job, he
didn't rely on looks alone. He learned the job, giving it his entire
concentration until he was as proficient as the best of them. It wasn't the
glamour of working at the Plaza that drew him as much as the tips. The
gratuities could run several hundred an evening which gave him the money
needed to pursue his dream of an acting career. Up until then, not much had
come his way beyond a few small parts in little theater groups, but with
the Plaza job he could well afford the acting workshops and the vocal,
dance and fencing classes - all in things he might need when his big break
came along. He had stars in his eyes, then like a comet; Melva passed
through his firmament obscuring all else.

Before long a tipsy Melva leaned against the polished mahogany talking to
Casey while he absorbed her attention like a desert dry sponge. He learned
that Melva swore like a sailor, yet could also be as attentive as a
priest. She delved deeply into his life outside the Plaza, asking all the
right questions and giving bits of advice. Casey answered in his
straightforward, yet charming boyish way and by the end of the evening, he
found himself invited to Melva's Bel Air home for a tour end party the
following week. He couldn't believe it and neither could Peter, the head
bartender that night.

"Don't get too excited Casey. Once she sobers up, she'll likely forget all
about it."  Pete was wrong. Two days later when he came to work, an
envelope awaited him. It held an invitation with his name engraved and a
separate little note from Melva: "Come early, around 7 PM if you can. There
is someone I would like you to meet. Love, Melva"

"Love, Melva": The words floated through his mind conjuring up erotic
daydreams. The note was destined for his scrapbook of Melva memorabilia
where it would lay nestled among the concert ticket stubs and programs that
he had so carefully saved. An actual invitation with his name on it left
him stunned, yet the little note meant far more to Casey. Dreamily he
repeated the words, "Love, Melva."

The invitation said informal which left Casey wondering what would be
considered informal in Bel Air? All he could visualize were Gucci shoes,
silk shirts and Italian slacks, none of which he owned. He made do with his
good black Florsheim's - a pair of gray wool summer weight slacks, and a
pale lime hued dress shirt ala K-Mart. He topped it all with an old but
soft haze gray sweater and as an extra precaution tossed a tie and blazer
in the back seat of his car. He left far too early for his big night with
Melva and then ended up driving around Bel Air for the extra forty-five
minutes.

The gate man passed him through, pointing out the parking area and once
there Casey followed a winding path toward the house. He climbed a long
flight of steps to the verandah of a southern style mansion that looked
like it fell straight out of a Margaret Mitchell novel, and stood for a
moment wondering if there were people still living in houses like this
anywhere but in California. At the door he was met by a manservant who led
him across a vast entry hall, past a sweeping staircase lit by a crystal
chandelier the size of a VW and finally to a side room where Melva sat
talking to three men. They were an odd looking crew, one was short, round
and balding, another old with nearly white hair, and the third a tall thin
fellow that looked like he hadn't eaten in a month.

"Mr. O'Brian, madam." the butler announced. Melva jumped to her feet and
dragged Casey into the room.

"See, what did I tell you? Isn't he gorgeous?" she seemed to bubble while
Casey blushed under the stares of the three men.

"Casey, I'd like you to meet the 3M gang, Vitto Marnelli, John Martin and
Paul Markey. Gentlemen, this is my newest find, Casey O'Brian."

Casey had barely said hello when the butler returned with another man,
saying, "Mr. Brown has arrived."  Melva left the room under a full head of
steam, crying "Timmy! How wonderful to see you! Now let me show you what I
want done. . . "  Suddenly bereft of her light, Casey stood in awkward
silence. The balding man arose and began circling Casey, looking him up and
down.

"Take off your shirt." He said.

"What. . . ?" Casey responded, thinking he had misunderstood the man.

"Take your shirt off and while your at it, your pants too." Casey turning
red, took a step backward intending to beat a fast retreat when the white
haired man, John Martin, began to chuckle.

"Hold it Vitto! Casey - didn't Melva tell you what this was about?

Casey shook his head

"Just like her. Well it's simple enough. Vitto produces Melva's videos, She
thinks you'll be perfect for an upcoming one, and Vitto just want's an idea
of what you look like. Consider this a job interview."

"Oh." Casey said, "Well, OK. But can we at least close the door?" Maids
were bustling up and down the long entry hall getting ready for the party.

"My, he's shy, isn't he?" the tall man said, "Well Melva will get him over
that quick enough." but he did close the door and Casey stripped to his
shorts.

"OK, you can get dressed now. Good body. I think you need more of a tan,
but you've got time to work on that. Do you know any dance moves?" Vitto
asked.

"Sure, all the regular stuff plus I had a couple of years of dance classes
as a kid, ballet and acrobatics. I also square dance every chance I get."

Vitto laughed, "I doubt you'll need that. Square dance is, shall we say, a
little too square for Melva. Modern dance might be better, but if can take
direction we'll work it out. Melva said you're a fan so you know her
videos. The one you'll be working on is a step beyond what we've done so
far. The men will wear a sort of jock strap and nothing else. You OK with
that?"  Casey nodded. He wasn't ashamed of his body, he was hard, defined
and well built, besides with Melva in the scene, nobody would be looking at
him. Like all Melva's videos, those in the background were there to set the
mood, not to shine.

It was some weeks later when Casey learned that Birchline Video, Melva's
production company was actually a joint venture between herself and the 3M
gang. He also learned that the 3M gang had other ventures outside of
Birchline. The white haired man, John Martin leased commercial film and
video equipment, sound stages and such, Markey was a lawyer with an
extensive practice, and Marnelli a producer and sometime director. The
three men together owned another production company: Stud films. Porn, both
soft and hard, from titty flicks to XXX and in any variety that turned your
key. Some they produced, some they bought, all of it however, made huge
sums of money for the 3M gang.

That first day however he knew only that Melva had taken an interest in him
and these men appeared to work for her. He got dressed before she returned
and after a few quiet words with Melva, the three men left saying they
would be back around nine o'clock. Casey then went off with Melva to greet
the first guests of the evening -and learning to his dismay that he was far
overdressed for this party. Evidently in Bel Air, or at least in Melva's
little corner of it, informal meant near grunge. Casey saw shorts, worn
Levi's, tee shirts and sweats, practically everything but Gucci, and to his
eyes, the guests looked more like street people than well paid entertainer
types. Only their speech gave them away and the manicured nails and the
tinge of expensive perfume that permeating the air about them. In truth the
help was far better attired. Several times that evening, Casey's well
groomed appearance caused him to be mistaken for one of the catering crew,
especially as the guests became increasingly snockerd.

It was a whirlwind for Casey, not at all like the staid Plaza
bar. Introductions flew like darts, most missing the target by a wide
margin with only a few penetrating enough to stick; a movie star, a well
known singer and a world famous author mingled with a crowd where
conversation was less of an art than a science in just trying to be heard
above background music that beat as insistent as jungle drums. Joints
passed from hand to hand, dusty white powder left residues on glass topped
tables and the booze flowed in quantities not seen even at the Plaza. For
hours the party rolled on full bore inside the house and all the way out to
the pool, and along about ten, Casey, high as a kite ended up on the
verandah in search of a quiet place to rest. He looked around. No seating
on this verandah, it was meant only to showcase the house, so he dropped to
the steps and leaned his head against a column, breathing deeply of the
cool night air. He had only been there for a few minutes when someone else
with the same idea came out and plopped down beside him. Casey looked up to
see an imposingly large man, yet who was obviously not much older than he
was.

"Hi." Casey said.

"I sure am! You too, by the looks of it." the man replied in a mellow
southern drawl, "Some party, huh?"

"I'll say, I'm toast. Had to take a breather."

"Ditto to that. Hey buddy, I heard Melva say you're gonna be in her new
video. Me too as it turns out, so I guess we'll be seeing more of each
other."

Casey, pot laden enough that everything seemed hilarious, burst out
laughing.

"What's so funny." The man asked.

"Well, since we'll be wearing nothing but jock straps I'm sure we will be
seeing more of each other, a whole lot more!"

"Oh yeah," the man laughed, "You're right! By the way, my name is Hoot. And
you're Casey, if I heard Melva right."

"Hoot? Not Hoot Gibson by any chance?" Casey laughed uproariously. The
world glistened brightly in his pot shattered eyes and while he knew it was
a stupid remark, he couldn't resist. Instead of getting huffy, the man just
grinned,

"Wrong Hoot, Kiddo. Anders is the last name, and yours?"

"O'Brian. Nice to meet you Hoot." As Casey, turned to shake hands, he lost
his perch on the step and nearly went tumbling down the long flight of
stairs. Hoot grabbed his out flung arm.

"Whoa there, Case." he said pulling him back to safety. Re-seated firmly on
the step Casey dimly realized that the whole save had been one effortless
move on Hoot's part, and his impression was that the man could move like
lightning, even when stoned. Soon after that, the booze hit hard and Casey
didn't remember much of what they talked about that evening, only the fact
that from that moment onward, Hoot always called him Case.


Chapter 4

"Wake up, Case, we're here!"

The shake aroused Casey who found himself slumped sideways in the seat, his
head pillowed on Hoot's thigh and he remembered ending up in this exact
same position that night at Melva's party. When the booze caught up with
him, he passed out and Hoot had sat on the verandah for an hour or more
holding his head, or maybe preventing him killing himself by rolling down
that long flight of steps.

Struggling upright he discovered that his hands were now free. Somehow he
missed feeling that maneuver, but how long had he been asleep? The last
thing he remembered was hearing one of Melva's tapes playing quietly in the
background while Scotty talked to Hoot about a concert date in Chicago.

"Where are we?" Casey asked.

"I call it Halfway to Hell. It's my own little desert oasis. You can get
out now." Hoot led Casey to the door of the medium sized adobe house
outlined in the car's headlights and once inside demanded his shoes.

"What do you want 'em for?" Casey asked, looking down. There wasn't any
carpeting to worry about - the place was floored in unglazed ceramic tile.

"Never mind, just kick them off." Hoot replied, flipping on the rest of the
interior lights.

The house appeared to be one large open space, at least from what Casey
could see. A small kitchen ran along the right hand wall with an eating bar
and stools defining the area. To his left, the room spread expansively
before a massive fireplace and on the wall above the mantel hung a pair of
crossed swords that he recognized at once. One was a damaged practice foil
that belonged to him, or had, until he tossed it in the trash, the other a
pitted dueling rapier that he and Hoot had picked up at a garage sale one
Sunday afternoon. The white painted walls held pictures that he also
recognized, enlargements of snapshots that they had shared over the
years. Some were Hoot's favorites, some his, like the one showing the two
of them trying on huge Mexican sombreros. That one was taken on Tijauana
day trip four years ago. He also liked the blizzard scene - he and Hoot
huddled together, wrapped up like Eskimos in Montreal. That one taken 2
years ago on the last tour they did together. The wall was alive with
pictures of dancers and band members most of whom had long since departed
Melva, and central among them was the framed a playbill from the first tour
they did together - both their names in such tiny print it took a
magnifying glass see them.

Casey scanned the room. Lots of seating in front of the fireplace he noted,
modern, but showing a definite Spanish influence. The intermingled wooden
pieces of furniture were of Mexican design. Carved, painted chests and
tables picked up the motif of the beams that spanned overhead and those
repeated in a scattering of glazed tile insets in the floor. Heavy burgundy
drapes stood guard along three arched windows and like the massive front
door, the kitchen cupboard faces carried deeply incised carvings. It was
cheerful room yet held an almost monastic feel of quite and calm.

Scotty pushed past asking for the bathroom, Hoot pointed and the man
disappeared through an alcove that Casey missed at first view. The house
was evidently larger than he thought. When the man returned Hoot handed him
the shoes, saying, "He won't be needing these."

Scotty gave Casey another of his shit eating grins, "Well, gotta be going,
watch your step around here, Casey." he said as he slid out the door and
closed it behind him. A moment later the car started and pulled away.

Casey wondering about that comment, asked, "All right, what's with the shoe
bit?"

"Just that now I don't have to worry about you hiking outta here. It's a
good ten miles to anywhere and nothing but sand burrs and cactus in all
directions. No phone either. Get the picture?"

Hoot sauntered into the kitchen area, filled a coffee maker and plugged it
in. Casey settled silently onto one of the stools for a moment, then asked,
"Why are you doing this Hoot? Damn it, I've never done a thing to you."

Hoot rubbed his jaw and said, "Oh no?"

"OK, so I punched you. Hell, I was scared and let fly before I thought, but
I'm not talking about that. I've always been square with you and I just
don't understand why you want to ruin everything I've worked for?"

"Aw shit, Case, I don't. And you know I don't hold grudges. But think about
it. You signed with Birchline for five years and that contract still
stands. I warned you about getting in too deep with those advances and do
you remember what you told me?"

Casey squirmed, "Yeah," he admitted. He always figured that the next tour
and the next video would take care of it, only the 'next tour' never
materialized - Melva fired him.

"The way I see it, you kinda brought this on yourself and you can't just
walk away, Case. You either have to pay off those advances or work it out -
it's in the contract . . ."

"Didn't she tell you I tried? Hell, Paul sent me statements. I knew exactly
how much I owed. When I finished the film at Paramount I sent a check, in
fact I sent it twice and they returned it both times. Damn it, I've tried
satisfying Melva, but I'll burn in hell before starring in one of Vitto's
porn flicks."

Hoot just stared at him for a long moment, "You're serious aren't you? I
mean about the money. That wasn't the story I got! Melva said you trying to
weasel out."

"Well I'm not - at least as far money is concerned. I'll admit I wasn't as
smart about it as I should have been, but I'm not trying to screw
Birchline. If they'll take the money, fine, but I won't do a skin flick, I
can't - Paramount has a pile invested in this project. Can't you just see
me in one of Vitto's epic's coming out at the same time as "Love Stories
hits the big screen? God, I'd be drummed out of Hollywood."

"Well, when you come right down to it, you're not exactly a virgin. Those
stills Vitto took a few years ago are still circulating on the Internet."

"Yeah, but those are only nude shots - hell, everyone does them. You know
what Vitto wants, a regular fuck film. That would ruin me. What I can't
figure is what Melva thinks this kidnapping bullshit will accomplish. It
won't change my mind."

"Whoa there Case, what kidnapping? Hey, you and me are on a little vacation
here, Buddy, like old times." Hoot replied, grinning as naively as a
ten-year-old.

"Old times my ass! When did we ever vacation together?"

"Well, we talked about it - it wasn't my fault you were signed up for every
acting class in LA. Anyway, we always shared a room on tour - it was almost
the same thing."

"Bologna - doing one night stands 7 days a week is not a 'vacation'. Yeah,
we had some fun - when you weren't 'otherwise occupied'. That last tour,
for instance, I must have packed your stuff 25 times and hardly ever saw
you at all except on stage. I thought Melva was gonna wear you out before
that trip was over."

"Melva?" Hoot exclaimed. "Holy shit, did you really think Melva and me were
getting it on?" He laughed, "Naw, we don't swing that way. It was Sara
Smith. Remember her, the little blond with the big boobs?"

"Really? Now wait a minute. . . Didn't you used to call her the Frost
Queen?"

"Well, yeah, but there was a slight January thaw. It didn't last though, by
the third week she froze over again."

