SPOILER WARNING:  First and second season references, up through "Mum's the Word", and a brief  bit of "Second Sight" backstory that really won't spoil the episode at all.

RATING:  PG-13.  Language and violence not suitable for children.  I'm serious about this.  This story is...how shall I put it?...not for the Smurf set.  These are grown-up characters and in this story they act, talk, and mess up just like real grown-ups do.  So if you're looking for "Touched By a Newspaper", look somewhere else, 'cause you aren't going to find it here.  And if you're a kid...shouldn't you be doing your homework or something??  I mean, fanfic'll rot your brain.

DISCLAIMER:  Okay, so Gary, Chuck, Marissa, Crumb, and the menagerie don't belong to me.  They belong to Sony Tristar or CBS or somebody with lots of suits.  But I've taken good care of...I mean, I've tried to...oh, heck, okay, it's a compulsion, a sickness--I can't help it.  But it's only temporary.  I've tried to be a good Girl Scout, and leave their world as good as, if not better than, I found it.  This is a not-for-profit, just-for-fun enterprise.  There's one brief cameo by someone from another show who obviously doesn't belong to me either.  The ones you don't recognize are all mine, including the bad guys.  I'm sure those of you inclined to analysis will have a field day with that.

Thanks, hugs, and Frango mints to inkling, Maryilee, and Gem for all their beta reading and moral support!

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Part 1

All I wanna do
Is have some fun
I got a feeling I'm not the only one
      ~ Sheryl Crow
 

The strains of "Sweet Home Chicago" greeted Gary as he entered McGinty's, shaking the early spring snow from his leather bomber jacket and pulling off his gloves.  Luckily, the rush hour snowfall had been light, not bad enough to cause more than a few minor accidents.  The more serious mishaps had been prevented by Gary's interference.  For once, most of the people he had helped had been grateful for his assistance; one woman had even hugged and kissed him for getting her cat out of the neighbor's sugar maple.  All in all, it hadn't been a bad day.

Of course, it was early in the evening.  Things could still go wrong--especially with Chuck tending bar.

"Hey, Gar, what's up?"

Chuck handed him a Heineken, and Gary plopped onto a stool, stealing a quick glance at the customers.  As had become the norm when Chuck was tending bar, most of them were drinking bottled beer or straight shots.  An attractive redhead at the other end of the counter was making a face at something in a margarita glass--something more emerald in hue than a margarita was supposed to be. Frowning momentarily, Gary shook his head and turned his attention to the rest of the bar.  A few couples huddled in darker corners, but tonight the early evening clientele was primarily female.  A boisterous group of young women had pushed several tables together in the middle of the main floor and were laughing and applauding while a tall blonde in a low-cut green dress opened gifts, most of which appeared to be lingerie.  They, too, seemed to have ordered only the simplest concoctions.

Downing a healthy swig of his beer, Gary rubbed the back of his neck and sighed.  Thank goodness Crumb had agreed to work at McGinty's after his retirement from the police force, or they would have been without any competent help in the bartending department the past few days.  Robin would be back next week, and then they could get Chuck out from behind the bar before his inept, albeit unique, drink mixing sent the tavern's reputation spiraling downward.

"Gar?" Chuck waved a hand in front of his face.  Gary blinked and shifted his attention back to Chuck. "What are ya doin', buddy?"

"Uh, fine, not much...paper's dead tonight.  I was thinking of renting a movie, getting pizza or something.  You wanna come up once Crumb gets here?  Is that a martini?"  Gary pointed with two
fingers at the drink Chuck was mixing.

"Sure is.  Actually, I was thinking we should--"

"Because generally you don't put cherries in martinis."

"I was just trying to be creative," Chuck protested.  "You know, experiment a little?"  Gary stared him
down.  Chuck sighed, dumped the whole thing out, and started over again.  "You and Crumb both,
you're such traditionalists.  Sometimes a guy's gotta break the mold, you know--strike out on his own for
the great beyond."

"That's fine Chuck, but not with our customers' drinks.  And while we're at it," Gary lowered his voice to
a whisper and nodded toward the redhead,  "what is that thing in her margarita glass?"

"That would be a margarita.  Who died and made you the Drink Czar, anyway?"  Chuck groused,
measuring out more gin and vermouth for the martini.  At least he had the ingredients to that one
right.  "Um..." he surveyed the row of plastic containers that held the garnishes.

"Olive," Gary reminded him.  "And I--I've never seen a margarita that color before."

Shrugging, Chuck handed the martini to a waiter. "We were out of lemon juice and I couldn't find the
lime so I, uh--I used creme de menthe."  He pulled out a towel and began wiping down the bar,
avoiding Gary's incredulous stare.

"You did what?"

"Hey, it's green too," Chuck protested.  "Besides, at Harry's Honolulu Hideaway they have margaritas in
all colors--blue, pink, purple--this'll just be my new specialty."

Whistling along with the music, Chuck wiped the counter around his friend as Gary buried his head in
his arms.  McGinty's was going to go under, he just knew it.  And he definitely didn't want to know how
Chuck knew about the drink menu at Harry's Honolulu Hideaway.

A whiff of strong floral perfume and the jingle of bracelets caused Gary to look up again.

"Excuse me, bartender?"  The young woman who spoke wore a barely-there black dress and far too
much make up, at least for Gary's taste.  Her shoulder-length brown hair was caught in rhinestone
barrettes and she swayed on stiletto heels.  Chomping on a huge wad of gum, she leaned with both
forearms on the bar, trying to hide a grin.  She had Chuck's undivided attention.

"What can I do for you this evening?" Chuck asked, bending close and trying valiantly to keep his eyes
on her face rather than other portions of her anatomy.  Gary coughed faintly and shifted as far away
from her as he could without falling off the bar stool.

The brunette pointed toward the group in the middle of the bar.  "I'm with the bachelorette party over
there," she purred through a thick southside accent while Chuck continued to leer.  Glancing at the
table she indicated, Gary noted a plethora of empty Michelob bottles and wine glasses.  The busboy was
trying doggedly to clear them while avoiding suggestive looks from the women.  Gary turned away when
he realized that some of those looks were being directed his way as well.

Brown eyes dancing, the woman at the bar smirked at Chuck, shifting her gum into one cheek. "We
need six blow jobs.  Think you can handle that, big guy?"

Chuck swallowed hard, his eyes nearly bugging out of his head as he glanced from the woman to Gary
and back.  "That's--I--uh--"

"We thought you'd be the man to do it right.  Maybe your friend here can help."  She smirked
mischievously while Chuck tried to make words come out of his mouth.

Gary was wondering how long she planned to toy with Chuck when one of her companions shouted,
"You go, Frannie!" and she broke into a fit of giggles.

Relieved of the need to keep a poker face, Gary grinned.  "I think it's a drink, Chuck."

Giggles ogled Gary, up and down, and he felt his cheeks warm.  "You," she cooed, pointing a long,
ruby-red fingernail at him, "you can deliver them, cheese whiz."

"Cheese cake," Chuck corrected her in a stage whisper.  She stared at him for a split second, then back
at Gary, cocking her head.

"Whiz, cake, whatever.  Hey, you ever tried on a Mountie uniform?  You'd look good in red."   Which
was, no doubt, the color of his face at the moment.  Gary cleared his throat and shook his head.

Winking at Chuck, she trailed one manicured nail down his forearm, "Be sure you make those blow jobs
nice and sweet."  She turned on her heel, giggling again, and sashayed unevenly back to the table,
where bursts of laughter followed a few hushed words.  Afraid to be caught watching them, Gary turned
to his friend, who was gaping like a goldfish that found itself on the living room floor.

"A-a blow job is a--a--it's a drink?"

"Gee, Chuck, usually it's Gary who does the stammering, not you."  Marissa had come from the office,
unnoticed in the general mayhem.  She slid onto a stool next to Gary.  "And, yes, it is a drink.  Be sure
you put them in shot glasses, not tumblers.  Sounds like they've already had plenty, and the night is still
young."

Chuck shot a totally helpless look at Gary, who shrugged.  He didn't know what was in one of the things
either, but it would be interesting to watch Chuck try to worm it out of Marissa without lowering his
pride enough to come right out and ask.  "You know, I've always wondered," Chuck said, affecting a
casual tone while making as much noise as possible setting the shot glasses out on the bar, "why is it
called a blow job, anyway?"

A faint smile played around the corners of Marissa's lips.  She was obviously enjoying this.  "Oh, I think
it has to do with the way you're supposed to drink it.  You know--no hands?"

"Oh."  Chuck nodded sagaciously, then furrowed his brow as he tried to picture it.  His eyes widened.
"Oh..."

"That," continued Marissa, not even bothering to hide her grin now, "and the whipped cream."

Gary snorted half the mouthful of beer he'd just swallowed out his nose, as much at Chuck's stupefied
double take as at Marissa's revelation.

"And just how exactly do you know this, Miss Smarty Pants?" Chuck asked.  Marissa merely smirked.

"Hey, bartender!" shouted the blonde--the bride-to-be, if the handcuffs she rattled from one wrist were
any indication.  "You gonna give us those blow jobs or do we have to come over there and get 'em
ourselves?"  Her friends responded with riotous laughter, a few "yeahs", and sporadic pounding on the
table.

"Don't worry, ladies, I aim to satisfy," Chuck called back, and the ensuing cat calls drowned out the
music.  "She wants me," he added in an undertone.