The vibes, those soothing emanations that had existed from the very first
day of their friendship had once again settled over Casey - the feeling so
familiar that he found it impossible not to drop into the same old
comfortable repartee.  He watched Hoot slice a small block of cheese, the
sharp cheddar they both favored and he realized that it had been six months
or more since they had last shared a meal. Sadly, they had somehow ran out
time for friendship. Work had kept them both too busy to take a day off and
go to the beach, or to a movie like they used to. Instead, they had wound
up talking to each other's answering machines.


It was chill from the metal footrest penetrating his stockings that brought
Casey back to the present and to his current predicament.

"Ya know, you can call this a 'vacation' or anything you want, but what the
hell does it accomplish except causing more trouble?"

"All right," Hoot replied, "It's not a vacation. Honest Case, I didn't know
you tried to settle the advance, if I had, maybe I could have done
something. Now it's too late. Melva is pissed and you're in real
trouble. If you just hadn't signing that stupid release none of this would
have happened."

"Hey, I was oiled to the gills that night!"

"You weren't that drunk. I don't know what your problem was - Vitto yelled
'audition' and you were the first to drop your pants."

Well, he was drunk, but Hoot was right too, he wasn't stoned drunk. He
clearly recalled being embarrassed when Vitto pointed out his lack of
'essential star quality', referring of course, to Casey's average
endowment. "Christ, it was just a cast party, those things were always wild
- and I wasn't the only one who signed a release."

"No, but you're the who's tit's in a wringer now. Look, lets forget that
shit. After tonight it's not contracts you have worry about, it's
Melva. She went to the dance to harass you, to make you run with your tail
between your legs, only you turned the tables on her. Now I think she
want's you in a ditch somewhere."

"What! You mean dead?" Casey was shocked.

"No, that wouldn't satisfy her half as much as seeing your face
smashed. She's really pissed Case, you have no idea."

"So that's it! I'm on ice out here, waiting for the bully boys, huh?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake - don't be an idiot! Melva doesn't know anything
about this; in fact she doesn't know this place exists. I'm just trying to
keep you from getting hurt."

Suddenly the whole thing made sense. He'd been 'kidnapped' all right, but
kidnapped out of harms way. Hoot hadn't changed a bit, he was still doing
what he thought was best. In this instance Casey didn't agree, a court
order and a visit by the cops would straighten out both Melva and Vitto a
hell of lot faster, but he was touched that Hoot would go to this extreme
for him. He also realized he wasn't Hoot's only concern, "You're protecting
her too, aren't you?" He asked.

"Of course I am! I don't want Melva going to jail any more than I want you
beat up. I guess I'm trying to protect each of you from the other. This
thing has escalated to where you have to disappear for awhile."

"How long is 'awhile'?"

"Oh, a couple of weeks maybe. John Martin can probably talk some sense to
her, Markey too for that matter. It's just that greedy bastard Vitto
pushing for the flick. It was his idea you know. After he heard the rumors
coming out of Paramount, all he could see was dollar signs. He doesn't give
a shit for anyone, not even Melva, but he sure knows what buttons to
push. I don't know all the details, in fact I only heard about this mess
yesterday, but I know damn well that he's the one that started the whole
thing.

"Two weeks! You've got to be kidding!"

"Hey, it might get cleared up a lot sooner. I'll be in town Monday, I'll
talk to Paul, maybe he can straighten it out."

"Oh, now this is cute! It sounds as though I'm stranded here like the
barefoot and pregnant bride, is that the idea?"

Hoot laughed, "I don't know about the pregnant part, I sort of figured
barefoot would be enough. I'll be back on Wednesday. It won't be so
bad. There's a pool outside, a satellite dish that gets 200 channels and
lots of reading material. This is my personal hideaway and it's pretty well
stocked."

The machine on the counter buzzed.  Hoot pulled the pot free, "Coffee?" he
asked. Casey nodded. Hoot poured and settled beside him on the next stool,

"So when did you buy this place?"

"Oh, two - three months back. I got it so I could get away on the weekends
where no one could find me - the damn phone never stops ringing at
home. Only problem is, I haven't had much chance to use it yet. Melva's
tour is coming up and I've been swamped."

"So, you weren't even going to tell me about it, huh?" Casey chided.

"Sure I was - the next time we got together. Hell, I haven't seen you in
six months."

"Well, I've been busy too, we were on location half the winter. Anyhow,
these are cool digs, Hoot. I really like the Mexican look."

"Yeah, well the next time I bring you here, just don't kick me in the nuts,
OK?"

Casey suddenly felt like a jerk. He lay his hand on Hoot heavy shoulder,
"I'm really sorry about that, Hoot - everything happened so fast - I saw
the look on your face, got scared and just let fly. It was all reaction."

"You're forgiven," he said, "The truth is that when Melva started screaming
I was pissed off at everyone for dragging me into this mess - you
included. I probably looked it too. Sorry about the bloody nose, Case - I
didn't mean to hit you that hard."

Shaking his head, Casey laughed wryly, "Oh, yes you did! Not that I blame
you, I earned that swat. Of course if your hand print remains permanently
impressed, I'm talking to a lawyer."

Hoot reached out and turned Casey's face back and forth giving it the same
scrutiny he once did when they touched up each other's skin toner during a
shoot. "Looks like I'm safe," he jibed, smiling, "nothing's changed, you're
just as ugly as ever."


They dallied around the kitchen while Hoot gave Casey an update on
Melva. He agreed that she was getting more erratic, too much booze, too
many pills, he said. He was hoping probation might keep her sober long
enough to see what she was doing to herself, but so far all it had done was
to make her more difficult.

"She's really a pain sometimes. Her last album isn't selling well and she's
blaming everyone."

"Why the hell do you put up with her?" Casey asked.

"She's family." It was all Hoot had to say on the subject.

Casey finally agreed that a little 'vacation' might be best under the
circumstances, then a clock somewhere in the house struck two and Hoot
stood up and stretched, "It's been a hell of day for me, I'm ready for bed,
how 'bout you?"

"Lead the way."  Casey replied stifling a yawn.

He padded along behind feeling the chill of the tile floor through thin
stockings. The alcove didn't lead to a hall as he first assumed it was just
an indentation in the wall hiding another massive carved door and a narrow
linen closet. Hoot ushered Casey into a large bedroom and bath complex with
a single oversized bed occupying one end of the room. Surprised, Casey
asked, "Where do I sleep?"

"Right here, I guess, or you can try one of the couches. Sorry, I've only
got one bed. Is that a problem?"

"Well . . . I guess not unless you kick all night, or hog the covers."

Casey's puckish streak took over and he eyed the bed as though suddenly
apprehensive, "Tell me something - are those sheets clean? I mean, who
knows what you've been doing out here." He dodged and made it to the
bathroom just as a pillow sailed passed his head.

"Missed me!" he laughed.

When he emerged, he half expected another pillow in the face, but instead
found Hoot already sacked out. Casey stripped to his shorts and slid under
the covers and as he turned off the light, he noticed Hoot's underwear
tossed on a chair. That didn't particularly surprise him, he knew Hoot's
habit of sleeping nude, only this was the first time they ever shared a
bed. Still, it was king sized with plenty of space, no need to get up tight
about it, he told himself.

"Goodnight, Case." Hoot muttered sleepily as he rolled to his side.

"'Night" Casey responded.

Hoot's tiredness soon displayed itself. In a matter of minutes he was
softly snoring while Casey lie awake staring into the darkness and trying
to sort out the events of the last few hours. It occurred to him that if
Melva ever found out about Hoot taking a hand in this affair, his job would
be history, cousin or no. The only saving aspect of this otherwise
miserable evening was finding Hoot totally unaffected by his rapid
advancement at Birchline. He was a rock. Not money or position seemed to
change him, just as the parties had never changed him back when they were
both bit actors in Melva's videos. Casey's mind drifted to those days, the
good times and the bad, especially the bad, and it seemed that Hoot was
always able to handle anything that came his way, even Casey's deepest,
darkest secret.

He had been with Melva for nearly two years when that confidence took
place. Four or five music videos, a pair of tours and a million parties
punctuated that time span and with it, an awakening to an aspect of himself
that Casey didn't know existed - and one that he couldn't acknowledge even
to himself. Around Melva it was smorgasbord of sex with half the parties
degenerating into drug driven orgies and Casey found that he willing
partnered not only women, but with men if they made advances. At first he
blamed it on the booze, but as it happened again and again, he realized it
wasn't just the drink. With men he found an easy comfort that he had never
discovered in his relationships with women. He tried to deny it while at
the same time hiding it from his friends - Hoot in particular. Casey
thought he knew Hoot's feelings when it came to gays. Among the crew there
were only two outwardly gay men, Jerome and Randy and Hoot held both in
utter contempt. Oh, he never let it show, but Casey felt it, just as he
felt himself becoming worthless in his friend's eyes. Instead of facing it
square on, he went from a party drinker to alcoholic in a matter of months,
missing rehearsals and fouling up when he did appear. Again Hoot took
charge. He dragging Casey to rehab clinic, standing by him throughout the
ordeal and afterwards as well, and when Casey finally broke down and
spilled his guts, he discovered to his amazement that Hoot didn't give a
hoot.

"You were worried about what I'd think? Jesus Case, I'm touched, I really
am, but you're an idiot! Look around you, half the people in Hollywood are
gay and the other half switch from time to time."

"You don't"

"No, so far I've never had that urge, but that doesn't mean it bothers me.

"Well, then why do you dislike, Jerome and Randy so much?"

Hoot snorted, "Because they're dipshits! Those two are always fucking up
and always blaming someone else for it. I can't stand people like that!"

Casey had been so wrapped up in his own problems that he paid little
attention to what was going on at Birchline: His friend's words were like a
weight lifting off his chest, he sighed, the tenseness suddenly gone. Hoot
caught him up in a bear hug and gave him a squeeze, "Don't worry about it,
Buddy. If you ever turn into a dipshit, I'll tell you fast enough."

Casey smiled in the dark as he recalled that incident and Hoot's off the
cuff advice that followed,

"You know Case, there's no law saying you have to announce it to the
world. It doesn't mean much anyway, if you ever become well know, the
tabloids will have you in bed with men and women you've never heard
of. This is Hollywood, the land of dreams so if I were you I'd keep the
mystery alive for as long as possible. It makes for a more diversified
press."

His confession changed nothing between them, except that Casey stopped
worrying. He also stayed off the booze, although he had to admit that when
sober, Melva's parties weren't nearly as much fun. In compensation though
it seemed like he and Hoot became even better friends afterward. No more
lying - no more half told truths.

Hoot's friendship mattered a great deal to Casey, so much so that he now
worried that his inclinations in the male direction might make him wander
in his sleep. It was a thought that upset him almost as much as the
actuality would upset Hoot. It left him lying uncomfortably awake until
weariness took the upper hand, stealing those and all other thoughts away.

As he drifted toward morning, Casey had a dream and for once it wasn't of
Melva and a flock of lawyers chasing after him. This time he was being
wrapped in a warm sensuous blanket while someone gently caressed his
hair. It was an erotic and tender fantasy, so sweet it almost seemed real
and he slowly awoke to find himself wrapped not in a blanket, but trapped
within warm, strong arms. He was spooned in the curve of a muscular body,
legs entwined, an out flow of warm breath ruffling his hair as softly as a
lover's touch. For a moment he didn't know where he was, or who held him so
securely, then he remembered: Hoot! And at that very same moment he
realized that Hoot had an enormous morning erection pressed tight against
his back. The breathing pattern changed, Hoot was still asleep obviously,
but dreaming and twitching slightly as little moans escaped his
lips. Suddenly, without even a warning thrust, Hoot ejaculated; a great
gush of warm wetness flooded the space between them, drenching Casey
thoroughly. Startled, he nearly burst out laughing: God, this had to be a
first for old Hetro Hoot he thought. Remaining perfectly still he wondered
if Hoot would now awaken on his own. He hoped so; he wanted to see this
reaction. Instead, Hoot began to snore again and after a few minutes Casey
realized that if he didn't do something soon, they would likely end up
glued together. He nudged with an elbow. No response, another nudge, this
time harder.

"Hoot, wake up!"

"Wha. . . "

"Come on there, wake up. Either you just had a wet dream or you pissed the
bed. Let loose, will ya, I want to get cleaned up."

"OH SHIT!" Hoot cried, rolling away. Cooler air touched the wetness on
Casey's back making him shiver and then he noticed that the dry desert air
of the bedroom had taken on an almost ocean-like tang.

"Jesus, Case, I'm sorry."

"Hey, it didn't bother me." Casey responded. He should have let it go, yet
couldn't overlook a perfect opportunity to tease. "Anytime you need to get
of, Pal, just come on over to my side." He jumped up and headed for the
bathroom with only a glance at Hoot's stricken face.

At breakfast Hoot was more subdued than Casey had ever seen him before. The
incident had obviously upset him a great deal. Casey suddenly felt
guilty. Hoot was straight - he had no right to tease him like that.

"I was only pulling your chain." Casey said, stepping around to massage
man's shoulders as he sat hunched over his coffee cup. Hoot didn't answer,
he just sat rubbing the old scar on his inner arm. "Come on, forget what I
said. Wet dreams happen."

"It's never happened to me before!"

"So, it's a new experience, big deal. You got off, I got wet, it's not like
we had sex."

"Jesus Case, I hope you don't think . . . It's not like . . I
mean. . . Damn it, believe me, I wasn't trying prime you for a skin flick
or anything. It just sort'a . . ."

Casey laughed, yet a great wave of tenderness came over him. Reaching out
he brushed the man's unruly hair to the side, "If I thought so, we'd be
duking it out right now. No way! I know you better than that."

"Yeah, but you don't understand. Vitto was talking about ways of getting
you primed. He and Melva cooked it up. Bad guy-good guy shit. She gets you
upset, and then I was supposed to step in and take you out of there and
. . . Oh, hell, I thought they might do something even more stupid if I
didn't pretend to go along with it . . ."

Casey began to laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"I'm just trying to visualize this. What did Vitto have in mind? You and me
making out in the back seat of your Buick? And then what, me so starry eyed
that I agree to make a porn flick? I'll bet he wrote that script himself,
I've seen some of his videos."

"Well, he never said it, he sure as hell hinted at it." Hoot replied, a wan
smile finding its way to his lips.

"No shit?" Casey laughed so hard, tears ran down his face, "Don't worry,
Pal, I know a wet dream from a sexual encounter. I gotta say though, you
really ought to get out more. For minute there I thought a tidal wave had
struck. That must have been some dream."

Hoot blushed, Casey poured a cup of coffee and sat down next to him.

"You know, I was kind of nervous about last night myself. I thought if I
ended up on your side of the bed, you'd think I was making a pass."

Hoot's only response was a sidelong glance, Casey stirred more creamer into
his coffee, "Damn it Hoot, we're old friends. Let's not get into a tizzy
over stuff like this. It's meaningless and there are more important things
to worry about. I've got a feeling that if Melva even suspected you were
playing both sides of the fence, she'd make your life miserable."

"You've got that right. She's not the most forgiving soul."

"What I can't figure out is why you're still with her. You've got a ton of
talent, you know everyone in the music business. You could have a job
tomorrow morning."

"Blood's thicker than water, Case."