"Uh, Chuck?  She's getting married," Gary pointed out.

"No, not her!  The other one, the one that came over here.  Did you see the way she looked at me?"

"She looked at you like you were an idiot, because you had no idea how to mix her drinks!"

"Oh, jealous, are we?"

Gary was about to set Chuck straight on that account when Marissa took pity on him.  "Look, Chuck, it's
nearly impossible to screw these up--no pun intended," she added when both of her friends cleared their
throats loudly.  "There are dozens of different ways to make them.  Just get the Bailey's and
Kahlua...and go ask the cook for some whipped cream."

Chuck shook his head, then shrugged and went off in search of the whipped cream.  "And no tubs of
Cool Whip," Marissa called after him.  "You need the kind that sprays out of a can."

Swallowing a long pull of his beer, Gary regarded her with some confusion.  "Marissa, you, uh--how do
you know what a--how to make a--one of those, anyway?"

"Oh, come on, Gary, I'm not exactly a nun."  Elbows on the bar, chin propped on her hands, Marissa
appeared to be listening with one ear to the sounds of the little party.  A wistful smile crossed her face.
"I've been to a few bachelorettes in my time.  Of course," she added as Chuck returned, "my friends took
great delight in the fact that I could never manage to do one of the shots without getting whipped
cream up my nose.  But neither could most of them, so that was okay."

Gary sipped his Heineken thoughtfully as Marissa gave Chuck instructions.  He wondered how much of
her social life had been curtailed by her association with him--with the paper.  Of course she had a life
outside of the world in which Gary moved, but lately he hadn't heard much about it.  To be truthful, if
he counted up the hours she put into the bar, her studies, and just being around for him, she couldn't
have had much time to spend with her other friends.

He could sympathize with the look of faint longing that had crossed her face.  Lately none of them
seemed to have time for just hanging out, having fun.  Maybe--

His thoughts were interrupted when he caught sight of Marissa reaching across the bar to measure the
amount of whipped cream Chuck was spraying into the first shot glass by holding a spoon above it.  She
lowered the spoon until it reached the top of the cream, which barely rose above the rim.

"No, no, Chuck, you need more.  A lot more.  Those women need something to put their mouths
around."   Gary couldn't believe it--she wasn't even blushing.

"Well, their mouths are certainly big enough!" Chuck muttered, casting a baleful glance at the rowdy
table.  The women were on their feet, dancing and singing along to Van Morrison's "Brown-Eyed Girl".

The corners of Marissa's eyes crinkled as Gary choked on his beer again.  "Here, give me the can."

"Nuh-uh, lady, no way."  Chuck yanked the whipped cream out of her reach, keeping it to the side at
arm's length.   "I just cleaned this counter and I'm not going to do it again."

"Oh, come on Chuck, let her do it."  Lunging off his stool and across the counter, Gary snagged the can
from Chuck's outstretched hand and gave it to Marissa, sliding the next glass in front of her.  Holding
the spoon in one hand at what she thought was the proper height, Marissa squirted whipped cream until
it touched the spoon.  The resulting mound was as tall as the glass itself.

"There you go."  She nodded, satisfied.  "Nothing to it.  Gary, pass me another one."

"One, uh, blow job, coming right up," he told her, relaxing almost in spite of himself, and wondering if
something of the party mood was rubbing off on him.  He slid a second glass into position.  Chuck
rolled his eyes and pulled a tray out from under the bar.

"I don't believe this," he grumbled good-naturedly.  "Usually you two are about as hep as Sandra Dee
and Ricky Nelson, and suddenly you're experts on blow jobs?"

Marissa was finishing the last application of whipped cream.  As Chuck carefully lifted the completed
drinks onto the tray, Gary noticed just how close his face was to the can she held.  Biting his lip, Gary
waited until Chuck set the drinks down, then grabbed Marissa's arm and yanked it up so that the
whipped cream sprayed directly onto Chuck's chin.

"Hey!" both Gary's friends exclaimed at the same time.

"For Pete's sake, Gar!" Chuck sputtered.

"Gary, what in the world--"

"You got him," Gary informed Marissa, laughing at Chuck's offended glare.  "You got him good.  Kinda
looks like a whipped cream goatee there, buddy.  New style?"

Her face breaking into a wide grin, Marissa shook the can a little while Chuck retorted, "Very funny,
wise guy.  Real cute.  Hey, watch it--"

Marissa's finger was again dangerously close to depressing the tube that shot whipped cream out of the
can, and it was still pointed at Chuck, but before he could duck, she swung it around and caught Gary
full in the face with a shot of the sweet fluffy stuff.

"Hey--oh, man--"  Gary coughed and swiped at his eyes, then reached for the can as Marissa waved it
away from him, chortling.  "Your turn--" Gary warned her, but another hand, stuffed into a worn leather
glove, grabbed the container instead.

"Now, Hobson, that's hardly the way to treat a lady, is it?"  Mouth twisted into a wry smile, Crumb
regarded the little group, shaking his head.  "I was about to say it wouldn't be a fair fight, but I can see
that you, young lady, are more than capable of taking care of yourself."

"Thank you," Marissa said primly.  She waved her hand in the general direction of the bachelorette
party.  "Gary, I believe those ladies are waiting for their drinks."

Crumb looked over at the partiers, then raised his eyebrows at his boss.  "Not very patiently, either.
Gotta keep the customers happy, Hobson."

"Oh, no, no way am I going over there unprotected..."

But Chuck saw an opportunity for revenge.  Hefting the tray in Gary's direction, he called to the
revelers, "Ladies, McGinty's is proud to send you its finest libations, served by its finest...cheese cake!"

The women erupted into wild cheers and hooting.  Gary could feel his face heating up again.  "You
gotta be kidding me."  He looked pleadingly at Crumb, but the older man was watching the whole thing
with unconcealed amusement, arms folded across his chest as he leaned back against the bar.

"Oh, come on, Gary, it'll make their night," said Marissa.

"I think embarrassing me is already making yours."

"You got it, Gar," Chuck assured him.  One of the waitresses came over to take the tray, but he waved
her off and thrust it toward Gary once again.

Grumbling about conspiracies and fair-weather friends, Gary used a napkin to get most of the whipped
cream off his face, then took the tray and managed to get it to the table without mishap, though the
wolf whistles, suggestive comments, and one butt slap that he was pretty sure had been landed by the
bride-to-be left his face burning.  While the brunette stood on a chair and broke into a loud,
inexplicable, and woefully out-of-tune version of "Oh, Canada", Gary hightailed it back to the bar, relief
outweighing Crumb's gruff laughter and Chuck's triumphant grin.

"How does it feel to be the dish of the day?" Chuck wanted to know.

"Yeah, well, at least I don't have white gunk drying on my face, Benedict Arnold."  Gary sneered at him
while the other customers turned back to their drinks.  Crumb hung his coat on a stand in the corner
and moved behind the bar.  Donning an apron, he took one look at the so-called margarita that Chuck
had perpetrated on the poor redhead and started mixing her another one.

Marissa was chuckling as Gary described Chuck's attempts to get the whipped cream off his face and the
efforts of the bachelorettes to drink her creations, when Gary noticed Crumb watching the three of them
with a pensive expression.

"What?" Gary asked.

Crumb shrugged.  "Oh, nothin' really.  I was just thinking that for the two weeks I've been working here,
and all the time I've known you before that, this is the first time I've ever seen the three of youse,
well--happy.  Laughing and having a good time, like normal people.  Don't--don't get me wrong," he
amended when Marissa turned a startled countenance in his direction, "I think it's great.  I just was
wondering why it doesn't happen more often."

Both hands on the bar, he leaned toward them and waited for an answer.  Chuck raised one eyebrow at
Gary, who didn't know how to respond.  Marissa managed the save.  "Oh, we're so busy running this
place and taking care of--of other business, you know, there isn't much time to just hang out any more."

Snorting, Crumb assented, "Yeah, I know what that's like.  'Specially when your other business is--well,
whatever the hell it is he does."  He pointed one thick finger at Gary, who started, opening and closing
his mouth a couple of times but finding no words.  Crumb stared him down and held the finger on him
for a moment, then waved his whole hand.  "I don't wanna know.  Doesn't matter anyway.  The point is,
you see them?"  He nodded at the women who were leaving for the next bar, gathering coats, picking
whipped cream out of each other's hair, chatting and giggling gleefully.  "They all have jobs, they have
stuff to do, too.  But they know that if they don't cut loose and have some fun once in a while, it's all
gonna get to be too much, ya know?  You could learn a lesson from the ladies, all of youse."

Chuck nodded.  "The man is wise, Gar."  Gary blinked.  Chuck was agreeing with Crumb?  "Maybe you
oughta take his advice--tonight.  I tried to tell you earlier, I have this great idea, we could go out and
have a lot of fun.  I know a place--"

"Well, that's, that's all well and good, but what about this place?"

Crumb waved a towel at the bar.  "This?  Heck, between me and the wait staff, we can take care of it.
Probably be a slow night anyway, with no sports on TV."

Still hesitating, not sure what Chuck had up his sleeve, Gary protested, "What about--what about
tomorrow?  It comes awfully early..."  He stole a sideways look at Crumb, who watched him closely but
said nothing.  Maybe he really didn't want to know after all.

"Tomorrow will still come, Gary, no matter what you do tonight," Marissa pointed out.

It wasn't her words that convinced him, it was the look on her face, that same half-hidden longing she'd
evinced listening to the party.  Gary tapped one finger in a rapid staccato on the bar.  Whatever Chuck
had in mind, it was sure to be something different, and Crumb was right, they could all use that.  Slowly
nodding, still watching Marissa, Gary finally said, "Well, I suppose one night couldn't hurt..."

"Yes!" Chuck crowed.  "I know exactly what we need.  You guys get ready and I'll bring my car around,
okay?"

"Now wait a minute, Chuck, what the heck are you planning?" Gary asked, still wary.

"It's a surprise, Gar.  C'mon, live a little!  Where's your sense of adventure?"

Gary patted the side of his coat, where the paper was still tucked, and pretended to search his pockets.
"Gee, buddy, I dunno, whatever could have happened to it?"  Chuck didn't answer, just chuckled and
punched Gary on the shoulder as he rounded the corner of the bar and headed for the office.  Gary
stood and offered a hand to help Marissa down, asking Crumb, "You sure it's gonna be okay?  We'll be
back before closing time."

Crumb waved him off.  "I meant what I said, Hobson.  You guys go have a good time.  This place
practically runs itself, for as much as you're here anyway.  Marissa, you make sure those two stay out of
trouble, you hear?"  Not for the first time, Gary noticed the affectionate, respectful tone Crumb adopted
when speaking to Marissa.

"I'll do my best," she told him.  "Spike's up in the loft, can you--"

"I'll check in on him, don't worry."

Gary nodded at Crumb.  "Thanks, then.  See ya later."

"Thanks, Crumb," Marissa added as she took Gary's elbow.  He snagged his coat and gloves from end of
the bar before they followed Chuck into the office.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~
 

Part 2

Something about the future is written on the past
Something about these fragile days that doesn't last
      ~ Carrie Newcomer
 

"This is ridiculous," Marissa grumbled as yet another tipsy patron of the Showboat Casino tripped over
her cane and stumbled into her.  She regained her balance and the man muttered a thick, incoherent
apology and moved on, but it was clear the whole experience was losing any charm it might have held.
Her grip on Gary's arm was like iron, much tighter than her usual light touch, and he could see her
exasperation through the "let's have fun" veneer they'd both been wearing for the past ninety minutes as
they explored the boat. The vessel was big enough to hold a couple dozen McGinty's.  Row after row of
slot machines, craps tables, and roulette wheels were laid out to entice the hundreds--no it must have
been thousands--of people who'd come in search of a quick thrill.

On a ship this big, there should have been room for everyone, but Gary felt pressed on every side and it
seemed that each nook and cranny was filled with noise: slot machines whirling, ringing and buzzing;
coins and tokens jingling; at least three different kinds of music (rock, country, and western) blaring
out of the loudspeakers; and a constant, indistinguishable hum of voices.

"What?"  Gary had been shouting over the din all evening, and his voice was starting to wear around the
edges.  A few feet away sirens went off and lights flashed crazily as someone hit the jackpot on a dollar
slot machine.

"I said, this is ridiculous!" Marissa repeated.  "We can barely hear each other, and every time we try to
move, someone bumps into us.  Now I know how a pinball feels!"

Gary winced in sympathy. The noise and the crowd were bad enough for him, and he could see to
maneuver his way around the worst of the obstacles.  What must it be like for Marissa?  Just for a
second, he shut his eyes--and walked into a change cart.  He had to catch both Marissa and himself
before they went down, to avoid being trampled.

"Hey, watch it, pal!" the teller snapped.  He brushed off his red polyester vest and the surface of the cart
as if Gary had contaminated them.

"Sorry," Gary said, but to Marissa, not to the change counter.  "You okay?"

"I--yeah, it's okay."  Straightening cautiously, she turned to face Gary.  "What do you want to do next?
Where's Chuck, anyway?"

"I think he's still at the craps table.  Want to give it a try?"

"Um...I don't know, it's not--"

"It's not all that exciting if you can't see it, right?  Careful."  Gary put an arm around her shoulder and
pulled her out of the way of--what was that, anyway?  Someone wearing an oversized papier-mâché
clown head strode by on stilts.  Shaking his head, Gary decided he didn't want to know.  Marissa took his
elbow again and they resumed their path, Gary steering them as close to the edge of the aisles as
possible.  "The slot machines were just as bad, weren't they?"  Those had quickly lost their appeal, even
for Gary, who could watch the little pictures twirl around the wheel.

"Yes, but, Gary, if you want to do something, say so.  It's okay, we can just--have fun together."

"Hmm..."  Gary searched the area for a place to get out of the way.  He saw a snack bar at the end of one
aisle and changed course, leading Marissa to the table farthest from the overhead speakers.  After a
quick consultation, he went up to the counter, returning a few minutes later with two plastic cups.  The
air here was stale with cigarette smoke, but at least the noise wasn't so bad.

"Here ya go, rum and Coke."  Gary placed one cup in Marissa's hand and took a long draught of his
beer before straddling the chair across from her.  She thanked him sincerely enough, but her smile was
forced.

"You're not having a very good time, are you?" he asked.

"Well..."

"Neither am I."

Marissa sighed and slumped back in her chair, giving up the effort to look entertained with evident
relief.  Gary added, "It's not really my idea of fun.  I take enough chances during the day, I guess."

"Yeah," Marissa answered with a rueful chuckle, "I guess you do.  Chuck seems to be enjoying himself,
though."

"Evidently."  When they'd left him to search out something more interesting to do, Chuck had already
been playing for half an hour.   He'd been so wrapped up in rolling the dice that he'd barely nodded
when Gary had told him they'd catch up with him later.

"Gary, I know it isn't often you and Chuck get to do anything together.  If you want to go find him, I'll
be okay here."

Yeah, right.  Not that her offer wasn't genuine--she should just know better than to expect him to do it.
"This is supposed to a night for all of us.  There oughta be something...Hey."  An exit sign at the back of
the snack bar caught Gary's attention.

"What is it?"  Marissa made a face at her watered-down drink.

"I got an idea.  There's a door over there behind you--let's see where it goes.  I mean, this is a boat,
right?  Want to find the deck?"  Gary stood and helped her to her feet, placing her cane in her hand.

"Oh, and get some fresh air?  That would be perfect."

He'd forgotten how much Marissa hated cigarette and cigar smoke, on top of everything else.  Geez,
Chuck, Gary thought as he pushed open the door and guided Marissa through, perfect choice for an
evening away from it all.

He followed the signs in the back hallways to the deck of the ship, opening the final door with a
flourish.  "Madame..." he held the door for Marissa, then offered her his arm again as she inhaled
deeply and broke into a grin.

"This is much better.  But how will Chuck find us here?"

"At the rate he's going, I don't think he'll be looking for quite a while.  He just waved us off back at the
craps table.  I forgot how much he likes this kinda stuff."

They stood for a moment, letting the lake breeze blow the noise and closed-in feeling of the crowd
away.  Marissa tugged on his elbow a little and he led her away from the door, her thick heels tapping in
neat clicks against the deck.  "So, what happened to a night together, getting away from it all?"

Gary felt like apologizing, but he knew she wouldn't put up with that.  "Here, here's the railing."  He
guided her hand to the polished brass, and they both leaned over it, sniffing the cleaner night air,
listening to the lap of lake waves against the hull.  No one else was out on the deck--most people didn't
come to the casino to see the water.

"I don't know, Marissa.  Chuck's having a good time, but he doesn't much seem to care whether we are."

"He's just...focused.  You know how he gets."

Gary nodded.  He knew that well enough.

"Hey, tell me what you see; describe it for me," Marissa said, looking more relaxed than she'd been all
evening.  Her cane hung from her wrist on its strap and she propped both elbows on the railing.

They were facing the vast expanse of Lake Michigan; the city was on the other side of the boat.  Gary
started to say, "Nothing," but as he looked more carefully he realized that wasn't true.

"Well, there's--there's the lake, and the sky...it's weird, because it's dark out and I always used to think
dark was dark, but really there are different colors of darkness."  Gary paused while Marissa nodded.
He wasn't really sure if she understood what he was talking about at times like this, or if she was merely
humoring him.  Maybe she just liked to listen, though why anyone would want to listen to the sound of
his voice was beyond Gary.

"It's like...the water is greyish-black dark, but the sky is navy-almost-black dark."  He knew the colors
didn't mean anything to Marissa, but he there was no other way to describe the scene.  "There are a few
stars out, but we'd have to get beyond the city to see them all...they're kind of like silver pin pricks or
something.  They look more like holes in the sky than three-dimensional objects.  They're so far away.

"Every once in a while there are lights, far off in the distance, from other boats.  They just kinda glide
past, but I can't make out their shapes."

Marissa tilted her head, her voice thoughtful.  "Is that what they mean by the expression, 'Two ships
passing in the night?'  That you know someone is out there, but you really don't know anything about
them?"

"Yeah, kind of...don't blink or you'll miss 'em.  Hey," Gary asked as she stood up straight and wrapped
her arms around her torso, "you're not too cold, are you?"

"Nope.  I'd rather be cold than be in there anyway.  Wonder whether Chuck even knows we're gone?"