"You're fifth cousins for Christ's sake, even the law doesn't recognize
blood that thin."

"I owe it too her. She's been real generous to me and my folks. Sure she
can be a pain in the ass, but she has her good side too, especially when it
comes to family."

"Well I guess I have seen a flash or two of that," Casey admitted as he
reached down to touch Hoot's scar. He ran his finger across it, tracing the
outline and remembering how it got there.

When Hoot lay on the edge of death, Melva rushed to the hospital,
volunteering as the first blood donor. She showed distress over Casey and
the others on the crew as well, but there was no doubt in Casey's mind that
Hoot was her main concern. She stayed at the hospital for two solid days,
never leaving his bedside.

 The accident happened on the set of the very first video they did
together. Casey, Hoot and a girl named Sylvia were doing final takes of a
trio-de-melange sort of thing, a slow erotic set of moves choreographed so
that Hoot's lack of dancing ability didn't show. In this scene he was the
hulky sex symbol that the other two gravitated around.

"Casey, to your right, Sylvia, at Casey's leg and Hoot, look down at Sylvia
and touch her hair. Just like you rehearsed it, kids."

"Cut the noise!" someone yelled, the music came up and they started the
routine as the din in the background quieted. It wasn't a sound recording
so work went on in an adjoining set, but they did need to hear the music
and the beat. Sheer curtains billowed behind them. Sylvia's see through
costume matched that diaphanous fabric, while Hoot and Casey, tanned, oiled
and bikini shaved were basically naked wearing only skin colored posing
pouches. The rest of the set consisted of a half dozen huge glass mirrors
suspended from above and rotating slowly around them; the rear side of each
sheet of glass was painted a matte green. In the finished video, Melva's
face would appear on those matte areas while the dancer's reflections were
picked up in multiples on the mirrored surfaces. It was all done in bits
and pieces. Melva sang against a green screen, other dancers had done their
parts on other days. Technicians using computers, blended the images to
finished product and Casey was still amazed that a four-minute video took
so much time and talent to produce.

No one ever pinpointed the actual cause of the accident, it seemed to be a
combination of a weak safety cable and an overloaded platform that all gave
away at the same instant. They were in the middle of the routine, Casey
sliding his hand lightly over Hoot's chest, Sylvia sliding hers up both
their legs, when a loud snap echoed from beyond the curtains and someone
yelled "Watch out!" Sylvia looked up, screamed and shoved herself backward,
knocking both Casey and Hoot off balance, and then the curtains tore loose,
falling Kliegs hit the floor casting sparks in all directions as a nearly
ceiling high scaffolding from the next set came crashing down through
curtains to shatter the mirrors and land directly on top of them. For a
while Casey was unconscious. He came around to the sound a woman screaming
- people yelling - a frenzy of noise and confusion - and found himself
unable to move. Hoot lay beneath him, Casey's head pressed into the man's
stomach by the weight from above. The first thing he saw was the huge
amount of blood. It was everywhere, they were covered in it and then he
felt it spray warmly against his naked side. With the greatest of efforts,
Casey turned his head. Hoot's arm lay before his eyes, a huge gash spurted
blood with every heartbeat. Panic took hold of him. He heaved upwards
managing to move the planks and pipes that pinned them down and slapped a
hand to the wound, pressing hard on the artery to stop the blood. It was
almost too late. By the time help arrived, Hoot was deep in shock and
barely breathing. Casey himself received several nasty gashes from the
glass, but nothing like the stab wound that severed the artery in Hoot's
arm.

Casey shivered putting the incident out of his mind, then looked up to find
Hoot watching him. He knew exactly what Casey had been thinking about.

"It kind of makes us blood brothers, ya know." Hoot said quietly.

"Well blood bath participants anyway." Casey joked.

"You saved my life Case. . ."

"And you saved mine! Christ, if it wasn't for I'd be dead by now, or living
under a bridge." Casey gave the scar a final pat, "Now let's try to save
ourselves. We have to figure out what to do about Melva."

"What'dya mean?"

"Well first off, I don't want to be looking over my shoulder for the rest
of my life, and I don't think you want her finding out about your
involvement.  Oh, I agree, this is as good a place as any to hang out,
except I want Melva to think I'm somewhere far, far away."

"But, she has no idea where you're at."

"Exactly, and neither does my agent or my lawyer. What happens when they
get worried and file a missing person's report? Look, I don't need ten
thousand tabloid reporters digging into my past while the cops are out
looking for me. Besides, Melva can put two and two together. You didn't
leave with her, then you disappear for a couple of days and I vanish off
the face of the earth. She'll figure it out in no time."

"I don't think so, you see I haven't disappeared at all, I'm in Chicago
setting up tour dates."

"What?" Casey responded. Then it came to him: Scotty!  Hoot winked and
nodded.

"I was worried about that dance hall thing, so I did a little advance
planning. Right now my car is parked at LA X, I'm in Chicago and you could
be anywhere."

"Well, that solves part of the problem. Now if we only had a phone I could
head off the posse."


An hour later, Casey stood in the doorway waiting while Hoot brought the
Jeep around. It should have occurred to him that Hoot would have another
vehicle stored out here, but it never crossed his mind. Well away from the
house and hidden behind a watered windbreak of Chinese elm and native
shrubs, were several storage buildings, one of which contained an old Jeep
used for yard work around the property.

Hoot pulled up in front of the walk. Casey started toward him when his
stocking clad foot came down on a sand burr.

"Ow! Ow, Jesus K-rist!" He said, hobbling back to the doorway to sit down
and extract the needle sharp pod. Hoot was right - walking barefoot around
here was out of the question.

"Gotcha huh?" Hoot said, smiling down at him, "Those things are all over
the place. There's only one way you're going to get to the Jeep, so here we
go. . ." Effortlessly he scooped Casey up and carried him the ten or so
steps to the battered vehicle.

"My hero." Casey quipped.

"Aw, shucks, 'taint nothin' a'tall." Hoot shot back with a grin as he
settled Casey on the seat.

A half-hour later, they pulled into the little desert town of
Adelento. Casey sat in the Jeep while Hoot located a pair of size 9-1/2
athletic shoes and then they both headed for the nearest public phone. Once
connected, Casey's agent, Ethel Mezu, quickly set up a conference call with
Jim Dennis, the lawyer handling Casey's affairs, and the three discussed
the situation while Hoot listened in.

Jim was gung-ho for a harassment suit, while Ethel wanted to avoid one at
all costs. Hoot shook his head and whispered, "No lawsuits, Case, it will
only make things worse."
	
Casey finally made it clear that all he wanted was out of the contract,
which meant repaying the money he owed Birchline, and if necessary buying
out the remaining months of the contract - anything to be free of
it. Again, Hoot interrupted.

"Tell them not to move too fast. Give Paul Markey at least a week to cool
Melva down and then go see him - and only him about buying out the
contract."

Casey conveyed that message as well. Dennis was far from happy; he
preferred a face to face confrontation as soon as possible, but he finally
agreed to do it Casey's way.

"Well, that wasn't so bad." Casey said as he hung up the phone, "In a week
or two it should all be settled."

"The legal problems maybe," Hoot replied, "But I'm worried that right now
Melva is past thinking about contracts and just want's revenge. If Paul
can't calm the waters before your lawyer starts in, then watch out!"

"What the hell can she do?"

"You mean besides having your ass kicked? Ever hear of character
assassination and black lists - how about a constant barrage of nasty
rumors in the tabloids? A whole herd of people owe Paul and Melva favors
and just about as many are scared to death of them! Didn't you ever notice
that she never gets bad press?"

"Hold on there, that piece in the LA Times wasn't exactly complimentary."

"One of Markey's few failures, believe me. When that story hit the tabloids
though, it was all turned around - Melva, the poor victim and the cop, a
heavy-handed Nazi. No mention at all of the fact that she gouged his face."

"Really? That wasn't in the Times either, just DUI and disorderly
conduct. There was an altercation as well?"

Hoot nodded, "Big time," He said, "In fact, she got a black eye out of
it. Markey smoothed it over, Melva didn't sue, and the cops deep sixed the
resisting arrest charge. Like I said, Markey knows a lot of people."

They had lunch at the local cafe, then picked up a few more groceries and
headed back. The sun was high, the desert in bloom and Hoot took a side
trail that wound up toward the mountains. The colors were breathtaking -
orange and yellow poppies and deep blue grape hyacinths covered the sere
mountainsides like brush strokes blended on a giant palette. It was a
display that happened only once a year and they rode through the very heart
of it.

"Spring is my favorite time of year out here," Hoot commented as he stopped
so they could take in the view. "The heat hasn't settled in yet, and it's
like this for 2 or 3 weeks. Pretty, huh?"

"Beautiful. I've heard about this, but never came through here at the right
time to see it."

They sat, taking in the panorama for awhile, then Hoot started the Jeep and
they headed back to the house.

"Say, I meant to ask. Who is Scotty? I never saw him before last night."

"He's from back home, I've known him since I was a kid. His father bought
the farm next to our place. Scotty is maybe 8 or 9 years older than me, but
being next door neighbors we got to know each other pretty well. After his
dad died, Scott went into the Army and years later when I joined, I run
across him again. In fact we were in the same outfit for almost a year. He
was going to make it a career, except that he ended up the same problem his
dad had - a bad heart. Anyway, they gave him a medical discharge a few
months back and he's been traveling around the country ever since. He's
staying at my place for a few weeks while he sees the sights. McDermott is
his last name. He's a real nice guy - you'll like him when you get to know
him."

"Does he always wear that shit eating grin?"

"Only when he knows something you don't" Hoot replied, laughing.



Chapter 5


The grin was long gone from Scotty's face by the time he arrived in
Chicago. It was 7:45 in the morning on a cold, wet, dreary day. The flight
had been terrible. Rough weather made getting even a nap impossible. I
really need some sleep, he thought as he caught a cab into town. Checking
into the Hilton using Hoot's credit card, he was quickly guided to a tenth
floor room that was far nicer than he would have picked for himself - ah,
the perks of an expense account he thought as he unpacked a suit and laid
it on the bed.

The bed looked inviting. He gazed at it longingly, even bounced on it a
couple of times. "Better not." he muttered, glancing at the clock on the
elegant night stand. It was already 8:45. There just wasn't time for
anything but a shower, and a quick breakfast at the hotel dinning
room. Hoot's meeting was scheduled for 10:00 AM and Scott had no idea how
far away the Center Stage booking offices were.  Just get the contracts
signed, Hoot had told him - no big deal! Yet, in a way it was a big
deal. If he screwed it up, then this whole exercise was a waste time and
effort.

When Hoot first brought up the idea of trading places, it sounded like a
bit of harmless, James Bond type fun.  Now he wasn't so sure. Maybe he was
just tired, but it had become abundantly clear to Scotty that he wasn't
much of an actor, especially after the hotel clerk called him
'Mr. Houtsagen' three times before he responded. The guy had Hoot's name
turned around, first name last, but it set him to worrying; What if I can't
fool the people at the meeting today? The music business wasn't his bag, in
fact, he knew diddley about it. Hoot explained that this get together had
nothing to do with music, only logistics, but still, if they asked
questions . . . He shook his head, the closer he got to this meeting, the
less he liked the idea. True, it wasn't a matter of life or death, but if
he didn't do it right, Hoot's little scam would come to a screeching halt,
and from what he had gathered, Hoot's very job hung on Scott's unknown
ability to act out the part.

Chicago was cold. An icy spring drizzle slicked a city that had only
recently given up it's winter snow covering. The roads and walks held
treacherous slippery spots and when he had gotten out of the cab, the
famous Chicago breeze whipping around the downtown buildings, cut through
him like a knife. He promised himself that once back in LA, he was going to
take a week and just relax on the beach - soak up some of those warming
rays.

Tiredly, he ate a hurried breakfast, tossed down his heart medication with
a cup of coffee, and lit the morning cigarette that he wasn't supposed to
have. Patting his pockets to make sure his reading glasses were with him,
he hailed a cab and headed for the meeting. It had gotten colder. The
morning drizzle had turned into freezing rain. As he rode, ice tears slowly
slid down the cab windows building up until they obscured half the view. To
Scotty's relief the building he sought was only a couple of blocks
away. Hopefully, he could get the concert dates settled by lunch time and
maybe even catch an afternoon flight. A couple of weeks in California and
he was already acclimatized - this northern weather did absolutely nothing
to improve his spirits.  In fact the only ice he ever wanted to see again
was in glass - with something warm and mellow poured over it.

One man was late in arriving, another couldn't make it at all and had sent
a replacement. Getting started seemed to take forever. A different company
handled the east-coast dates and Hoot had set those a month earlier. Scotty
pulled out that list and he and the Center Stage representatives went over
it, trying to blend the existing structure with openings available in the
mid-west. As Hoot had said, it was logistics: You can't perform in New York
on Saturday and in St. Louis on Sunday, unless you're jet
propelled. Bussing takes time and while Melva might fly, the show itself
came by truck. It wasn't difficult, just time consuming.

His luck held. No one asked questions he couldn't answer and not once
during the entire meeting did anyone doubt his identity. Finally at 2:30
PM, Scotty lay his glasses on the table and they all shook hands. The
contracts were signed. He tucked the paperwork away in the briefcase,
shared a single congratulatory drink with the men and took his leave - only
to discover that in the intervening hours, the city had come to a stand
still. The freezing rain had turned into a major ice storm. Now, everything
in sight, the lampposts, even the building canopies, groaned under a heavy
icy coating. There wasn't a taxi on the street, nor even a city truck out
spreading sand. They probably couldn't get through, Scotty realized. The
streets and sidewalks were treacherous and with abandoned cars sitting
everywhere. Unable to negotiate the ice, the owners had simply left them
wherever they came to a halt. Carefully, Scotty picked his way along the
slippery sidewalk back to the hotel, getting soaked in the
process. According to the desk clerk, it didn't look good for catching an
afternoon flight out of O'Hare, in fact more flights were being canceled by
the minute.

"It's not supposed to last," the man said cheerfully, "There's a warm front
moving in from the west. This should all be over by tomorrow."

"Tomorrow!" Scotty groaned.

"Well, look at the bright side - at least you're not stuck at the airport."
The clerk replied, "And you have a room for the night."

Scotty took his second shower of the day, this time a long, hot one. He
watched a little TV, ordered an early dinner from room service and by 6 PM
was sound asleep.

13 hours later he was awake watching the sun come up and was amazed to see
that the ice had completely vanished. He flipped on the TV. The temperature
was 52 degrees with a high expected near 70.

"Crazy weather," he muttered "Why would anyone live in Chicago!"

It was noon before he could got a confirmed booking for a flight to LA. At
O'Hare, it was first come, first serve for the overnight stranded
passengers so it was near 2 PM before he actually boarded a plane. 4 hours
later, at 3 PM Pacific Time, he disembarked at LAX and headed for the
parking lot feeling confident that his masquerade had been a success. Now
all he had to do was get the contracts to Hoot and that would be the end of
it.


#####

At 3 Sunday afternoon Manny called Melva, "Your little problem seems to
have disappeared - got any ideas where he might be?"

"He didn't go home?"

"Nope, the place was staked all weekend."