Gary stared out at the light from a distant ship, and wondered who it carried, and where it was going.  It
was impossible to know.  "I kinda doubt it."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~
 

Now some people say that you shouldn't tempt fate
And for them I would not disagree
But I never learned nothing from playing it safe
I say fate should not tempt me

I take my chances
I don't mind working without a net
I take my chances
I take my chances every chance I get
      ~ Mary Chapin Carpenter
 

"And the House goes over...you win again, Mr. Fishman."  The blackjack dealer shook her head, dark
curls dancing.  "How do you do it, huh?"  Her wink was suggestive.  Another night Chuck might have
ignored the cards in favor of an extended flirtation, but after winning five games in a row all he really
cared about was not breaking his streak.

"Guess I've got the lucky touch," he said brightly, adding the new chips to his pile.

"Another hand?"

Chuck glanced down at his watch...shoot, it was after midnight.  Where had the time gone?  He'd need
to find Gary and Marissa before too much longer.  "One more."

Three games later, two of which he'd won, he felt a tap on his shoulder.  Twisting in his seat, he saw his
friends behind him, coats already draped over their arms.  "Hey, Chuck, c'mon, we told Crumb we'd be
back by one and it took us half an hour to get down here, even with your driving."

"Okay, Gar, one more hand--"

"Now."

"Geez, you're such a party pooper," Chuck complained, but he started scooping his chips into the cup
the dealer offered him.  "I gotta cash out first."  Chuck shook the cup for Marissa's sake and was
rewarded with a raised eyebrow.

"That sounds like a lot."

Gary peered into the cup, then looked at Chuck, impressed.  "It is a lot," he told Marissa.  "How'd you
make that much?"

"Well, I started at the craps table, and then roulette, and wound up with blackjack.  I'm tellin' you, Gar,
I've got the touch, I've got the savvy, I've got the moves--and I had the dealer-lady practically drooling
on my cards."

"Yeah, right," Marissa snorted.  "I was with you until that last bit there."

Chuck was in too good a mood to let her sarcasm bother him.  Gary and Marissa followed him as he
threaded through the crowd to the nearest cash-out window.  He ended up in line behind a woman with
a Barry Manilow T-shirt and a lacquered head of platinum hair that gave new meaning to the term
"helmet head."  Grinning, Chuck bounced on his toes in time to the music playing on the sound system.
He couldn't identify the tune, but its strong beat fit perfectly with the bright lights and colors, and the
crowds moving from one game to the next.  "Isn't this place great?  You guys had a good time, right?"

"Oh, a laugh a minute," Marissa said.  The flat note in her voice caused Chuck to peer more closely at
her, then at Gary.  He was about to ask where they'd been all night when a young couple, too busy
counting their winnings to look where they were going, started a chain reaction by swerving into Gary,
who bumped into Marissa, who jostled the lady in front of Chuck.  "Excuse me," Marissa began as Gary
and Chuck both reached out to balance her.

Helmet Head turned toward them with a nasty expression on her face, which froze when she saw
Marissa's cane.  "It's okay," she mumbled, but she continued to stare as though at a circus exhibit.  Pity,
condescension--Chuck knew the reaction, and hated it.  Marissa must have read something in the
silence, because she took a step back, her spine stiffening.  Chuck scowled, but Gary's elbow in his ribs
stopped him from squashing the woman with a sarcastic comment..

Instead, he waited until she had stepped up to the counter and handed the clerk her plastic cup before
saying, in a derisive, too-loud voice,  "Where'd you two disappear to, anyway?  The slot machines?  Oh,
tell me you were at least playing the dollar slots.  Nickel machines are for old ladies--you do know that,
don't you?  I can't have my reputation besmirched by hanging out with nickel slot players."

He was rewarded by the arching of the woman's back as she took her winnings and marched away.
Marissa frowned, clearly confused, and was poised to ask a question when Gary said, "Oh, yeah, Chuck,
me and Marissa, here, we got a big kick outta watching the little lemons and cherries go around and
around."  Gary spun a finger in the air.

Now what the hell was Gary's problem? Chuck wondered, but recovered quickly as the clerk took his
chips and handed over a satisfying wad of bills.  "Well, hey, guys, we're all set now, aren't we?  C'mon,
let's go close up at McGinty's and then we can hit the town.  I know this great place--"

"No," Gary and Marissa said in unison as the three made their way toward the exit.

"But it's on me, c'mon, the night is still young..."

"It'll be two in the morning before we get done at the bar," Gary said.  The glass doors slid open to let
them out onto the ramp.

"Exactly!  There's this betting parlor south of the Loop, it's open all night.  You can bet on live Sumo
wrestling, and Australian kangaroo boxing, and..."

"Chuck, that's cruel!"

"Nah, the kangaroos love it," he assured Marissa.  "Here, the car's over this way."

"I cannot believe you know about kangaroo boxing, Chuck, that's just...weird."  Gary shook his head as
they stopped in front of the Lexus and Chuck fumbled in his pocket for his key chain.

"So are you with me?"

"No!"

Shaking his head in disgust, Chuck unlocked the car with the punch of a button.  "You guys are no fun
at all."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~
 

Part 3

Well I woke up this morning, stumbled out of my rack
I opened up the paper to the page in the back
It only took a minute for my finger to find
My daily dose of destiny under my sign
My eyes just about popped out of my head
It said the stars are stacked against you girl
Get back in bed

But I feel lucky, I feel lucky
No Professor Doom's gonna stand in my way
I feel lucky today
      ~ Mary Chapin Carpenter & Don Schlitz
 

"What is up with you?" Marissa asked when Chuck whisked by with a box of peanuts.  They were at the
far end of the bar, and Gary was watching from the office doorway, unnoticed by either.  Early
afternoon sunlight filtered through the mottled glass windows behind the bar, leaving a faint glow on
the polished wood and brass.

"What do you mean?" Chuck asked innocently, setting the box on the bar and bending down to look for
something under the counter.

"Well, you're whistling, for one thing.  What is that, something from a musical?"  The fingers of Marissa's
right hand brushed over Braille printouts as she spoke, while those of her left punched the keys of her
calculator.

"Give the lady a prize!  It's 'Guys and Dolls', to be exact," Chuck told her, then picked up where he'd left
off, singing this time.  "I know the way you've treated other guys you've been with, Luck be a lady
toniiiggghttt..."  His rummaging under the bar having produced a box cutter, he slashed the packing
tape with a flourish and began tossing packs of peanuts into a basket at the other end of the bar,
keeping time with his gruff rendition of the tune in the process.

"What's up with him?"  Gary strolled into the bar, tapping a pen against the notepad he held.

"A lady wouldn't leave her escort, /whoosh!/ it isn't fair, / whoosh!/ it isn't niiiice..."  /whoosh!/

"I have no earthly idea," Marissa muttered, still absorbed in her work.

"A lady wouldn't wander" /whoosh!/--Gary ducked a stray peanut bag--"all over /whoosh!/ the room..."
/whoosh!/

Gary stepped around Marissa's stool and faced Chuck across the bar.  "Uh, Chuck?"

"And blow /whoosh!/ on some other /whoosh!/ guy's diiiiice!" /whoosh!/

"Chuck, listen to me--"

"So, let's keep the party polite /whoosh!/--How ya doin', Gar?--Never get out of my sight." /whoosh!/

"Chuck!"

"Stick with me, baby--Hey!"  Chuck finally broke off as Gary intercepted a bag of peanuts and held up
his hands: no more.  He shoved the notepad in Chuck's direction.

"You wanna tell me why some guy from Big Ron's Restaurant Supply was just on the phone asking when
he should deliver the Dishmaster 5000?  When the hell did we order that?"

At that, Marissa finally stopped.  Her head came up.

Batting away the notepad, Chuck looked from Gary to Marissa and back again with a grin that was wide
and just a wee bit demented.  "Happy Easter and Merry Passover, guys!  I had a little windfall; thought
I'd share the wealth.  You know how the old one kept breaking down, especially on Saturday nights
during the Bulls' games?  Well, that isn't going to be a problem any more."

"You didn't," Marissa said flatly.

"I did."

"You made another bet?"

Chuck bounced happily on his toes.  "Yup."

"This wouldn't be another one of those bets you're 'about to collect on', would it Chuck?"  Gary asked,
afraid of what his friend might have gotten them into.

"Nope."

"Because if it is, I'm tellin' Big Ron to put his machine--"

"Whoa, Gar, take it easy!"  Chuck reached across the bar to pat Gary on the shoulder.  "This is a done
deal.  It's already paid for, in cash!  I got the money last night.  Do you have any idea what the odds
were on Valparaiso making it to the Sweet Sixteen?"

"You bet on Valpo?"  Gary's mouth fell open.  "How did you--oh, Chuck, you didn't."  Dropping the
notepad on the bar, he reached for his back pocket.

"Relax, Gar," Chuck said breezily.  "I didn't touch your precious newspaper.  Besides, I made this bet
weeks ago, before the tournament even started, so it's not like the paper would have helped anyway.
No, my friend, this was genius, pure and simple."

"Well, simple, maybe," Marissa deadpanned.

Gary eyed his friend dubiously for another moment, but decided Chuck was telling the truth.  He
couldn't have gone behind Gary's back like that without some trace of guilt showing on his face, of that
Gary was sure.

"So you won a bet, and you bought a dishwasher?"  Marissa's tone was both amused and befuddled.

"Among other things.  Look, guys, I gotta run, gonna go look at some brochures with Tabitha, my travel
agent."  He slam-dunked one more pack of peanuts into the basket and twirled out from behind the bar.
"If she's lucky, maybe I'll book two tickets to the islands--Aruba, Jamaica, Ooo, I wanna take ya to
Bermuda, Bahama--"   The front door closed between Chuck's scratchy voice and his puzzled friends.
Through the front window Gary caught a glimpse of him swaggering down the street, and then he was
gone.

Shaking her head as if to wake herself, Marissa asked, "What was that all about?"

"I'm not quite sure," Gary admitted, scratching the back of his neck, "but I guess it's good to see him
happy."

"And we got a new dishwasher out of the deal."  Marissa didn't sound, nor did Gary feel, as thrilled as
Chuck had obviously expected them to be.  Gary couldn't put a finger on why.  Maybe it was because it
was so unlike Chuck to share a bonanza like this.  Pulling the Sun-Times out of his pocket, Gary settled
onto a stool and started to plan the rest of his day.  "What's in the paper?" Marissa asked.

"Bus driver's gonna have a heart attack and cause a traffic pileup during rush hour, and there's a kid
gonna choke on a French fry at Hard Rock after that."  Checking the local news one more time, Gary
finally decided that there wasn't anything else he'd need to prevent--not that those stories weren't
enough for one overworked, reluctant hero-cum-bar owner.

"Do you need any help?"

"Just a ride, and Chuck should be back in time to drive me to the scene of the bus accident."  Standing
and stretching, he added, "I guess I'd better call this Dishmaster guy back.  You gonna be around
tomorrow morning to take delivery?"

"Sure," she said.  "Gary?"

He paused halfway down the bar and turned to look back at Marissa.  She'd picked up one of the peanut
packages that had missed the basket and was fingering it absently.

"What?"

Marissa bit her lip, then set the package down and shook her head, dismissing whatever it was she'd
been about to say.  "Nothing.  Forget it."  She was back at the figures before Gary could press the issue
any further, and he returned to the office with a shrug .
 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~
 

How I long to fall just a little bit
To dance out of the lines and stray from the light
      ~ Dar Williams
 

When Chuck didn't return in time to take him to the bus stop, Gary figured his friend was caught up in
making plans with Traveling Tabitha.  Taking the El wasn't that big of a hassle, but it did mean that he
had to rush to make it to the Hard Rock Cafe.  By the time he got back to McGinty's, the dinner rush
was over and the Friday night revelers were just settling in.  He slipped in the back door and found
Marissa in the kitchen, her normally calm demeanor somewhat worse for the wear as she fielded
questions and snapped out commands to the staff, a competent but weary director of a ballet she
couldn't see.

"Hey," Gary placed a hand on her shoulder as she finished telling the cook that no, they hadn't been
able to get any white onions and he'd just have to make do with yellow.  >From the edge in her voice, he
gathered this wasn't the first time she'd said it.  "What's up?"

"Gary, thank goodness you're back.  This place is a zoo tonight, and two of the wait staff called in sick."
Marissa turned to him with a sigh as they stepped out of the line of foot traffic.  She ticked off more
problems on her fingers.  "We're running low on whiskey, Crumb can't find the Goldenschlagger, and if
I have to explain to Tony one more time that most of our patrons don't care what color onions their
rings are made with, I'm going to lose my mind."  She rested her elbow on the grey metal shelf, absently
rubbing her temple.

Gary ran a hand through his hair, feeling as tired as Marissa looked.  "Where's Chuck?  Why isn't he
helping you?"

She shrugged. "He came back right after you left, then said he had to be somewhere and took off again.
That was about three hours ago."

"In the middle of the evening rush?  That's not like him."  Gary frowned down at his friend as though
the top of her head might be hiding an explanation.

"Well, he did sound a little, um, stressed or nervous or something--but he didn't say what it was about or
where he was going, and things were already hopping here, so--no, Jack, you cannot leave early
tonight."

The young man who'd approached them without a word jumped a little and slunk off silently as Gary
shook himself out of his reverie, grinning at the sight of someone else on the receiving of Marissa's
uncanny intuition.  "Oh, and Big Ron's Restaurant supply returned your call," she added. '"The new
dishwasher's already paid for, just as Chuck said."

Well, that was one less thing to worry about.  "Okay.  Let me go see if I can help Crumb.  You gonna be
all right in here?"

She nodded. "I'll handle it."   He wasn't even through the swinging doors before she was once again
surrounded by questioners, but Gary knew she'd do just fine.

Out in the main dining area, things were even more lively.  All the chairs and stools were full, there was
a line five deep at the pool table, and a handful of denim-clad waiters and waitresses wove their way
through the crowd, trays held high, moving in time to the music--R.E.M., Gary noted absently.  Robin
must be picking the CDs tonight.  Crumb wasn't a stick-in-the-mud by any means, but Gary couldn't
imagine him choosing "Shiny Happy People".  Squeezing through the line-up at the bar, he made his
way behind the counter, where the ex-detective held court.

"Nice of you to show up, Hobson," Crumb commented dryly.  He plopped a lemon slice into a tumbler
full of something clear and added it to a tray full of drinks.  "Here.  Take these to table five."

Gary held up a hand, took a step back.  "Look, Crumb, I'm not--"

"Yeah, I know, but Joan's being run off her feet and you want to keep your bar afloat, right?"  Without
waiting for an answer, Crumb handed the tray to Gary.  "The one with the blue straw's the non-alcoholic
daiquiri.  When's Fishman coming back, anyway?" he asked as he rinsed out a container, filled it with ice,
and tipped the contents of two bottles into the blender.

"Your guess is as good as mine," Gary grumbled, wondering how he'd ever make it out from behind the
bar, let alone to the table nearest the front door, with the overloaded tray.

"Smile at the customers, Hobson; no one likes a grouch."

"Right."  Gary snorted.  Shiny happy people, indeed.
 

Hours later, the crowd had thinned to a few regulars and a handful of couples lingering over wine.
Gary left Crumb in charge of the last of the front-room duties and retreated to the office, sending an
exhausted Marissa home as soon as things were under control in the kitchen.  Chuck bounced into the
office shortly after midnight, dusting snow off the brim of his fedora.

"Hey, Gar, you'll never guess what--"

Gary glared up at his friend from his seat at the desk, where he was counting receipts.  "'Bout time you
showed."

"Sorry about that," Chuck said with a wave of his hand, as though this was no big deal.  "I had some
business to take care of--what's that on your shirt?"

"Huh?  Oh, it's daiquiri or something."  Brushing ineffectually at the large pink blob on his oxford, Gary
refrained from pointing out that this place was Chuck's business.  "Apologize to Marissa and Crumb.
They took the brunt of it while I was dealing with that."  Gary waved a hand at his copy of the
Sun-Times, resting now on the top of his computer.  "We all figured you'd taken off for Jamaica
already."

"Jamaica's on hold for now, I got bigger fish to fry."  Unfazed by Gary's peevishness, Chuck perched on
the edge of the desk.  His eyes were twinkling and his grin was downright wicked.  "I'm telling you, Gar,
you gotta hear this.  You know the Masters?"

Gary rolled his eyes.  "It's some kind of sporting event, isn't it?  Guys in funny pants whacking little balls
with big sticks?  Will you get off the ledger?"   Not waiting for Chuck to comply, he yanked the book out
from under him.

"Right, it's next week," Chuck continued, jumping down.  He paced behind Gary and back again,
snapping his fingers in a rapid staccato rhythm.  "And get this: my bookie's giving me twelve to one
odds on--"

Gary's jaw dropped open; the ledger landed on the desk with a thump.  "You gotta be kidding me.
You've been gone all this time gambling?  On a Friday night?"

"Well, it's hardly a gamble with a sure thing like this, Gar, I mean--"  One hand on Gary's shoulder and
the other on the desk, Chuck leaned in and whispered, "I thought you might want in on some of the
action, buddy.  You know, especially with your little handicap there."  He nodded at the paper with a
conspiratorial grin.

For a split second, Gary stared at his friend, then shrugged Chuck's hand away as he picked up the
register tape.  "Excuse me.  I gotta add up these receipts."

"But Gar--"  Chuck stepped back, perplexed.

"I think Crumb needs help out front," said Gary, not looking up from his work.  He felt Chuck's
hesitation, but ignored him until he went out to the bar.

Dropping the tape onto the desk, Gary sat back, running a hand through his hair.  This was getting out
of hand.  Playing around with a few bets here or there was one thing, but if Chuck was going to manage
McGinty's he had to get his head back in the business.  The thing was, he didn't know how to say that
without starting a fight.  Chuck would get all defensive and angry and somehow Gary would end up
feeling guilty about the whole thing, whether it was his fault or not.

Tomorrow, he decided.  Tomorrow he'd sit his friend down and talk to him, buddy to buddy, about
responsibility.  Chuck cared as much about McGinty's as Gary did; it'd only take a hint or two, and
everything would be back to normal.  Maybe he'd talk to Marissa first.  She could help him figure out
what to say.

But the next day, and for several days thereafter, the paper gave them all more to worry about than
Chuck's erratic behavior.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~
 

Part 4

Sometimes you're the windshield,
Sometimes you're the bug....
Sometimes you're the Louisville Slugger,
Sometimes you're the ball.
Sometimes it all comes together,
Sometimes you're gonna lose it all.
      ~ Mark Knopfler
 

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine, and I wish you guys would quit asking me that."  Marissa shrugged Gary's hand off her arm,
ostensibly to button her coat against the wind driving across the steps of the Field Museum, but really,
he knew, as a sign that she'd had quite enough hovering for one day, thank you very much.