"Well, keep looking - he's got to come back someday. Say - wait a
minute. . . You're not going to do it right there are you?  Look, Manny, I
don't want the cops coming around here . . . "

"Jesus, Melva - I'm not an idiot! Once we locate him and figure out his
habits, he'll have a little run in with a couple of strangers, maybe over a
parking space or something. It'll be just like the other times, neat, sweet
and untraceable.  OK?"

"OK, Manny, I trust you to do it right. If I hear anything, I'll let you
know."



Chapter 6


It was late Sunday afternoon when Scotty arrived at Halfway to Hell. He was
tired, but elated that the ruse in Chicago had worked so well. Hoot met him
at the door and ushered him into the kitchen area where he perched on a
stool while Casey filled a plate for him. They were just sitting down for
dinner and it smelled wonderful. Baked chicken and rice - the kind of food
he should be eating, he noted, instead of his regular diet of
grease-burgers.

"How did it go?" Hoot asked.

"No problem, except the weather. Jesus what a mess, an ice storm. They
closed the airport last night, and I had to wait until this afternoon to
get a flight. I'll tell ya, Hoot, if we're going back to LA tonight, you're
driving - I'm whipped, my body keeps telling me it's past my bed time."

"That's jet lag. Anyway, we've got a few hours. Eat up and go flop down in
the bedroom for awhile. I do have to get back tonight, these contracts need
to be in early in the morning." Hoot opened the brief case and scanned the
schedule. "Looks good, Scotty. As I told you - just like the Army - moving
people and equipment from one place to another. You did it exactly right,
even gave the crew a rest day now and then."

Casey, who had been silent throughout the exchange, studied McDermott as he
ate. He seemed like a nice enough fellow. His impression that Scott always
had a knowing grin plastered on his face, vanished and he began to warm to
the man.  Before the meal was through, all three were chatting
comfortably. Afterwards, Scott took Hoot up on the offer of a few hours
sleep and retired to the bedroom while Hoot and Casey cleaned up the
kitchen.

"So what time are you leaving?" Casey asked.

"Probably around 10:00. I'll be back sometime Wednesday. If you have to go
anywhere, the key for the jeep is in the desk, but stay away from LA until
I find out what's going on with Melva."

"I'll need some clothes, your stuff don't exactly fit me, ya know." Casey
searched his pockets and pulled out a key ring. "Here, when you come back,
bring me some underwear, a few pair of jeans and 3 or 4 shirts. Anything in
the closet will be OK. And water my plants while you're at it, the one's on
the patio, too."

"You still fussing with those things? I figured by now you'd have ditched
that hobby and gone something else, like tropical fish."

"Naw, I did that once remember? Exotic plants are just as interesting and
they don't kick the bucket so easy."

"Ha!" Hoot responded. "The one you gave me died in a couple of weeks."

"Well, you were supposed to water it, you know." Casey replied.

"I did! Every day, and it still died."

"Yeah, but did you talk to it?" Hoot rolled his eyes and Casey laughed.

They gabbed a bit, then watched television for awhile and finally when 10
O'clock rolled around, Hoot woke up Scotty and they left. The house
suddenly seemed overly quiet without Hoot's hearty laugh punctuating the TV
sitcoms. After an hour, Casey turned it off and went to bed, but as he slid
between the sheets he thought about the previous night and started smiling:
They had spent Saturday afternoon catching up on each other's lives. It was
like old times the two of them lounging around and talking.  They even used
the pool and Hoot had shown no modesty at all, swimming nude himself when
they couldn't find trunks to fit Casey. He thought that Hoot had put the
wet dream incident behind him, but evidently not.  At bedtime he came out
of the bathroom wearing an ugly set of paisley pajamas a size too small and
which were so permanently drawer creased they could have been pressed by
steamroller. He tried to act nonchalant, but the second Casey saw him, he
lost it completely - he just couldn't stop laughing. Embarrassed, Hoot
shoved him out of the bedroom and tossed a pillow and blanket after him,
but for some reason, that just made the whole thing funnier. Casey retired
to a couch where he continued to snicker and laugh until Hoot came charging
out threatening murder and mayhem if didn't shut up. Casey pointing a
finger at him, again breaking into gales of laughter - and the chase was
on. Casey dodged about the living room furniture in a vain effort to stay
ahead of Hoot, only he was laughing so hard his nimbleness was lost. The
game of tag was also lost. It became a wrestling match in which Hoot's
pajama top lost all its buttons. Wiggling free of the big man's grip, Casey
made it as far as the bedroom before Hoot caught again and there proceeded
to tickle his victim until he begged for mercy. Grinning, Hoot picked Casey
up and tossed him on the bed, then flung the ruined pajamas, both top and
bottom in his face.

"There! Now are you satisfied?" He asked as he crawled into bed..

"Yeah," Casey replied, still wiping tears from his eyes, "You looked pretty
damn silly in that getup."

Hoot smiled, "I suppose. Anyway I should guessed that it would turn you
into a laughing hyena. You have a weird sense of humor, Case."

"Only when you do things that's ridiculous." Casey responded.

"Yeah, well how about turning off the light coming to bed. I'm beat."

Casey did as requested, but as he got into bed, he reached over and gave
Hoot's arm a squeeze. Hoot started slightly.

"Relax," Casey said, "I just wanted to say 'Thanks."

"For what?"

"For being my friend.  I just realized how much I've missed you these last
few months. Remember those crazy flea markets we used visit? We never
bought much, but we sure had fun pawing through all that junk. It just come
to me though that it wasn't the junk - the fun came from being with you."

"Now don't go all mushy on me." Hoot replied.

"I'm not, I'm just telling you the truth. You're my best friend, Hoot, and
I don't ever want you feeling self-conscious about anything concerning
me. OK?"

"OK-OK, you made your point. Now can we go to sleep?"

"Sure thing, but I just wanted you to know that if you do happen to end up
stuck to my back again, I'll never tell a soul." He snickered, and this
time the pillow hit him squarely up side the head.

	
#####


The sky was clear, the moon well above the horizon when Hoot pulled out of
the drive. Scotty, still sleepy, stretched and yawned. Reaching forward, he
snagged a coffee cup from the holder, took a sip and lit a cigarette

"I see you that and your pal are getting along OK." He commented. "No
hassles, no more fisticuffs?"

"Nope. Case realizes that getting out of Melva's sight for awhile is a
healthy move. He's no dummy. Melva has never admitted it, but I know damn
well that she's had people thumped before. Her ex-boyfriend for one. He
took her to court, but couldn't prove anything and in the end he come off
looking like an asshole."

"You really think she'd try that with Casey?"

"After Friday night? I'd lay odd on it!  You know, Case told me something
that really pisses me off. Either Melva is feeding me a line, or Vitto is
and I intend to get some answers. This whole thing was bullshit! Case
covered those advances, only they rejected payment."

"Maybe it was just a mistake."

"Paul Markey doesn't make mistakes like that."

They rode in silence for awhile. Scotty finished his cigarette and still
feeling sleepy, said, "Maybe I'll catch some more Z's, unless you want me
to keep you company."

"Naw, go ahead. Air travel always leaves me whacked out too. Before you go
to sleep though, - what have you got planned for the next couple of days?"

"Nothing, really - I thought maybe the beach or just drive around and see
what I can see. You're going to be busy, right?"

"Yeah, a bunch of meetings in town and one in Vegas on Tuesday. Case ask me
to do a few things for him, but I'm gonna be on a dead run. Do you suppose
you could drop around to his place - water the plants and pack up some
clothes for him? I'll bring 'em up Wednesday. Oh yeah, he want's his mail
too. And can you call the dealership and tell them he won't be picking up
his car for awhile?"

"That list of his seems to be getting longer by the minute, but yeah, I'll
take care of it."

"Thanks, Scotty. There's no rush, just anytime in the next couple of days."


Chapter 7


At 8 AM sharp, Hoot entered the Birchline offices and the first words out
of the receptionist's mouth were, "Mister Markey want's to see you - ASAP!"
Nodding, Hoot moved through the offices to Markey's suite. The feeling was
mutual; he had a few questions of his own.

"Ah, there you are," Markey exclaimed as Hoot walked in. "Vitto said that
you went with Melva to that dance Friday night. What the hell happened
there?"

"Didn't she tell you?"

"She won't even talk about it. You did see it though?"

"I sure did - close up! She went in to hassle Case and got wet down for her
trouble. What I want to know is how come you won't accept his check - he
told me that its been returned twice, is that true?"

"I'm afraid that's what happened. I didn't learn about this until Friday
night, but Vitto bought O'Brian's contract from Melva figuring he could
enforce that old Stud release. Anyway, he paid off O'Brian's advances and
returned his checks." A wry grin spread across Markey face. "He really
screwed himself. The contract is worthless and O'Brian isn't obligated in
any way to pay him back."

"Yeah, but, what you're saying is that Vitto and Melva cooked this up
together . . ."

"I doubt that," Paul replied, "Vitto never told her about the checks!  I
figure he strung her along, probably cried on her shoulder about O'Brian
not honoring the contract. He says Melva volunteered to help him, but you
can bet he wound her up ahead of time."

"That Bastard! I'm gonna have a talk with him."

"Simmer down, Hoot, I've already taken care of it. Vitto went to Hawaii to
shoot some background video, he won't bother O'Brian again. Melva's gone to
New York for a few days and I'm heading east myself. If we just leave it
alone, everything will settle down."

Hoot shook his head, "No it won't, Paul. You weren't there, I've never seen
Melva that pissed before. When she called him a liar he got mad, poured a
coke over her head and shoved her hard enough to knock her off her feet.
Do you really think she'll let that pass? Uh-uh! We both know what happens
to people who play rough with Melva - they get hurt!"

"Now, wait a minute! That's crazy talk."

Hoot just stared at the man, "Strange, isn't it, that every time anyone
messes with Melva, they end up in the hospital."

"Jesus Christ, Hoot - she's your cousin. How can you even think that about
her."

"Because I'm neither blind nor stupid! Look, I'm not passing judgment on
her. Maybe those other people deserved to get thumped, but not Case. He
told me that for the last month he's been constantly harassed - letters,
phone calls, legal threats, and all of them tagged with Melva's name and
then Melva herself shows up to make a scene. Yeah, he lost his cool, but he
didn't start it."

For a moment, Markey sat as quiet as stone.  "I'm sorry Hoot, I had no idea
that it had gone that far. Melva . . ." He paused, choosing his words
carefully.  "As an officer of the court, I can state under oath that I have
no direct knowledge of Melva's involvement in any such incident. On the
other hand, it might be a good idea if your friend stayed out of sight for
awhile."

"I'm way ahead of you there. Look, you'll be seeing Melva tonight. Help me
straighten this out. Tell her the details and just remind her that Case is
my best friend. I won't take it lightly if anything happens to him."

"I'll do everything I can, Hoot, I promise."

After Hoot left, Paul leaned back and propped his feet up. His tented
fingers lightly tapped against his lips as he became lost in thought. Odd,
that Vitto would go to such lengths for a skin flick - and to lie so
blatantly! Did he really think Melva would never find out that he was using
her? No! Either Melva was in on it from the start - which seemed highly
unlikely, or Vitto simply didn't care if she found out.  A tendril of
suspicion began to creep across his mind . . . If it were the latter, then
Vitto was up to something far more important to him than a skin flick. But
what? What benefit would he gain from a confrontation between Melva and
O'Brian?  The only result would be lawsuits and court problems. Was that
it? Did Vitto want Melva in trouble - deep trouble - maybe something big
enough for the court to rescind probation? But why, what would he have to
gain? He mulled it over. Something was going on here that didn't meet the
eye. He decided it was time to do a little checking on Vitto. Since the
man's overriding concern had always been money, an audit of the company
books might be a wise first step, and if that showed nothing, then a
thorough check into what Vitto was doing outside the company. He sat up and
touched the intercom,

"Angie, clear my calendar for the rest of the day, and contact John
Martin. Tell him it's important that we meet before I leave for New York
tonight. Also, call Graham in bookkeeping and let him know I'm coming
down."


####

The phone rang twice. There was a pause, then it rang again. Manny picked
it up. "Yeah?"  He said.

"It's Angelo. A guy went into the bungalow maybe 15 minutes ago."

"Our pigeon?"

"Uh-uh. This man's got a beard. It looks like he's just taking care of the
place - he was out back watering the plants a few minutes ago . . . Oh-oh,
here he comes now and he's carrying a suitcase."

"Follow him!"

"You want Turk to stay here?"

"Don't bother - our boy isn't coming home for awhile. We'll find him
wherever that suitcase ends up."

Forty minutes later the man called back. "He didn't go far. Woodland Hills,
just of Topanga Canyon. He dropped off the suitcase and left - only there
ain't nobody here either. We're parked on a pull out above the house where
we can see the whole set up. There ain't a soul down there."

"What's the address?" The man reeled off the number. "Hang around and see
if our boy shows up. I'll try to find out who lives there."

That, as it turned out, wasn't a problem at all. The Woodland Hills city
directory gave him the name. On the other hand, the name was one that could
be a problem: H.T. Anders - Melva's cousin. He tried calling Melva. The
housekeeper assured him that she was out of town and wouldn't be back until
Friday at the earliest.

"I'm sorry, Sir," She said, in the prime, firm voice of a person used to
discouraging nosy callers, "I can't give out that number. If it concerns
business, please call the office manager at Birchline, or if you'd like, I
can take a message . . . "

Manny hung up. If he couldn't reach Melva, he would just have to wing
it. He thought about it for awhile but couldn't see that it was any skin
off his nose one way or the other. If Hoot was involved then that was
between him and Melva, besides he had more important things to think about
- like nailing the pigeon. You don't get the kind of loot he was paid by
sitting on your hands.

It was near 6 PM when Angelo called again, "The guy came back alone and he
don't act like he's expecting anyone. Right now he's outside barbecuing a
hamburger - just one. Do we need to hang around here any longer? Turk is
getting pissed and I'm getting hungry."

"No, wrap it up for the day. I'll take the morning shift."


#####


At 4:00 PM Tuesday, Hoot called from Vegas and left a message on his
answering machine "Scotty; I'm not gonna make it home tonight - the guy
from the cable network got delayed, so everything's off until morning. I
hate to keep imposing, but do you suppose you could go see Case tomorrow?
Tell him not to come back yet - nothing is settled with Melva, but at least
he's off the hook as far as the contract is concerned. Vitto bought it, and
according to Paul, it's not transferable without Casey's consent. Oh yeah,
there's a cell phone on my desk sitting in a charger. Take the whole thing
and leave it with him, I'll call him tomorrow. I'm staying at the Egyptian;
706-555-5421, room 757. I off to play the slots right now, but if you're
not busy tonight, give me a call. I'll be in early."

At 8:30 AM Wednesday morning, Scott turned off Topanga Canyon Road and onto
the side street leading to Hoot's house. He didn't notice the car parked in
the pull out at the top of the hill, in fact he wasn't paying attention
anything, except how good he felt. Smiling to himself, he unlocked the
house and walked through the kitchen. The blinking red light on the
answering machine didn't register and Scott continued on to the
bathroom. As he showered, he kept finding hickeys, some in the most
unexpected places. No beach today, he decided as he soaped the ones on his
belly and chest. Damn what a night, and so weird. He wasn't even looking
for anything - It started with a little conversation in a restaurant, and
the next thing he knew he was screwing his brains out. Smiling over the
adventure, he decided he liked California - a lot!

It was close to 10 when the blinking light finally penetrated his
consciousness, but when he tried calling Hoot, the phone rang to an empty
room.

"Sorry, sir. Mister Anders seems to be out."

"Can I leave him a message?"

"Yes sir, go ahead - I'll make sure he gets it."

"OK, just write - "The cell phone is on its way. Sorry I didn't return your
call, I was busy all night.""

"And your name sir?"

"Oh, yeah," An impish grin spread across Scott's face, "Just sign it
"Lucky,""

It was an hour later when Scott began carrying items out to his car for the
run to the desert and from the overlook, Manny noted with interest that a
tan suitcase was part of the load.

"Now we're getting somewhere." He muttered. Starting his nondescript Chevy
sedan, he turned around and edged back toward Topanga Canyon road to
another pull out where he waited for the bearded man to pass. Flipping open
a cell phone he called Angelo, "We're on the move. I don't know where yet,
but keep a phone handy."

An hour later, he called again, "It looks like he's heading towards
Palmdale. You guys follow along, we're on the Antelope Valley freeway right
now. You might even be able to catch us - he's just putting along at 55."

Angelo, tangled in Valley traffic failed catch up, and at Palmdale, the guy
turned east. Manny passed the word, but he was a good 30 miles out in the
middle of nowhere before his rear view mirror picked up Angelo's car. The
bearded man was nearly a mile ahead, still tooling along at the same steady
55. Where the hell is he going, Manny wondered? He found out soon
enough. The brake lights came on and the car made a left turn into a
driveway. Manny slowed. Angelo quickly caught up and the two cars cruised
slowly past "Halfway to Hell" or at least that's what the sign by the gate
said.

When Scotty pulled in, Casey was in the yard practicing lunges and thrusts
with the old dueling sword from above the fireplace. His 'opponent' was a
collection of rags tied together and dangling from the low hanging limb of
a Chinese elm. The desert breeze caused his adversary to dance and sway and
as a result it made for a more interesting workout than just going through
the thrust and parry moves.

"Jesus," Scotty said as he got out of the car, "You must be bored
stiff. I've had some slow times in my life, but I never took up stabbing
rags as a hobby."

"You don't know what you're missing." Casey joked, laying the sword on the
nearby bench.  "Where's Hoot?"

"He's hung up in Vegas - won't be back until tomorrow. Now there's luck for
ya, - I get stuck in an ice storm in Chicago - he gets stuck in Glitter
City. Say, do you need groceries or anything?"

"Yeah, I'm out of milk and I'm getting sick of Hoot's diet COLA . . ."

"OK, let's go. I'll fill you in on the way."

Manny turned around and was coming back for another look at the place when
the bearded man pulled out of the drive. With him, was the guy they were
looking for, Casey O'Brian. "Now, where the fuck are they going" he
wondered aloud. Pulling off on the shoulder, he waited for Angelo,

"Follow them and keep me posted. I want to see who lives here."

Manny parked in the drive, looked around for a moment and then walked
boldly up to the front door and knocked. After a few tries with no
response, he scouted the yard, peering toward the sheds beyond the
windbreak. No movement, no sounds at all except the whisper of the wind in
the trees. Behind the house a chain link fence surrounded a patio that
sported a smallish covered pool and a canopied barbecue pit. A clump of
black stemmed bamboo grew luxuriously by the rear door where an outside
faucet dripped. It was the only bit of lushness behind the fence other than
for a few native weeds eking out a life between the flagstones. The patio
had 'seldom used' written all over it, he thought as he lifted the latch on
the fence and entered. To his surprise the rear door was unlocked. Manny
snooped, checking out the bedroom, the bath, and even the dresser
drawers. There was a lot of 'stuff' in the house, but nothing of real value
- no coins, guns, or paintings - this was just a weekend retreat by the
look of it. Of course a robber wouldn't know that, he thought idly. It was
obvious that only one person was staying here - one dish in the strainer,
one cup - one set of silverware. O'Brian had been alone. Again the thought
surfaced that this was a perfect setup for a random robbery - isolated, not
even a telephone - yes, perfect - and perfectly plausible. There had been a
rash of burglaries around Lake Arrowhead recently and that was what - maybe
an hour away? As he scanned the main room he could visualized the whole
thing. Burglars, surprised by O'Brian, take him out, steal his wallet and
ransack the house. He wandered about looking for valuables - something
light and portable, only there wasn't much. OK, then the TV and VCR - chump
shit - but enough to make it look like a robbery. Yes, he thought, if the
guy with the beard doesn't hang around, then this is the ideal spot - and
the cops can write it off as another bit of random violence.

He wandered back to the car. It was time to make the call. He punched in
the numbers and waited until the long distance lines to connect. It rang
twice, "Manny, here. We found him, and the set up is good. You still want
to go through with it?" Manny didn't really relish this new twist, but the
money was right. "OK, then, tomorrow you can read all about in the papers."




Chapter 8


"I brought Hoot's cell phone," Scotty said, indicating the back seat "He's
gonna call today . . ." He had no more than said it, when the cell phone
started buzzing. There was a slight scramble to retrieve it from the
plastic bag and it sounded several times before Casey finally said,
"Hello."

"Hi, Case. I see Scotty got there OK."

"Yeah, he just arrived as a matter of fact. We're on our way to Hi Vista to
pick up a few things. How long are you staying in Vegas?"

"Just today. Cablevision is hosting a dinner tonight that I have to attend,
but I'll be leaving directly after. I should be there around midnight -
maybe 1 o'clock."

"OK, I'll leave a light on. Hey, Scotty just told me about Vitto buying out
my contract. Did that really void the thing?"

"Yep, it sure did. It seems Vitto's been playing fast and loose with Melva
too, so maybe we'll have this mess all cleared up in a few days."

"I hope so, I'm ready to go home, Ethel has a couple of scripts she wants
me to read . . ."

"You just stay put for awhile. Paul and Melva will be back this weekend and
I want to see what Paul has to say. Just relax and enjoy yourself - it's a
vacation, remember? Besides, there's something we need to talk
about. Tomorrow we'll take the whole day and just ramble around, OK?"

"You've got me intrigued. What's it about?"

"Never mind, it'll keep. Now let me talk to Scotty for a minute."

Casey handed over the phone and Hoot said, "Hi, 'Lucky'. Do I need to ask
what that name signified?"

Scott laughed, "I guess not. It was a hell of a night, though. I'm still
sore and we've got another date on Friday. I hope I'm all healed up by
then."

"So, give me the skinny?"

"Remember the brunette who waited on us Gino's last week? Her name is Cathy
Davidson."

"You mean the one I said looked like a teacher?

"That's her. And maybe you were right! Man, she sure taught me a thing or
two."

"Well, just remember your heart . . ."

"Hey, my heart's holding up fine - it's the rest of me I'm worried about."

The conversation flowed on and neither Casey nor Scott noticed the car that
pulled into the parking behind them at the Hi Vista Jiffy Mart.

"We could take care of it right here, ya know," Angelo told Manny on the
phone, "There ain't nobody around, only a couple of cars in the lot."

"No way! That's not how I work and you know it. Besides, this ain't the
city where you can disappear into a crowd. You wouldn't make it ten miles
before the cops had you. The perfect set up is at the house so don't fuck
around there and get noticed. Understand?"

Scotty stayed for a few hours. Toward evening Casey whipped up light dinner
consisting mostly of a salad and a pasta dish in a creamy sauce. They ate
on the patio as the sun settled low in the west. Casey nursed a Sprite,
Scotty a beer. It was a pleasant evening with no traffic sounds to disturb
the quiet.

"I can see why Hoot likes this place," Scotty commented, "this is restful,
no smog either."

"Yeah, it's nice, but it would be a lot nicer if I could run in to LA for a
day or two. I've got things to do and being stuck out here is a real pain."

"You know what Hoot said and I've got to think he's right. The more he
tells about Melva the crazier she sounds. Did she really can that fellow -
what was his name -Mathews - because he farted?"

"Yep, threw him off the bus in the middle of nowhere. She was pissed off
about something else and Mathews just happened to cut a rank one at the
wrong time. With Melva you never could never tell what would set her
off. The last tour I was on she fired half the road crew and no one ever
knew why."

"Yeah, but Hoot said was in the dead of winter and Mathews was only wearing
pajamas. Jesus, what a way to treat someone- what if he'd died?"

"Luckily the band bus was about 20 minutes behinds us and they picked him
up."

"Well all I can say, is if she'd do that to someone she worked with, what
would she do to a guy who pushed her down and poured coke on her? No sir, I
think you'd better do exactly what Hoot says and stay put."

"Oh, I intend to, Casey replied.


It was close to one AM when Casey heard someone rustling around in the
living room. Hoot, he thought, as he stretched and yawned. There was a loud
thump and rattle like a kitchen drawer being slammed. What the hell is he
doing, Casey wondered? All went quiet for a minute, then there came a
scraping noise like a couch being dragged across the tiles. Getting up, he
flung open the door,

"Why the hell are you moving furniture in the middle . . ." The words died
in his throat. It wasn't Hoot, it was a man with a nylon stocking pulled
over his head. Another, standing right next to the bedroom door seemed
startled by Casey's sudden appearance, but only for a moment. He made a
lunge and Casey leapt backwards slamming the door, soundly banged the guy's
knuckles in the process. Gripping the knob tightly in one hand, he turned
the privacy latch and realized instantly it would never hold. A chair stood
near the door. He tipped it up and jammed it under the knob, making sure
the rear legs seated firmly in the tile grout lines. Feeling safe for the
moment and quickly pulled on jeans and slipped bare feet into shoes. The
men were kicking the wood to no avail - the door seemed solid as a bank
vault until the moment a volley of gunshots rang out sending splinters of
carved wood flying across the room. Frightened half out of his wits, Casey
dropped to floor convinced that even the heavy Mexican panel wouldn't hold
up against that kind of assault. The bedroom had no windows, just a
skylight and a foot high row of glass panels that topped the wall just
below the ceiling, but the bathroom did have a small window. Casey
slithered across the tile, flung open the narrow sash and crawled out onto
the patio. His only thought was to get away as fast as possible. The Jeep!
No, the keys were in the house and so was the cell phone, Damn it! He
cursed himself for leaving it on the night stand. Slipping through the gate
he crept toward the front of the house. Inside, he could hear the two men
cursing and still kicking at the bedroom door and then one of them yelled,
"Go around back, see if there's a window!"

Casey hunkered down in the shadows trying to make himself as inconspicuous
as possible. The man ran past and Casey took off for the front at a dead
run, but as he cornered the house he ran smack into the other man. The
guy's first punch put Casey to the ground - a toe to the ribs followed and
the man yelled, "I got him!"

Casey rose to his knees just as the guy kicked again, throwing him back
against a wooden bench. As he landed, his bare arm came in contact with
something cold and metallic. It was the rusty old sword he had laid aside
when Scotty arrived. The guy advanced getting ready for another kick, Casey
grabbed the sword and thrust. It was awkward angle, but it penetrated just
above the groin. The man went down screaming,

"He stabbed me, the fucker stabbed me!"

The other man came around the house at a dead run and Casey, now on his
feet, made a lunge at him as well and again the sword made contract, only
not as effectively. The man dropped back, nursing a slightly wounded arm,

"You Motherfucker, he yelled, pulling out snub-nosed 38. The first shot
missed as Casey danced aside, but the next one got him in the gut. It was
like being punched, all the wind went out of him. He staggered, yet somehow
remained on his feet and as a last desperate move, he held the sword
straight out in front of him and lunged at the man. For a moment the whole
house seemed bathed in light, then a fist clamped down in Casey's chest
bringing with it a pain like he had never felt before. The light faltered,
then begin to fade as a darkness deeper than night itself closed over him.

Hoot heard the shots, saw the flashes through the trees, but pulled into
the drive just in time to see Case lunge at the guy with the gun. The sword
went completely through the man's chest and out his back, then Case fell
forward in an arc to the ground and lay motionless. The man went to his
knees, coughing. A great spurt of blood came from his mouth filling the
nylon stocking stretched over his face. Weakly, he clawed it off, then he
too collapsed to the ground, still impaled on the sword. Casey lay deathly
still. Another man wearing a nylon mask was trying to crawl to where the
gun lay. Hoot leapt from the car. Snatching up the gun, he kicked the man,

"You move and you're one dead Motherfucker!" He yelled.  He didn't need to
touch the skewered guy to know that he was dead, the man's eyes were open
staring blankly into next life.  Hoot rolled Casey onto his back looking
for wounds. There was only one he could find, just below the rib cage. It's
just a little hole, he told himself, why, he's not even bleeding
much. He'll be OK, he'll be fine he kept telling himself as he felt for a
pulse. He found it finally - it was weak, thready, and erratic - like his
grandfather's pulse had been just before he died - and in that moment came
the sure knowledge that Case too was dying. He could sense the life forces
slipping away. Stunned, he knelt over Case not knowing what to do. From the
corner of his eye, he saw the other assailant move and suddenly Hoot lost
all control. He stood, pulled back his foot and kicked the man as hard as
he could. He felt ribs break, but the he didn't care. Again he kicked and
again until the man's sobs and whimpers finally reached through the red
haze of fury. Going back to Case, he once more felt for a pulse. His heart
still beat. Maybe there was a chance if he could only get him to a
hospital, but how far was that, 20, 30 miles? Would Case survive the ride?
It was then he remembered the cell phone. Rushing inside he searched,
tossing furniture out of the way. It has to be here somewhere, he
thought. He tried the bedroom door and found it blocked. Pulling back his
foot, he kicked with all his might, tearing the hinges away from the wood
and almost cried out in joy when he saw the phone on the night stand. He
punched 911 and a moment later was yelling at someone to quit flapping
their lips and get an ambulance on the road.

"NO, NO not an ambulance" he cried, "send a chopper - he's dying, oh for
God's sake help me!"

Finally he quieted down enough to follow instructions from a
paramedic. Grabbing the blankets from the bed, he wrapped Casey as warmly
as possible without moving him, then he simply sat on the ground holding
his hand and waited for help to arrive. It seemed like hours, but in truth
it was only minutes before a lights and sirens filled the night. Hoot
sprang up and ran to the road waving his arms at the patrol cars and
pointing to the drive. A few minutes more an ambulance arrived and soon
after that an Aero-med chopper churned the air. Hoot was pulled aside and
told to stay back. Medics swarmed around Casey and the wounded
burglar. More cops arrived, cameras flashed and for awhile the yard was
full uniforms. Then like a wave it began to subside as the wounded were
loaded into the chopper and whisked away.  Hoot, however was detained for
questioning.

The officer in charge finally came to talk to him led him back into the
house, "Look Mister Anders, I know you're upset, but I need a
statement. What happened here tonight?"

"I only saw part of it as drove in. I heard gunfire, then I saw Case spear
the guy with that old sword. He'd already been shot, he just sort of lunged
and fell."

"Can you tell me what time that was?"

"I don't know - just a few minutes before I called."

"Was Mr. O'Brian the kind of man that would take on a burglar - you know
what I mean, the gung-ho type?"

"No, Case wouldn't go looking for trouble. He must have discovered them in
house, the bedroom door had a chair stuffed under the knob. I had to break
it down to get to the phone."