He supposed he couldn't blame her.  After what had happened lately, they all wanted to get back to
normal and forget about mysterious curses, jewel thieves, and life-threatening epidemics.  Especially the
latter, Gary thought, suppressing a shudder that had nothing to do with the cold.

"Well, geez, ya know," he tried to joke, "that's what happens when you get hit with a mummy's curse.  It
tends to make your friends a little, um, concerned."

"A little?" Marissa scoffed.  "You two are worse than a pair of mother hens."

"But--"

"Drop it, Gary.  I'm fine."

Gary wasn't so sure about that, but he decided not to press the issue.  Better to let the whole thing drop
for now, if not for good.  Everything had worked out; everyone was okay.  In retrospect, it all seemed
ridiculous.  Well, almost all of it, he corrected himself, watching Marissa absently finger a copper
earring with one gloved hand.  For now, it was good just to have life back on as an even a keel as the
paper would allow.

"Where'd Chuck go?"

"The gift shop, believe it or not."  A yellow school bus pulled up to the curb below them, and Gary led
Marissa out of the way of the boisterous crowd of children streaming up the steps.  "Here, let's wait off to
the side."

A few minutes later, Chuck came through the revolving doors, looked around, and bopped over to his
friends when he saw Gary's wave.  "Okay, got 'em," he said.  "Geez, it's like a bargain basement sale at
Marshall Field's in there.  One lady almost ripped my arm off trying to get the sweatshirt I'd picked up.
I held on though," he finished proudly, rattling the plastic bag, which was emblazoned with the official
logo of the "Treasures of Bastet" exhibit.

Marissa shook her head as the trio navigated stairs.  "I don't get it, Chuck. You were the one who was
complaining about tote bags and breath mints a few days ago; what do you want with this stuff now?"

"Because now it's a piece of personal history. Besides, my cousin's kid's Bat Mitzvah is tomorrow and I
don't have time to run out to Toys Be We.  And for you, Gary, and you, Marissa--" he reached into the
bag and handed them plastic Bastet-mummy key chains.  "A small memento of the occasion."

"Well, that, that's real thoughtful of you, Chuck," Gary said dryly.  He held up the key chain and the cat
figurine dangled, twirling this way and that, while Marissa fingered hers with a befuddled smile.  "Now,
if we can just--"  There was a trill from the pocket of Chuck's brown suede jacket and they all stopped.
With the ostentatious satisfaction of the upwardly mobile professional, Chuck pulled out his cell phone
and flipped it open.

"Ya-ello," he began, but the smile froze on his face, then fell away, as he listened.  "Uh, well, I--"

Ducking his head and covering his free ear in order to better hear the caller, Chuck moved away from
the others, oblivious of the pedestrians who had to change direction to get around him.

"What time do you have to be over in Cicero?" Marissa asked Gary.

"Uh..."  Pulling the paper out of his pocket, he checked the Metro section.  "Forty-five minutes or so.
The kids are gonna start their little vandalism spree right after school gets out at three-thirty."

"Good."

"Good?"

"Yes.  That gives us plenty of time to get there."

"Us?"  Gary was about to protest, but he glanced over to the far end of the step on which they stood and
saw Chuck, shoulders slumped, staring into space as he mumbled a response to whoever was on the
other end of the connection.

"Yes, us.  I thought it would be good practice for my counseling class--you know, keeping kids off the
street and--Gary?  What's wrong?"

"I dunno, it's Chuck, he--" Gary stopped as Chuck snapped the cell phone shut, stared out over the lake
for a moment, then squared his shoulders and turned back to his friends.  His smile now was forced,
grim at the corners.  "Chuck?  Who was that?"

"No one, just a little mix up at the...at the bank."  He wouldn't look Gary in the eye; his face had gone
pale.

"Is everything all right?"  Honing in on Chuck with her unerring radar, Marissa took a step in his
direction.

Hands shoved deep in his pockets, Chuck shook his head.  "It's fine.  I just have to go over and
straighten it out."  Finally he lifted his head, flashing another pseudo-smile.  "Dumb computers must've
got my account mixed up with somebody else's."

"Chuck--" Gary began, but he was already several steps below them.

"You guys gonna be okay with that paper thing?  Yeah?  Okay, I'll meet you back at the bar in a little bit
then. It's been real!"  He waved one hand behind his back, taking two steps at a time as he hurried to
the parking lot.

Well, Gary told himself, it wasn't as if Chuck was bailing out; he wouldn't have been able to get Gary
over to Cicero and back again before the evening rush, and one of them did need to be at the bar.

"Gary?"  Both hands clutching the top of her cane, Marissa frowned in the direction Chuck had gone.

"C'mon, let's go."  Gary offered Marissa his elbow and they continued down the stairs.

"He was lying," she said as they waited at the taxi stand.  "Or at least he wasn't telling the whole truth."

"Yeah."  Gary hailed a cab and, once they'd settled in and given the driver directions, a few moments of
silence descended.  Marissa broke it as they waited at the light on Lake Shore Drive.

"Gary, about Chuck--"

"He's probably just embarrassed," he told her quickly.  "You know Chuck; he prides himself on his
finances.  If he got overdrawn or something, he wouldn't want us to know."

"I guess you're right," Marissa said in a voice that meant she only hoped, rather than believed, that Gary
was correct.  He decided it was time to change the subject.

"You sure you don't wanna go home and lie down or something?"

"I already told you, I'm fine."

"Take a nap, have some chicken soup and saltines..."  He drawled out the last words.

"Gary, I'm--oh." Marissa realized he was joking, and punched his arm lightly as she grinned.

"Eat bon-bons, listen to soap operas..."  Gary wagged his head in mock sorrow.  "I'm tellin' ya, you're
missing out on a great opportunity here.  We could get you fuzzy slippers and a nice flowered
housecoat..."

"Stop," she laughed.

"Well, at least you got a key chain out of the deal."

"Yes, you know, I was wondering how I was going to keep track of the keys to my new Mustang.  Now I
have just the thing."

Gary could see the cab-driver's double-take in the rear view mirror, and chuckled.  "Got him," he
whispered to Marissa, and was rewarded with a real smile.  It felt good to shake off some of the tension
that had plagued them all the past week or so.

Whatever was going on with Chuck couldn't be that big a deal, Gary decided.  If it had been, Chuck
would have told them.  They were seeing the world through jaded eyes and finding shadows were there
weren't any because of what they'd been through, that was all.

Everything was going to be just fine.
 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~
 

I'm standing in the middle of the desert
Waiting for my ship to come in
But no joker, no jack, no king
Can take this losing hand
And make it win
So I'm leaving Las Vegas
      ~ Sheryl Crow &  Bill Bottrell
 

Everything was going to hell in a hand basket.

Huddled in his jacket against the cold, damp wind, Chuck watched as the Lexus, his pride and joy,
turned out of the parking lot and disappeared into traffic.  Enjoy the ride, Mr. Repo-man, he thought
bitterly.  Probably the nicest car you'll ever yank out from under anyone in the tri-state area.  He kicked
at imaginary stones on the pavement and headed back for his apartment.

This was all Gary's fault.  Yeah, that was it, Chuck decided as he strode through the lobby, punching the
elevator call button with gusto.  It was Gary's fault, but not because he refused to share scores and race
results from his early edition.  Chuck had given up asking for those months ago, when he realized that
Gary had lied to him about the outcome of a Blackhawks game.

No, it was Gary's fault because he'd talked Chuck into leaving the brokerage, and now, stuck in the bar
business, Chuck was deprived of all excitement in his life.  Running McGinty's was all well and good, but
it was pretty much the same thing every week: the same chores, the same orders, the same choices.
Gary had even axed the restaurant--Chuck's plan--and vetoed his most creative ideas, everything from
karaoke nights to franchising McGinty's in other cities.  The guy just didn't understand that Chuck
would never be satisfied with the everyday.  He had to find some challenge, or what was life for?

All right, he had to admit, the bets had gotten a little bit out of hand lately.  Ever since he'd kicked that
field goal in the Bears game, he'd been looking to recapture the rush that came with winning when so
much was on the line.  Since he wasn't likely to make the team any time soon, he'd put more time and
effort into the game he knew best, increasing his wagers on the sports he loved to watch.  That was the
great thing about Chicago, after all; there was always something going on, and there was always
somebody ready to lay odds on the outcome--and not just penny-ante bets, either.  The bigger the
stakes, the bigger the thrill of victory.

Just because he'd messed up one time; just because one sure thing had turned out to be
not-so-sure...Chuck shook his head in frustration when the elevator door finally opened.

Arms crossed over his chest, he leaned back against the wall of the car.  He'd get his baby back.  All he
needed was one time, one quick score and he'd be out of the hole.  Getting the cash he'd need might be
a problem, but all he needed was part of the bet and he could set it in motion, and there was always--no,
he'd promised himself he wasn't going to do that again.

Things would work out.  They had to work out.

He wasn't even going to think about what would happen if they didn't.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~
 

Part 5

No, it wasn't what I planned
It's just how it's coming down
No, I didn't understand
I was just doing what I could

I was out of my mind
Thinking it couldn't break me
Driving blind
Anywhere this thing would take me
      ~ Carrie Newcomer
 

When Chuck walked into the office the next day, Marissa was already at her computer, listening intently
to the information being piped through her headphones while her fingers flew over the keyboard.
Draping his coat over the extra chair, Chuck tapped her on the shoulder to let her know he was there.
"Morning," he mumbled when she removed the headphones.  He stopped at the other desk to go
through the mail.

"Mmmm..." Marissa sniffed in Chuck's direction, smiling hopefully.  "Starbucks, right?  Did you bring
me any?"

"Nah, this guy bumped into me on the El and spilled a Grande all over my shirt and coat--"  Realizing
his mistake, Chuck snapped his mouth closed.  Her and her damn nose.  She could tell Arabica from
Maxwell House at ten paces.

"The El?"  The smile faded as her brow furrowed.  "Where's your car?"

"It's in the shop, okay?"  It sounded more acerbic than he'd meant it to, but it wasn't as if it was any of
her business in the first place.  When she tilted her head and opened her mouth to ask another
question, Chuck dropped the mail back on the desk.  "I'm gonna go see if Gar's got a clean shirt I can
borrow," he said, heading for the staircase.

"He's not up there; he's out stopping a carjacking."  Marissa's frown deepened as she fingered her watch
dial.

Chuck didn't ask, didn't even want to know the details.  "Well, he didn't take all his shirts with him, did
he?"

"Uh, no, I guess not..."  One eyebrow raised, she nonetheless went back to work without further
comment.

That just figured.  Chuck's life was falling apart, but did anybody care?  Did anybody ask what was
wrong?  Of course not.  He stormed up the stairs with extra emphasis, shook his head again at the
piecemeal retro decor that Gary had perpetrated on the loft, and went to the armoire in search of
something that wasn't coffee-stained.  He didn't even want to think about what the cleaning bill would
be for his jacket.

Not that he could afford it at the moment.

Pushing that thought firmly to the back of his mind, he searched the hangers one more time for
something that wouldn't totally embarrass him--and gave up.  Choosing the least offensive of the four
plaid shirts that hung in the armoire, Chuck shrugged off his own Ralph Lauren 100% cotton--not just
any cotton, but finely-spun, 220-count Egyptian pima cotton--button-down oxford, and tossed it atop
the mound of laundry that sat just outside the bathroom door.  Somewhere under all that, there had
been a hamper at one time.  How often did Gary do laundry?

"Once every three months, whether he needs it or not," Chuck mumbled to the empty loft.

He opened the armoire all the way, checking the mirror on the inside of the door as he combed his
hair.  The sorry state of his reflection caused him to sigh and shake his head.  He just wasn't made to
wear plaid.  But then again, although he would never say so to Gary, most people weren't.  Chuck was
about to shut the door when something caught his eye, a particular shade of green reflected in the
mirror.  He whirled and walked over to the dresser.

The bill was half-buried under a handful of loose change, an old watch battery, and a lone white sock.
Almost as if...almost as if Gary didn't want it, or had forgotten that he had it.  From the half that wasn't
covered, the half that he'd noticed from across the room, one of Benjamin Franklin's eyes stared up at
Chuck.

He slid the change, battery, and sock to the side.  Fingering one corner of the bill, Chuck noticed
something he never had before.  Old Ben's mouth was pursed, and his expression was
definitely...disgusted.  His hand fell away.  What the hell was he doing?  Borrowing a shirt without
asking was one thing, but this, this was...well, put it this way: it was something Gary would never do.

On the other hand, Chuck was sure that Gary would have loaned him the money if he'd asked.  It was
just that Gary wasn't there to be asked.  And that's all it was: a loan.  Seed money.  He'd return it--with
interest--before Gary even knew it was gone.  Heck, he'd have it back by the end of the day.  Before he
could talk himself out of it, Chuck palmed the bill, folding it so that Franklin's face was on the inside.
He shuffled the other paraphernalia to their original positions atop the dresser while he shoved the
money in the pocket of his khakis.

Somehow, he managed to close the armoire without looking in the mirror.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~
 

And so you hate my arrogance, my smothering and sitting on the fence
But I'm afraid of the hard permanence of letting you go free
But I know you will be waiting...waiting there for me
       ~ Steven Page
 

Cars.  The theme for the day was cars.

First, there'd been the carjacking in the South Loop; easy enough to avoid with a warning to the driver,
who'd pulled over at a side street, leaving the engine of his BMW running while he focused on his cell
phone conversation.  Gary had tapped on the window and pointed at the approaching teenagers, and
the driver had understood.  He'd sped away before the criminals could get close, still engaged in his
phone call, his tires spraying Gary with runoff from the melting piles of leftover snow that dotted the
curb.  No thanks, of course, but Gary had been grateful for small favors: the kids had backed away when
their target disappeared.  They hadn't seen him give the warning.

Next, he'd run up to the corner of State and Randolph, where a fight in a carpool would have distracted
the driver of a Jeep Cherokee, causing her to crash through one of Marshall Field's plate glass windows.
Gary's frantic arm waving had caught her attention just as the front tire went over the curb.  She'd
banged into a light pole and damaged her bumper, but no one had been hurt.

Which brought him to the present.  A fifteen-minute El ride south and he was in Hyde Park, just outside
the University of Chicago campus.  He needed to feed a parking meter.

Fishing in his pocket for change as he hurried down the street, Gary scanned parked cars for one that
matched the photo in the Sun-Times, one that looked like a doctor's car.  There, that had to be it: the
black Camry parked next to an expired meter.  He slipped a quarter into the slot, turned the knob,
checked around to make sure no one saw him doing it, and was surprised to see a familiar form
hurrying down the other side of the street.

"Chuck?"

Skidding to a halt amidst the groups of students hurrying to class, Chuck turned toward the sound of
Gary's voice.

"Over here, buddy."  Just in case he'd chosen the wrong car, Gary quickly fed the meters on either side
of the Camry, then jogged across the street.  Chuck was staring at him with a curious, almost suspicious
expression, but he hadn't moved.

"What are you doing here?" they asked at almost the same time.  Chuck added, "Did I just see you
putting money in other people's parking meters?  Isn't the stuff you do for the paper enough?"

"Actually," Gary told him, "this is the paper."  He nodded toward the parking enforcement officer
passing slowly down the opposite side of the street on a motor scooter.  "One of those cars belongs to a
Dr. Elise Brannigan--"  a woman exited one of the brownstone homes and nearly flew down the steps,
just as the parking officer passed the parked cars.  Gary heaved a sigh of relief as the woman got into
the Camry and drove off.

"And?"  Chuck had watched the whole scene too, but his confused expression said that he didn't
understand.

"And, she was going to get into a fight with the officer who was going to be issuing a parking ticket when
she came out, and because of that her car was going to be towed, and because of that she was going to
be late getting to the hospital, and all flustered when she got there, and because of that she was going to
misdiagnose appendicitis in a ten-year-old kid, and--"

"Okay, okay, I get the picture."  Hands shoved in the pockets of his coat, Chuck glanced around the
street, his gaze lingering on a pair of coeds who were laughing, long hair swinging across their
backpacks as they strolled past Gary and Chuck.

"So what are you doing down here?"  Gary frowned at the collar he saw above the neckline of Chuck's
coat.  "Isn't that--"

"Your shirt, yeah.  I spilled some coffee on mine at work this morning and I borrowed one of yours.  You
know, Gar, you really gotta do laundry."  The girls had turned the corner and were no longer in sight,
but Chuck still seemed distracted, more interested in traffic now than in his friend.

"Yeah, I guess so.  Uh, Chuck?"  Gary took a step closer, so that he was blocking Chuck's line of vision.
The smaller man finally looked up, and Gary was surprised to see something foreign--hazy, almost--in
his friend's eyes, which were usually clear blue.

"What?"  Chuck's tone was impatient.

"What are you doing here?"  Common sense said that if he asked enough times, he might get an answer.

"Oh, I--uh, you know, I got family down here, and I need to go visit my cousin."

"Your cousin?"

"Yeah, he's my third cousin twice removed, or maybe it's vice versa, I never remember."  Gary was close
enough to see Chuck's hand moving nervously in his coat pocket.  He darted one more look up and
down the street.  "And I kinda need to get going, but it was good to run into you, Gar.  See you at lunch
time."

Chuck had turned and taken a step away before Gary grabbed his arm.  "Hey, Chuck--is everything
okay?"

"Oh, yeah, you know, my cousin just broke an ankle and I promised my mom that I'd go visit him.  You
know how she is about family; she expects me to keep in touch with them, even though she's miles away.
She even wanted me to bring him a casserole, can you believe that?"  Moving away, out of Gary's reach,
Chuck shifted from one foot to the other.  Gary would have made a joke about his cooking, but
something wasn't right here and the joke wouldn't come.

"Well, uh, okay, I guess," he finally managed.  "See ya later?"

"Sure, Gar.  Later."  Chuck strode away briskly, without a backward glance.

It was time to check the paper again, but Gary didn't move until Chuck rounded the corner up ahead.
It wasn't such a big deal to see someone he knew when he was out on an errand for the paper; with all
the running around that Gary did, coincidences were bound to happen.  They had before.

No, what was niggling at Gary was not the fact that he'd seen Chuck.  It was the way that his friend had
acted.  Not only did Gary not buy the story about his distant cousin's ankle, but Chuck's behavior had
been decidedly strange.  Even face to face, Gary had had the impression that Chuck was trying to avoid
him, that he'd been focused on his forehead or something, rather than really looking at him.