"We saw that. If you'll follow me I'd like to show you something." He led
Hoot to the bedroom. The door lay where it landed after he kick it in , one
end tilted against the bed. "Did you know that there are bullet holes in
this door?" The officer asked.

"No, I didn't. You mean those men shot at Case in here?"

"It looks like it, and that's rather odd too, burglars usually hi tail it
if they run across someone in a house. It does look like a burglary,
though, they had the TV and VCR outside, and the place was ransacked, only
there's no sign of forced entry."

"Well, Case was expecting me tonight, he probably left the door unlocked."

"Do you two live together?" The cop asked, gazing toward the bed.

"Case is an old friend. He was just staying here a few days while I was
away. Not that it's any of your business, but no, we don't live together!"

"Sorry, but I had to ask. You never know what the domestic situation is
nowadays. Another question you might not like, but I have to ask this one
too. Is your friend into drugs?"

"Not that I know of and I doubt it. He doesn't even drink."

"Is he a gambler?"

"No - nothing more than a lotto ticket now and then."

"What does he do for a living?"

"He's an actor, why, what are you saying?"

"Nothing, except this crime doesn't exactly fit the profile for a burglary
and I'm wondering if there could be some other reason for those men coming
here. You're sure he doesn't use drugs?"

"Look, I can't say for sure that the Pope doesn't use drugs, but I don't
think so and don't think Case does either!"

"Don't get upset, Mr. Anders, these are questions I have to ask and I'm
afraid there'll be more later. By the way, we found out who these guys
are. The dead man is Turk Packard, the other one, Angelo Martinez. Do those
names ring a bell?"

"I've never heard of either one of them."

"You know, Martinez is saying you kicked the hell out of him after he was
down. Any truth to that?"

"I'll bet he didn't tell you that he was going after the gun. Yeah, I
kicked him, I should have kicked his fucking head off!"

The officer grinned, "I'm afraid I didn't hear that and if you don't repeat
it, I'm pretty sure it won't ever come up again."

"What ever you say.  All I want to know is where they took Case - which
hospital?"

"Probably the one in Palmdale, but I'll check." The cop went out and spoke
to another officer who had been monitoring the radio. A few minutes later
he came back, "I'm sorry, but your friend is in real bad shape. They took
him to the regional trauma center in Glendale."
 What he didn't tell Hoot was that the air crew held out little hope of
O'Brian making it to the hospital alive. His heart had already stopped
twice and he was bleeding internally faster than they could pump plasma
into him. "You might want to check with them tomorrow," The officer said
soothingly, "I doubt they can give you any information tonight."

"Well, if you don't need me anymore, I'm going home. You guys can lock up
when you leave."

"Home?" The cop asked.

"Woodland Hills, this is just a weekend place." Hoot pulled out a
checkbook, peeled off the top check, tore it half and handed the addressed
half to the officer. "That's my mailing address and phone number, or you
can reach me at Birchline Productions. Can I go now?"

"Sure, only take it easy Mister Anders and get some rest. You know, there
are some decent motels in Palmdale and you might want to stay there rather
than driving all the way to the Valley."

"I'll think about it." He replied, but of course he had no intention of
doing so. On his way out, he scooped up his cell phone still lying by the
bench and as he drove, the cop's questions kept rolling through his
mind. The officer wasn't convinced that this was a robbery and the more he
thought of it, the more he could see the man's reasoning. Those two weren't
burglars, they after Case, otherwise he wouldn't have been barricaded in
the bedroom. This wasn't burglary gone wrong, this was Melva's thumping
that had gone wrong. Oh, God, he thought, if I had only done what Case
wanted and called the cops. To hell with protecting Melva. To hell with all
her crazy horse shit!

"This all my fault, I could have stopped it - all I had to do was open my
mouth . . . It's all my fault." Tears filled his eyes obscuring the highway
ahead, but all the tears in the world couldn't wash away the guilt.


Chapter 9


Angelo Martinez lay under guard in hospital room in Glendale and Detective
Robert Lafayette was getting nowhere with the guy, "All right, Martinez -
one more time. What were you and Packard doing out there last night?"

"I told ya we were just boosting some stuff and this crazy guy came at me
with a sword. He stabbed me and then Turk, and Turk shot him in
self-defense, 'course it was too late for Turk. The guy had already run him
through with that pig sticker"

"Now let me get this right. You two break in, your buddy gets snuffed and
now you're claiming self-defense?"  "Damn straight! No one would a got hurt
if the fucker hadn't pulled that chive."

"You mean, no one but O'Brian, don't you? Maybe you can explain why you
guys shot through the bedroom door? Come on Martinez, just tell me who's
after the guy. Did he run out on a drug deal, a gambling debt, maybe? You
know your story doesn't hang together, according to your rap sheet you
haven't boosted a TV since you were 15. Rumor has it that you're an
enforcer now. That was Packard's game too. Who you working for, Martinez?"

"Go fuck yourself, I want a lawyer!"

"Just a final thought, Angelo. Right now you're charged with home invasion
and burglary, but if O'Brian dies the charge jumps to murder one - the big
one. Now you can either talk to me and maybe get that reduced, or you can
practice breathing gas. It's up to you."

Angelo said nothing, just turned his face to the wall.

In the hallway, Lafayette asked for an update on O'Brian, "How's he doing?"

"No change, he's barely hanging on."

"And?"

The officer shrugged. "Just like before the surgery, the doctors don't
think he'll make it. He's on life support and you know what means."

"Look, let's put the fear of God in Martinez.  The next time you go in
there, tell him O'Brian died. Maybe that'll change his tune. Make sure he
doesn't get any calls, either, I want that fucker to sweat it by
himself. What about O'Brian's family?"

"They live in Minnesota. We've already notified them, but it's a toss up
whether they'll make it here in time."

Detective Lafayette headed down the hall looking for a coffee machine. He
hated these deathwatches. It galled him that someone had to die just to get
scum like Martinez off the street. It never changes, he thought. There's a
hundred more just like him waiting in the wings; a few bucks and a guy gets
his kneecaps broken, a few more and there's a body to bury. Anything you
want, just shell out the loot - there's always a Martinez or a Packard
ready to take care of it.  What bothered him about the O'Brian case was
that he couldn't find a connecting factor. As far as he could determine,
the guy didn't gamble or deal drugs, or even use them. So why the hell were
those two after him? If Martinez talks, I'll have the answer to that, he
thought, and maybe a bigger fish to fry as well.


Hoot got home about 5 AM. Dead tired and emotionally exhausted, he shed his
clothes, crawled into bed and was asleep almost instantly.

When Scotty got up at 10, he looked out the window and saw Hoot's car in
the drive. When did he get home, he wondered, and how come he didn't stay
with Casey?  Quietly, he looked in on Hoot. The man was dead to the world,
snoring softly.  He was about to close the door when he noticed Hoot's pale
yellow dress shirt waded up on the floor. It was stained with blood and his
blazer too. Had Hoot been in a car accident or a fight? He moved closer and
looked down at the man. There wasn't a mark on him that he could see, but
Hoot's fingers were stained brown and crusty looking - dried blood, Scotty
realized. He reached out and shook the man, "Hoot, wake up!"  Groggily the
big man opened his eyes, then he snapped to full alert. "Did they call?" He
asked.

"Who?"

"The hospital. Case was shot last night!"

"WHAT?"

"Two guys broke in. Case wounded one and killed the other, but they shot
him."

"Whoa, whoa, back up. You mean someone was killed?"

"Yeah, and Case is critical. Get the phone book and look up the Glendale
Trauma center, find out how he's doing. I've got to get dressed." Hoot
jumped up and started grabbing clothes from the closet.

"Now slow down. I'll call, you take a shower and scrub up - look at you,
you've got blood all over your hands!"

Hoot stopping dead in his tracks. He turned his palms upward and just
stared at them for a moment, "I know." He said, his voice so thin that it
was barely audible.

Scotty phoned the hospital, his call was transferred the critical wing and
there a man quietly informed him that Casey O'Brian had passed away at 9:23
that morning. Stunned, he hung up the phone. Hoot came bounding into the
kitchen fully dressed and running a comb through his wet hair,

"Well, can he have visitors yet?"

Scotty stood in awkward silence for a moment, then said, "Maybe you better
sit down."

Hoot saw the look in man's eyes and suddenly the color drained from his
face. "He's dead, isn't he?"

Scott nodded. It was like watching a balloon deflate, he thought - the life
just seemed to go out of the man. Turning slowly Hoot walked back to the
bedroom closing the door behind him.

It wasn't long after that, that the phone started ringing and for the rest
of morning Scott fielded questions from reporters. They even showed up in
person wanting to talk to the owner of "Halfway to Hell." A few seemed to
think that the name carried a deeper connotation than simple humor. Stupid
questions began popped up about Satanism and devil worship until Scotty,
threatening to call the police slammed the door in their faces.

#####

Manny Wilson was worried. When Angelo didn't call by 8 AM, he felt
something had gone wrong. The always careful Manny never allowed his guys
to carry cell phones to the actual job - there was always the chance of
losing one and having it lead directly back to him. Angelo should have
called from a public phone and confirmed, only he didn't and Manny was
getting extremely edgy. Maybe it was only car trouble, he hoped.

This particular contract had bothered him from the start. Too many people
involved and too many irons in the fire. It was no news to Manny that if
anything went wrong, he was in deep shit from two directions and with that
in mind, he put his backup plan in operation. By 10 AM with still no word,
he was on tenterhooks as he cleaning out the safe. His little black book,
the only records he kept, was shredded, burned and flushed down the toilet,
the cash from the safe was packed in two carryalls and another contained
his clothes. He had already changed the plate on his car to match his alter
ego and had scoured the house making sure that nothing was left behind with
that name on it. At 11 AM, reports of the debacle hit the news. Manny
watched only long enough to get the details then loaded the car and left
Anaheim in haste.

#####

As detective Lafayette made the turn off Topanga Canyon, he saw a gauntlet
of news trucks ahead that nearly blocking the narrow road. The police
photos of a skewered Turk Packard had hit the airways at 11 that morning,
and as he suspected, the media circus was now in full bloom. He grimaced as
reporters came rushing toward him, shouting questions.

"Sorry, I have nothing new to offer - we're still investigating."

"What about the rumor that the place was used by cult members?"

"That's hogwash. It's just weekend retreat," Lafayette said in disgust. He
couldn't believe these guys, here they had a front-page story as gory as
any that had come along in years, and these jokers were trying to embellish
it. "Look, stick to the facts. O'Brian was fighting for his life with the
only thing he had at hand, an old sword. The fact that after he was fatally
shot, he was still able to nail Packard shows me that O'Brian was one gutsy
fellow. You might want to point that out."

"Supposedly, O'Brian just finished a film at Paramount. Do you know if
that's true?"

"Well, that's my understanding, but I can't give you any details. You'll
have to check with the studio. Now, gentlemen - and lady, I've got work to
do. I want all vehicles on the other side of the road and you're to stay
off Mister Anders property. Is that clear?"  There was a bit of grumbling,
but they complied and Lafayette strode up walk to knock on the door.

"Go away!" Answered a surly voice from behind the panel.

"Sorry, I can't. Detective Lafayette to see Mister Anders." The door opened
slightly, Lafayette flashed his badge and was allowed in. "Are you
H. T. Anders?" He asked

"No, I'm just an old family acquaintance."

"Is he here?"

"Yeah, in his room. He's having a hard time handling this. Casey was his
best friend."

"Well, I hate to intrude, but I do need to talk to him. A few more
questions have come up."

"I'll see if he's awake." Steeping to the bedroom door, Scott rapped
lightly on the frame, "Hoot, there's a policeman here to see you."

Lafayette heard the sounds of creaking bedsprings, but it did nothing to
prepare him for the size of the man who opened the door. He had to look up
at him and as he did, he realized that he had seen Anders somewhere
before. The man's eyes were bloodshot and red - he'd been crying,
obviously, but he seemed to be over it now and his voice was rock steady
when he asked,

"What can I do for you?"

"Just a few questions. According to their rap sheets, both Packard and
Martinez were enforcers, not burglars. Do you have any idea why someone
would be after O'Brian?"

Hoot hesitated barely a moment before answering, "No, I can't think of any
reason." Scotty standing behind the detective staring hard at Hoot, but the
man refused to meet his gaze.

"How about you? Anyone who might want to see you hurt? You see, there's
always the possibility they got the wrong man."

Calmly, the big man answered the detective's question with out batting an
eye or getting flustered when pressed. Lafayette was half convinced that
Anders was telling the truth, yet there remained a nagging sense that not
all was being said. There was, however no doubt in his mind that Anders
grieved deeply over the loss of his friend. Each time the big man spoke of
him, a quaver shook his voice. He was near the end of the interview when
Lafayette discovered where he had seen Anders before and he suddenly
realized that he had also seen O'Brian. They had both been immortalized in
several Melva Birch videos.

It was an unproductive afternoon for detective Lafayette. The word was that
Martinez still refused to talk and Anders hadn't been much help either. He
still felt that Hoot Anders was hiding something so he posted an officer to
keep the media back, but with instructions to let him know if Anders left
the house, then he headed back to Glendale for another try at Martinez.

When he walked onto the critical wing, Sgt. Mathews pulled him aside,
"O'Brian's parents are here and they're raising hell about the news
stories. I've got them in room 337, you'd better talk to them."

Oh, Great! Just what I need, Lafayette thought as he headed down the
hallway.

"Hi, I'm detective Lafayette." He shook hands with a rugged balding man in
his mid 50's and a somewhat younger looking woman, both of whom appeared
tired and drawn. The man pointed at the muted TV.  On the screen was a
picture of Packard with the sword driven through his chest and it was shown
again from several different angles.

"Detective, what is this bullshit! The news woman said those are police
photos, I thought you didn't let those things out?"

"Look folks, I know you're upset by all the gore," He said quietly, "But we
figured by releasing everything, it might help us find the person behind
the shooting."

"I thought you had the guy!" The old man growled.

"He's just the trigger man. Somebody paid him. What we're hoping to do is
make Martinez feel so isolated that he'll be willing to talk

"But, it's awful," the woman cried, "They're saying Casey was in a devil
cult. It's all lies!" Lafayette silently cursed the assholes that couldn't
take a hint,

"Look, don't pay any attention to that garbage. There's no truth in it. The
house belonged to a friend. Your son was just staying there for a few days
while Mister Anders was away on business."

"Anders? Hoot Anders?" The woman asked.

"Do you know him?"

"Well, we've never met, but Casey mentioned him all the time in his letters
and Hoot sends us a Christmas card every year." She looked at her husband,
"We have go see him, he must feel awful."

"I wish you wouldn't, at least for the time being. There's a few questions
about Mister Anders that needs sorting out."

"Surely, you don't suspect Hoot, why he and Casey were best friends!"

"No, but there is the chance that he was the intended target. That too is
just a guess, we don't know anything for sure, that's why Martinez's
testimony is so important. Once he spills we'll have this all cleaned up in
no time."

"You ought let me talk to him," The man said, "I'd get some answers!"

"I feel the same," Lafayette replied, "But even if I did get that kind of
confession, it wouldn't stand up in court.  I'm sorry, but that's the way
it is." Glancing past the couple, he saw a suitcase and another small piece
of luggage in the corner.

"Say, you folks don't have a place to stay, do you?"

The man shook his head, "No, we came directly from the airport. I suppose
we'll be going to our son's place - there's so much to take of . . . "

"I'm sorry folks, it's being searched at the present time. Here, let me
give you an address," pulling out a card he flipped it over and wrote on
the back. "Nothing fancy, but it's clean and fairly close. Just show the
desk clerk this card, and if you need me, call either of those
numbers. I'll let you know as soon the officers are finished searching."

After a few consoling words, Lafayette took his leave and headed down the
hall for another shot at Martinez. O'Brian's parents had a solid toughness
about them that impressed him. He had expected at least a weeping, wailing
mother, but instead found a couple who were determined not to cry over that
which couldn't be changed, yet who were more than ready to fight anyone who
maligned their son. Detective Lafayette could almost smell the libel suits
brewing.

When the LA Times came out, there was far more comprehensive coverage of
the story than seen on TV. No wild rumors in the Times and no speculation
either. There was however a full page spread on Casey, including a series
of photos. Many came directly from Paramount and were stills from "Love
Stories"; others had been taken from Melva's videos.  Hoot sat looking at
the layout unable to focus clearly on the pictures. His heart felt like
stone, his mind still numb. The news trucks were finally gone and Scotty
had left to pick up some K F C, but not before he'd said his piece about
lying to the detective,

"I don't understand it! You loved that guy like a brother and now you're
letting Melva get away with his murder. Why the fuck didn't you speak up?"

"Would it have brought him back? Look, I need to talk to Melva
myself. Maybe I'm wrong."

"Yeah, and maybe you're the king of France! Jesus Christ, Hoot, use your
head. The woman is nuts. You told me yourself those guys shot right through
the bedroom door, they weren't there to whip his ass, they went there to
kill him."

Hoot shook his head, "I've got to talk to her first." He could believe
almost anything about Melva, except murder. She might be erratic, even
crazy in her vindictiveness, but she wasn't a fool and she surely knew that
he would testify if he was convinced she had done this. No, she was coming
in tonight, he had to talk to her first, maybe then he could understand
. . .


#####

	A car followed Manny Wilson as he left Anaheim, but not close
enough to be seen. There wasn't a need. A small responder in Manny's car
tracked him as he headed south. At the Tijuana crossing he presented
identification showing the name Roberto Klien, and while he breathed a sigh
of relief at being in Mexico, he didn't tarry in the border town. His
destination was 600 miles south, the city of Santa Rosalia where his wife
and children lived. Even with the mess in LA and the fact that he would
have to start over again somewhere else, he was looking forward to seeing
the family - it had been almost three months since his last visit. Little
Roberto must be growing like a weed, he thought.

Manny never made it to Santa Rosalia, he was just 30 miles south of
Ensenada when his car exploded, burning his remains beyond recognition.

Chapter 10

	On Friday morning Hoot's attitude had made a hundred and eighty
degree turn. All his wishful thinking was behind him and he drove to Bel
Air in an ice-cold fury. Bypassing the garages, he parked in the delivery
area near the service door and strode purposefully into the kitchen.

"Where is she, Sofia?"

"The morning room, sir." The woman replied. The look on Hoot's face scared
her and the moment he was gone, she reached for the intercom.

When he arrived in the private dinning room, Melva sat at the table with
the early edition spread out before her, her face paler than the bleached
table linen.  The headlines screamed,

"MARTINEZ TALKS: ANAHEIM MAN SOUGHT IN DESERT SLAYING."

"You look like you've seen a ghost Melva, or is it the fact that they're
looking for your good friend, Manny Wilson?" Hoots voice was hard, his eyes
as cold as ice. "I remember how cheerful you used to get when one of your
ex-pals got mugged. I guess you never figured those little incidents could
be traced back to you.  News flash, Babe. When they find Wilson, you're
headed for the slammer!"

"Hoot . . ."

"You know, what I can't understand is why you wanted him dead - didn't you
always like to send flowers and those pretty little get well cards?  Well,
he can't smell the posies now or read your trite homilies. You didn't need
to kill him, Melva, hell, Case would have died laughing."

"Honestly, Hoot, I didn't . . ."

"BULLSHIT!" He roared, "Why would your pal Wilson go after Case if you
didn't order it?"

"But I talked to Manny . . ." At that moment, Paul burst into the room, his
face flushed from running.

"Melva! Shut the hell up!"

Hoot glowered at him and Markey took a sudden step backward. "When did you
talk to Wilson?" He demanded.

"On Monday - right after Paul told me that Casey really did try to pay the
advances. Vitto lied about everything. Honestly, I told Manny to leave
Casey alone."

"Looks like he didn't get the message! You know you might want polish up
that story for the cops. Nobody but you had a reason to see Case hurt."

"What about Vitto?" Paul said quietly.

"Shit!" Hoot responded, "All that money grubbing little bastard wanted was
a skin flick!"

"Unless he has something else in mind."

"And what would that be, taking over Birchline? Hell, without Melva the
company is worthless!"

"Maybe so, but you have to admit that he went to a lot of trouble in
setting up that dance hall confrontation. Both Melva and O'Brian were
primed for a fight and he knew exactly how Melva would respond. Just think
about it, there's no other explanation."

Hoot paused, a confused look on his face, "But why kill Case? Martinez
admitted it was a hit. Why would Vitto want Casey dead?"

"That, I haven't figured out yet. All I know is this was a setup to get
Melva, and it sure as hell nailed her." He looked at Melva and shook his
head. "Murder isn't something I can smooth over, Babe. This is going to be
bad."

Melva buried her face in her hands and began to sob.

It took Paul a long time to finally sort it out. However, the next hour
held surprises that no one could rightfully expect. It started with a phone
call as Hoot paced in front of a weeping Melva.

Sofia rushed in saying, "There's a crazy man on the phone demanding to talk
to Mister Anders."

Paul moved to the sideboard and pressed the speakerphone button. The man
was yelling at the housekeeper, "TELL HIM TO COME HOME NOW! He's got to
come home!" Hoot grabbed the phone but couldn't get a word in
edgewise. Scott was incoherent. He kept demanding that Hoot come home
instantly and there was a touch of hysteria in his voice. Suddenly worried
that Scott was having another heart problem, Hoot left, but not before
making clear his intentions to Melva, "You'd better talk to the cops today,
because I'll be talking to them as soon as I get home."

When he arrived home, a police car sat on the drive. Racing toward the
house he was met at the door by Detective Lafayette and behind him stood an
older couple whom Hoot recognized from their pictures. Case's parents, Dan
and Mary! Oh God, he thought, this is the moment I've been dreading - what
I've been shying away from . . . Well, he couldn't avoid it any longer. He
started to say hello, then noticed that neither appeared to be
grieving. Instead, warm smiles wreathed their faces. Scotty too was
grinning ear to ear and even the stoic Lafayette had a crinkle around his
eyes.

"What?" Hoot asked.

Before anyone could answer, Scott shouted, "Casey isn't dead!"

Hoot grabbed at the wall for support.

"It's true," Lafayette said, "We released that news to force a
confession. I'm sorry we couldn't tell you. Anyway, he survived and
according to the doctors, he's making an excellent recover. In fact he's
been awake off and on since morning and is asking to see you."

An hour later, Hoot stood beside a hospital bed looking down at Casey. A
clear plastic tube carried oxygen to his nose, in other tubes, liquids
dripped like slow heartbeats. Overcome with emotion, Hoot's eyes again
filled with tears as he reached down to touch the friend who he thought he
had lost forever. At his touch, Casey's eyes opened,

"Hi, Buddy. I was hoping you'd show up eventually."

"Oh, God, Case. They told me you were dead. Otherwise, I would have been
here from the get go." Hoot held Casey's hand and rubbed it, much the same
as he had done on the night of the shooting.

"Yeah I heard. I'm sorry, I know how I would have felt if someone had told
me that about you." He squeezed Hoot's hand in return and then a grimace of
pain crossed Casey's face. "I think it's time for more of that stuff - Push
the button, will ya?"

"Do you want me to leave?"

"Uh-uh, it always take the nurse a few minutes. Stick around, I want to
talk. Ma showed me the headlines this morning. They're looking for Manny
Wilson. Do you remember him?"

"Yeah, I met the bastard a few times." Hoot replied,

"They haven't ask me about him yet, but when they do, I won't keep
quiet. Those guys had orders to kill me. That's a pretty heavy payback for
a couple of cokes and little shove. I've got to tell them, Hoot."

"We'll both tell them. I'm all through protecting her. For what its worth
though, Melva told me that on Monday after she found out that Vitto had
been lying to us, she called Wilson and ordered him to lay off. She also
swears that it was only a beating that she paid for."

"Do you believe her?"

"Yeah, I guess maybe, but that doesn't change a damn thing, it's still her
fault. She started this 'get even' bullshit a long time ago. When Larry
Burke got the crap beat out of him, I figured it was Melva, only no one
could prove it. This time she told me everything. You just tell the cops
the whole story and I back you up."

A nurse carrying a hypodermic pushed through the door. "More pain?" she
asked. Casey nodded.  "OK, but remember only every 2 hours."  Hoot stepped
aside as the woman injected a clear liquid into a tap on the drip line,
"Pleasant dreams," She said, straightening the bedding. Turning to Hoot,
she added, "You can only stay a few more minutes, he'll be dropping off
soon anyway."

The nurse left and again Hoot took Casey's hand, lightly massaging
it. Casey smiled, "Weird, isn't it that it took a shooting to pry my folks
out of Minnesota. I must have asked them 50 times to visit, but there was
always some excuse. In the summer, it was farm work, in the winter, they
couldn't leave because the furnace might quit and the house would
freeze. Just today Pop told me what the problem was; he's scared of
airplanes. I told Ma that they'd better stay awhile 'cause I don't intend
to get shot again just to get him airborne."

Hoot smiled. Oh, God, he thought, how I would have missed his humor, how I
would have missed him.  Casey's eyelids began to droop, "Feels nice." He
said, flexing his fingers. A few moments later his eyes closed as he
drifted into sleep and with a final pat, Hoot released Casey's hand and
tiptoed from the room.

Inquiring at the nurse's station, Hoot was told he could see Case again in
about 2 hours, so instead of going home he decided to take a walk. There
was much to think about, a great deal to sort out in his mind. He recalled
the night he first talked to Case, both of them drunk as a skunks sitting
Melva's verandah. Earlier, Casey's wry humor, his witty comments about life
in LA had kept him and a dozen others in stitches. He had been life of the
party and when Hoot followed him out to the verandah to introduce himself,
things just seemed click between them. He couldn't put it into words - an
attraction of opposites maybe? Case, trim, lithe and screen idol handsome
and he, an over muscled hulk with a mug so plain no one would look twice,
yet almost overnight they became as inseparable as Siamese twins. Case
called it good vibes, but whatever one wanted to call it, it was there from
the start.

Case became his best friend - the brother he never had - To Hoot, Case was
both - and more. He loved the guy - even during those times when jealously
raised its ugly head - he loved him - and nothing in his life had been more
devastating than thinking that Casey had died. It had left him an empty
shell, his mind going back and forth over the words he never said to Case,
all the things they talked about but never did - all the emptiness that lay
before him, and all the years that he would have to face the fact that he
was to blame for Casey's death. Casey dying had killed him too - as surely
as a bullet to the heart.

Now the sun shown again. As far as Hoot was concerned, today was a bigger
miracle then Jesus raising Lazarus. Not only was Case alive, but so was he
- it was like being reborn. And he didn't intend to waste a minute of this
new life.


Chapter 11



When Graham called confirming Paul's suspicions, he left Melva's side and
drove to the office. The preliminary audit showed that Vitto had indeed
been draining money - from both production companies. A total accounting
had yet to be made, but it appeared to be a sizable amount - quite possibly
in the range of 10 million. Still it made no sense to Paul that Vitto would
want Melva out of the picture - she had been the one that he'd preyed on
the most. The scheme was slick, so slick in fact it was hard to spot. Vitto
used cost overruns to cover the discrepancies. He had padded extra days
into the shooting schedules - billing back as much as 50 grand each shoot
in expenses that didn't occur. And from what Graham determine he'd gotten
away with it for years!  The totals he could pass on later, for the moment
though, the information he had was more than enough. He picked up the phone
and dialed a well-memorized number. As always, it was answered on the first
ring,


A few hours later when, detective Lafayette arrived at Melva's Bel Air
estate, he found the staff confused and upset. Miss Birch had rushed out
taking only a suitcase and no one knew where to reach her. They had called
everyone they could think of and not even her attorney, Paul Markey knew
where she had gone. Lafayette knew the name Markey, in fact it was the
second on his list of interviews for the day.

When O'Brian told his story about Melva Birch, it had seemed far-fetched
until Anders jumped in with the same information, adding that earlier in
the day, she had admitted hiring Wilson. It still didn't jell. A beating
was one thing, Martinez, however claimed that Wilson had ordered a
hit. When the man was found, they might have an answer to that, in the
meantime, Lafayette needed statements from everyone. The DA wanted action,
in fact he was screaming for it. Lafayette was rather ticked that Anders
hadn't volunteered his suspicions during that first interview, but as the
man said, he had no proof then and no way of knowing that Wilson was
involved. He left Bel Air and headed for the Birchline offices, fully
convinced that the charges against Melva Birch were true - Her sudden
departure cinched it.

When confronted, Paul Markey admitted knowing about Wilson, saying that
Melva had told him on Tuesday, but he denied knowing her present
whereabouts.

"She's frightened. I advised her not to do anything rash, but it is
possible that she's gone to Europe. She has friends there."

That lead turned out to be wrong. Three days later Melva was detained at
the Canadian border and brought back to California for questioning. Again,
Paul worked his legal magic. Instead of jail without bond, he arranged a
tethered house arrest in Bel Air. He did after all, have friends in the
right places.

Right in the middle of Melva's hectic three-day run, Paul received news
that Vitto had died in a freak accident on Maui, a slip while filming a
lava flow. The phone call gave no other information and that bothered Paul
a great deal. It left unanswered the question of why Vitto set up Melva in
the first place, and why he had ordered a hit on O'Brian. He was missing
something, but he couldn't figure it out. His fervent hope was that the
cops would soon catch Wilson, since he was the one person who could clear
Melva of what would likely be an attempted murder charge.

Two weeks later, Casey was out of the hospital. Not yet able to care of
himself, Hoot brought him home to Woodland Hills and installed him in the
third bedroom. Scotty then swapped sleeping arrangements with Casey's
parents who were staying at Casey's bungalow. Dan was grateful. Casey's
place consisted of just one room in what once a bungalow motel. He found it
confining and the constant traffic noise from the street was wearing on a
man used to country quiet.

"It won't be for long," He assured Scott, "As soon as Casey is up and
about, Ma and me are heading home. Spring planting is coming up and the
soil hasn't been prepped yet."

"I'm moving on myself, in about a week." Scotty replied, "The cops said
they don't need me for anything, so I'm gonna head up to Oregon to visit
another old Army buddy, actually there's two or three guys up there I'd
like to see. I'll be back in a few weeks, though. I kind of like California
and figure on settling down here."

"Hoot told us you had a girlfriend, is she the reason?" Mary asked.

Scott grinned, "Oh, Cathy is a terrific gal all right, absolutely
fantastic."

"So, maybe there's wedding bells in the future?" Mary prodded

"No, not for me. Cathy wants a family. I don't know if Hoot told you or
not, but I carry a genetic heart defect. I won't pass it on."

"There is always adoption." Mary said

"Yeah, and there's young widows and twice orphaned children to think about
too."

Mary shook her head, "Life doesn't come with guarantees. No one knows how
long we're going to be on this earth. Look at Casey!  Young, healthy and
with everything to live for and yet it didn't mean a thing. Anyway, it's
not how long you live, it's how you live it. Just don't sit on your hands,
Scott McDermott and let happiness pass you by."

Dan rolled his eyes, "I'm afraid you've got her started. Mary - Why don't
you leave the poor guy alone?"

Scotty laughed, "Hey, I don't mind. It's been years since anyone worried
about me, anyone as nice as your lady, anyway. You're probably right, Mary,
I do look at life through the wrong end of the telescope. I'll think about,
I promise. OK?"

Ten days later Casey's parents left for home. Scott went north, and against
all of Hoot's many protests, Casey moved back to his bungalow to care for
his plants. The doctor had warned him about possible sleep disturbances,
bad dreams, insomnia etc., yet Casey seemed impervious to it all. He had
slept like a rock at Hoot's house - it was only after he moved back to his
own place that he started having dreams. Now, they woke him each time he
closed his eyes, but these weren't simply dreams - they were horrible,
terrifying nightmares and always the same: Each one ending with something
black and ominous oozed toward him while he remained unable to flee. The
dreams left him shaken - dripping in cold sweat and unwilling to close his
eyes again for fear of bringing on another. Finally, after one particularly
terrifying episode he got dressed and drove to Woodland Hills.

It was after 2:00 in the morning when he stood on Hoot's porch pressing the
bell. Half awake, Hoot staggered into the hall still tying a robe around
his frame as flipped on the porch light, "Good God, Case - what's the
matter? You're as white as a ghost."

"Those dreams I was telling you about. I can't seem to get any sleep at
home. Can I stay here tonight?"

"Didn't I tell you it was too soon to leave? The doctor warned you about
this. Now, you're moving back here and that's it! Tomorrow, I'm bringing
over all your stuff, including those stupid plants."

Hoot dragged him inside and put him to bed in the same room he had occupied
before - and an hour and a half later Hoot was up again when Casey began to
thrash and moan. He sat on the bed rubbing Casey's back, easing him out of
the nightmare. "Case, you're got to relax. You're caught up in a cycle -
the dreams are causing you to worry about having more dreams, so naturally
you dream."

"I'm sorry, Hoot. Guess I can't sleep here either.  I'll just go home and
see the doctor tomorrow, he'll give me something."

"Yeah, sure - and then you can get hooked pills like you were on
booze. You're not going anywhere. We'll work this out. Come on, let's try
my bed, I need room to stretch out."

"You don't have to do that, I'll be OK."

"Yes, by God you will be . . .  Now move your butt!" He pushed Case out of
bed and they relocated down the hall. "Half your problem is you don't how
to get comfortable. Get rid of the BVD's." Casey looked at him
questioningly. "You heard me - strip. Trying to sleep in those things would
give me nightmares too."

Casey did as he was told. Hoot shucked his robe and slide between the
sheets as well. "Now isn't that better?" he asked. Without waiting for an
answer, he grabbed Casey and pulled him into a close embrace. Startled,
Casey edged away, but Hoot simply snagged him back again. "Lie still," he
ordered. He snuggled and wormed until their bodies were spooned together,
and then he began to pet and stroke Casey's shoulders and chest in an
intimate and rather provocative way.

Casey thought of all the times they had been close in the past. The back
rubs and massages - applying each other's body make up during shoots - the
wrestling and horsing around that friends do, but nothing came close to
this. This was beyond comforting, in fact it was downright sensual and no
matter how he fought the feeling, he responding to it.  Tapping Hoot's
encircling arm he tried to make light of it,

"You'd better cool it, Big Boy - you might get more than you bargained
for!"

"Oh, you think so, huh?" Hoot snuggled even closer.

"Please, Hoot - this is really uncomfortable for me . . ."

"Will you stop worrying about every little thing?" Hoot replied. "Didn't,
you tell me not to be self-conscious?  Well, I'm not, but now all of a
sudden you're acting like a prig. Forget it, just lie still and go to
sleep."

"I can't - not like this. The 'little thing' that worry's me at this moment
is the one you've got pressed against my back. If you think this exercise
in togetherness is making me feel safe and drowsy, you're wrong. It's doing
just the opposite. "

"You haven't given it a chance!" Hoot replied.

"And I'm not going to. This has ceased to be funny and it's uncomfortable
as hell for me. You're being too suggestive . . . Damn it, Hoot, I'm gay!"

"Well . . . Duh!  I told you to stop worrying. If you get all horned up
we'll take care of it."

"We'll what?" Casey gasped.

"You heard me! For Christ's sake, Case, haven't you figured it out yet? I'm
putting the make on you!"

"But . . . But - but you've always said you weren't sexually attracted to
men . . ."

"So, I lied." Hoot's voice was light and cheerful. Casey was surrounded by
the man. From neck to ankle Hoot's warm, muscular body lay against his back
while his chest, arms and belly was being gently massaged by Hoot's large,
broad palm. Lower and lower the hand went until the fingers brushed Casey's
pubic hair.  "Hell, Case, we should have done this a long time ago . . ."
Hoot whispered as his fingers finally made full contact with Casey's
groin. Casey tensed. He wasn't buying a word of it. Jabbing an elbow
backwards into the big man's ribs, he growled,

"OK, that's it! You can let go of me - RIGHT NOW!" Sliding to the edge of
the bed he fumbled with a switch and in the dull glow of lamplight turned
to look at Hoot, "Are you telling me that after all this time you've
suddenly got the hots for me?" His voice held a note of disbelief.

"Well - not all of a sudden, but yes, I do . . ." Hoot replied. Gone was
the cheerful note. In it's place an indefinable sadness. "But I guess you
don't feel the same, do you? Look, I'm really sorry, Case, I got carried
away. I was just trying to let you know how much you mean to me, but I
screwed it up . . . Damn, I'm an idiot."

"Well, that makes two of us, I almost believed you! I guess they were
talking about idiots when they said it takes one to know one." Casey shook
his head. "So, tell me Hoot, how did you plan on "taking care of it" once
you managed to get me horned up?  A hand job? a blow job? You must of had
something in mind . . . Or was it your idea that I'd do the work - you
know, like in the porn flicks - let the faggot gets his rocks off by doin'
the straight boy. Was that the plan?"

"Please, Case, don't talk like that - you know I'd never . . ."

"Yeah? Well then what was this, a little diversion tactic?"

"It wasn't like that." Hoot protested.

"Oh, yes it was! In fact that is exactly what it was. You were trying to
take my mind off the dreams, weren't you? You're still blaming yourself for
the shooting!"

"No I'm not!"

"You liar! I know exactly how you think! Now you listen up. The shooting
wasn't your fault, and neither are my nightmares! I work this out
eventually - and I sure as hell don't need a mercy fuck to get over it!"

"A mercy fuck? God, but you can be crude sometimes. Look, I thought if you
were completely relaxed once you might be able to sleep. I can't stand
seeing you so scared that you can't close your eyes. God Damn it, Case, I
care about you!"

"Well, I care about you too, but I'm a tad particular who I have sex with."

A pained expression crossed Hoot's face. "I see," he said. "I never
realized you found me so repulsive."

Casey threw his hands in the air. "I give up! You don't even know what I'm
talking about, do you? Look, my tender hearted friend, you are the most
desirable man I know - I love you, Pal, with all my heart, but that doesn't
mean I'm willing to mess around with you. It would only ruin what we have
now. You're straight! Gay sex would leave you as empty and dissatisfied as
straight sex leaves me."

"You seem damned sure of that!"

"I am. Remember, I've been through it all."

"Then, tell me something, Einstein" Hoot demanded, "how come I get so
fucking jealous every time you have a boyfriend? That surfer last summer -
I could have strangled that jerk."

"You were jealous of Brad?"

"Out of my mind! I kept having panic attacks. It was awful - the worst
summer I ever spent. All you could talk about was that asshole's upcoming
competition in Hawaii and all the time I kept hoping the bastard would
drown - or get eaten by a shark."

The confession stunned Casey. Hoot had never said a word, never given a
hint. A light suddenly went on in Casey's head illumination the fact that
Hoot had actually been dropping hints all along, only he hadn't recognized
them as such. How obvious . . . I must have been asleep, he thought. Hoot's
desert hideaway so reminiscent of the places they stayed in Mexico - The
crossed swords above the fireplace - all those enlarged pictures of he and
Hoot together - everything, even the color scheme - burgundy and white,
Casey's favorite. Lost in the revelation, it was a long moment before Casey
found his voice,

"When you called from Vegas that time - you said there was something we
needed to talk about. Is this it?"

Hoot nodded.

"How long have you been chewing on this?"

"I don't know - a couple of years, I guess - since you left Melva.  It got
damn lonely at Birchline without you, Case."

"TWO YEARS? And you never said a word? You let me get involved with Brad -
let me run my mouth about him all last summer, and never once opened your
yap? Hootsagen Timothy Anders - I oughta kick your ass!"

Casey never got around to the attempted ass kicking. He abruptly found
himself with more interesting ways to occupy his time. There were years to
make up for - things to do, places to go, mornings to awaken wrapped in the
warm arms of a man who turned out to be as superlative a lover as he was a
friend. Hoot had in fact been on the right track: When one is totally
happy, content, satisfied, gratified and fulfilled, nightmares are about as
substantial as snowballs in hell.


Epilogue


The incident at Halfway to Hell ruined Melva. When it went to trial, she
was found guilty under a section of the California racketeering law -
hiring others to commit bodily harm. Wilson was never found so beyond
Hoot's testimony, the case was based on circumstantial evidence, but enough
victims stepped forward to convince a grand jury.  The indictment held.
Melva was sentenced to 10 years, which meant she would serve a minimum of 5
behind bars. Her career was over and her assets vanished as well. After the
criminal trial, civil suits blossomed like cactus flowers following a rain.
Paul did his best and was able to hide several million dollars for Melva
when she got out, but it was mere fraction of what her vindictiveness had
cost her.

Stud Films still raked in the cash, more money now than ever before, thanks
to Vitto no longer having a finger in the till. John Martin was pleased. He
too had taken a hit from Vitto's dipping, but he was happy to spend all of
that, and more to see Melva in prison. It had taken him a long time to find
the right conditions to sink that bitch. Through a slight accounting error
he discovered that Vitto was padding the bills and John had no trouble at
all convincing him that if he didn't come up with the money, he was a dead
man. Vitto panicked, he was practically climbing the walls when John hinted
at an out.

"Too bad you don't have a video of O'Brian on file. It would be worth
millions. Rumor is that LoveStories is gonna be blockbuster." That's all he
said and Vitto took the bait. What a dumb shit, he thought, what a total
asshole - he should have known it was a bit late to replace money stolen
over a seven year period. It worked out fine though, hardly a glitch. Manny
Wilson couldn't talk and he had been John's only link to this whole
business. He was rather pleased that O'Brian didn't die. John thought long
and hard before ordering the hit, but he simply couldn't be sure that a
beating would be enough to make Hoot point a finger at Melva. In some ways
it worked out far better than he planned. No need to salt pointers to
Wilson. He got flushed early which convinced Hoot, and that got the whole
thing rolling just as fast as if O'Brian had died. And those beautiful
connections for the jury - Melva's phone calls to Wilson. Nice and neat, he
thought, nice and neat. Now he could sleep nights knowing that Melva got
her payback for Larry's broken legs and missing teeth.

No one knew that Larry Burke was his grandson, not even Larry, but John had
watched over him from the time he was born. From a distance he had looked
on with pride as Larry grew from a gangly pre-teen into a star athlete in
high school and college and unbeknownst to anyone, John wrangled a job for
Larry with his leasing company. He wanted to spend some time with his
grandson, get to know him, and he had. They became good friends. Larry was
soon his aide in all things legitimate, the rest, of course he was never
privy to. It was a wonderful time for John until Melva picked Larry for her
latest fling. John tried to warn him, dropping hints about her volatility,
her vicious mean streak, all of which fell on deaf ears. And just like he
knew it would, the break-up came. Melva, in a drunken rage kicked and
punched him. Larry backhanded her, leaving a single small bruise on her
face. Two weeks later Larry lie in a hospital, almost unrecognizable, the
beating so severe he nearly died.  Now he limped and always would, but it
wasn't just the physical scars that drove John. It was the change in
Larry. No longer the brave young bull he once was, it took him a year to
start living again and he was never the same. Melva had stolen his courage
away.

Three years it had taken John to even the score, three years of detesting
the woman and never letting it show. One has to be careful when running
with wolves - Vitto learned that the hard way while John had understood it
from the beginning. It was the reason he'd cut all ties with his own family
when he joined the mob. Oh, he never worried about the men back east, he
was square with them and always had been, but he also knew that if Paul had
found out that it was he who had taken Melva down, his fate would have been
the same as Vitto's.

Well, he was long past any worry over that. It had been two years and
everything was sailing along blissfully. He took real pleasure though in
thinking about the trial. Everyday he had listened to the testimony, held
Melva's hand and cried the most convincing crocodile tears. Oh God, how he
had enjoyed it.

John glanced at a tabloid laying on the coffee table. Prominently displayed
on the cover was a picture of O'Brian smiling and signing autographs. The
trial's publicity had made him a star. His first movie broke all box office
records, but John couldn't take all the credit. It turned out that O'Brian
was really a fine actor. He now had three hit movies in a row and Hoot too
was making a name for himself in action films.  Funny how that worked out,
he thought. No one back in 'possum holler', or wherever it was that Hoot
and Melva came from, would even speak to Hoot after he testified against
the bitch. Now Hoot was the new hero down there. One star sinks and two
more rise and the public remains as fickle as ever.

He read the copy below the pictures. The two men who had unknowingly helped
him put Melva away were now partners, producing their own films. A horse
ranch in Idaho was mentioned and several other joint projects. It looked to
John like those two were going places. Investments in hotels and land
development - solid stuff that would pay them back long after the public
got tired of them. Smart boys, he thought.

John lay aside the tabloid and arose to refresh his drink. It was quiet in
the house, Gretchen had asked for the night off and there was only the tick
of a grandfather clock to keep him company. Funny how a place seems to hold
its breath when the people are gone, he thought.

The silence was broken by the sound of the door chime. John stepped into
the hall and pressed the intercom button,

"Who is it?"

"United Floral Service. I have a delivery for . . . Let me see . . . Oh,
yes, a Mister John Martin. Do I have the right address?"

"Flowers? Who are they from?"

"Uh - just a moment sir, I can hardly make out this writing.  A Larry
Burke? - Does that sound right?"

Larry? A smile crossed his face. Now why would Larry be sending me flowers
he wondered? John reached down and unbolting the door without the slightest
suspicion that Paul Markey had finally figured it out.



						End