The whir of rollerblades behind him startled Gary, scattering his thoughts.  He blinked as he stepped
out of the way of the skater, turning the collar of his bomber jacket up against the cool breeze that
teased its way around his neck.  It might be the end of February, he thought as he traced his route back
to the El, but winter hadn't given up on Chicago quite yet.

And whatever Chuck was up to, it couldn't be anything important.  If it was, he certainly would have told
his best friend.  Gary decided he must have been imagining the rest.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~
 

Believe me the truth is we're not honest,
not the people that we dream.
We're not as close as we could be.
Willing to grow but rains are shallow,
barren and wind-scattered seed
on stone and dry land.
      ~ Natalie Merchant
 

"...and now I have to run over to a Chevy dealership in Oak Park and make sure one of the salesmen
doesn't go out for a test drive with a couple of ladies who're going to pull a gun on him and force him
out of the car on a deserted street, then take off with his wallet and the Camero and, uh--and his
clothes."

Choking back a laugh--after all, robbery was nothing to joke about--Marissa switched the phone to her
other ear.  "So what time do you think you'll be back?"

"Probably another couple of hours."

She bit her lip.  It wasn't fair to add to Gary's burdensome schedule, but--"It's just that I have class and
someone should be here."

"Chuck's still not back?  When I saw him, he said lunch time."

"Lunch time's long past, Gary.  He hasn't shown up, but don't worry about it.  I'm sure he just got busy
catching up with his cousin.  If he doesn't come by the time I have to leave, I'll put Crumb in charge
until you get back."

"Did Chuck--"  Gary paused.  "Did he seem, well, odd to you this morning?"

"Not really.  Kind of preoccupied, maybe, but so was I.  Why?"

There was a another short silence, then Gary said, "It's nothing.  I gotta get going, if I'm gonna make it
out there.  See ya later."

"Bye."

What was it he wasn't saying?  There wasn't time to figure it out now.  Resuming the search that had
been interrupted by Gary's call, Marissa sighed as she felt through the haphazard piles on her normally
neat desk, lifting the stack of papers that she'd already sorted to see if the missing page of inventory had
gotten underneath them somehow.  It had to be here somewhere, she'd just printed it out ten minutes
ago.

"What's up?"

Not having heard him come in behind her, she jumped at Chuck's innocent question, dropping the
sheaf of Braille printouts.  "Oh, damn."

"Here, let me get 'em.  I didn't mean to startle you."  Chuck gathered the heavy sheets, straightening
them with a couple taps on the corner of her desk before handing them back.  She mumbled her thanks,
holding the pile in her lap with one hand while continuing to search for the missing page with the
other.

"Everything okay?  You seem a little flustered."  There was a rustle of fabric; probably Chuck taking off
his coat.  He was still close by the desk, and his concern seemed genuine: no flippant teasing, no pop
culture references.  Marissa gave up the search and sat back in her chair, resigned to the chaos.

"I'm too far behind on the record keeping here.  With being gone, I haven't had a chance to bring the
monthly accounts up to date, but I have a class in--" she felt the dial of her watch and winced.  "forty
minutes."  Standing, she set the papers on her desk.  "I have two exams and a make-up next week, plus
a paper due the week after that, which I haven't even started yet because my reader bailed on me, and I
need to transcribe the tapes of the classes I missed so I can have the notes in Braille..."  She drew in a
calming breath.  Chuck didn't need to hear her to-do list.  One thing at a time, right?

Yeah, right.

Chuck helped her on with her coat, handed her the bag of books she'd parked next to the divider.
"Geez, Marissa, why didn't you say something?  Here, you go to class and just--well, hey, why don't you
let me take care of the records here for a couple of days, until you get caught up at school?"

"Oh, no, Chuck, you have enough to do already."

"No, I insist."  He patted her on the shoulder.  "You were more than just gone, you were sick, really sick,
and you shouldn't be overdoing it.  Your classes are important, and I can handle this for a couple of
days."

Hope stirred, hesitantly, but still...just to have a day to get started on the paper would be an
undreamt-of luxury.  "Really?"

"Sure.  I'm a manager, I can manage."

"But there's the inventory, and I don't know what happened to the list of backorders, and all this is in
Braille."

"It's all on the originals, from the computer, right?  I'll figure it out."

"I'll come back after class and--"

"No, you won't.  You go to the library or home, or wherever you go to study.  Uncle Chuck's orders."

Uncle Chuck?  Maybe Gary had been right about noticing something funny in his behavior.  After the
way he'd snapped at her this morning, it was doubly weird for him to be so nice now.  On the other
hand, she wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth today, especially one who was offering time.
"I--I don't know what to say, except thank you."

"You're welcome.  Go."

"Chuck, are you sure?"

"Go."  He gave her a gentle shove toward the door.

Now she was sure that something strange was going on, but she was going to be late for class if she
didn't hurry.  "Thanks," she said again, and called Spike, who'd been dozing on the couch.  There would
be time to wonder about Chuck later.  Maybe during Pathological Psychology 420, she thought with a
wry grin.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~
 

Part 6

I am thinking about the woman in the century of peace,
On a bright mosaic, she is washing on her knees,
And she looks up at the black sky beyond the mountain tall;
She says, "Oh, good, the rain is finally going to fall today."
This was Pompeii.
      ~ Dar Williams
 

It was a thing of beauty: the first cup of coffee on a cold, late winter morning.

Marissa took a moment to inhale the scent, her hands warming as she wrapped them around the mug,
before she had her first sip.  Then a long, deep draught.  In the early-morning quiet of the kitchen, she
could almost pinpoint the exact moment that the caffeine would hit her bloodstream...there.  Much
better.  Gary's footsteps creaked on the stairs, and she filled a second mug as he came through the
office.

"You're here early," he said as she handed him the coffee.  "Thanks."

"I'm celebrating."  She leaned back against the prep table with a satisfied sigh.  "My paper's done, I took
my last midterm yesterday, and I feel like I can come up for air for the first time in two weeks, at least as
far as school goes."

Gary tapped his mug against hers with a clink.  "Congratulations."

The paper landed on the table behind her with a plop, and she could hear him flipping the pages and
blowing on his coffee before sipping at it.  Her hands finally warm, Marissa set her cup down and
walked over to the counter to start another pot, brushing her fingers over the Braille labels on the
assorted tins until she located the decaf.  "So I thought I'd see what Chuck's done with the accounts and
get caught up here as well.  Anything in the paper?"

"Yeah, a lot of little things, actually.  Just enough to keep me running all day."  The sound of rustling
newspaper was followed by that of Gary zipping up his coat.  "Hey, speaking of Chuck, have you heard
from him at all?  He left right before lunch yesterday and never came back."

Water began to drip through the coffee machine, and Marissa joined Gary at the prep table.  "No, I
haven't talked to him.  I haven't run into him since Tuesday, now that you mention it.  Is something
wrong?"

"I dunno."  There was a pause, then:  "I mean, have you noticed anything, well--anything unusual?"

Sensing Gary's trepidation, she chose her words carefully, sipping at her coffee while deciding what to
say.  "Granted, with exams I haven't been here all that much the past couple of weeks--"

"But?"

"But when I have been, I'd say he's been...distant.  I mean, Chuck and I have never been as close as you
two, but lately when we've been working together he hasn't spoken to me as much as usual, not even to
bicker or to tease."  And now that she thought about it, Marissa realized with a mental start, she missed
that verbal give and take.

Gary sighed.  "I know.  He's seemed real preoccupied lately.  Did you know he sold his car?"

"The Lexus?  He told me it was in the shop a week ago--no, it was more like two weeks--but he didn't say
that he was selling it."

"Well, that's what he told me when I asked him about it the other day.  Said the garage fees and
insurance were a waste of money."

Now thoroughly confused, Marissa shook her head.  "That doesn't make any sense, Gary.  He loves that
car."

"I know.  It's all so--so not Chuck.  It's almost like he's hiding something, like he's got some plan in the
works, or--or like he's in trouble."  Gary seemed to be working it out as he spoke, turning his thoughts
over like one of those puzzle cubes, trying to make everything line up correctly.  "But why wouldn't he
come to us for help, unless it's something he can't--something like--"  His voice dropped to a whisper,
though no one else was there to hear it.  "Marissa, you don't think Chuck would get involved with
something illegal, do you?"

Surprised that Gary would even consider that possibility, she shook her head in denial.  "I don't think so.
He's impulsive, but he's not stupid. Not that stupid, anyway," she added with a faint grin.

"Let's hope not."  Gary gulped down his coffee, and his mug clinked against the metal table top.  "Look,
I have to go.  I'm going to take the van today.  Nobody'll need it, right?"

"Not as far as I know."

"I was going to take a cab, but I'm short on cash this week and petty cash was empty when I checked it
earlier."

"Empty? There were over two hundred dollars in there last week."  Marissa tapped a finger on the rim of
her mug, puzzling.  "Must have been a lot of little emergencies."

"Yeah, well, it probably all went to Zimmerman's," Gary told her, referring to the discount liquor store
around the corner.  "Since the inventory didn't get done, we kept running out of stock."

"But Chuck said he'd take care of that.  Okay, I'll try to get that brought up to date today, too."

"Well, get Crumb or Robin to help you.  You shouldn't have to do it all.  And, uh..."  She heard the keys
jingle in his hand.  "Maybe I'll run over to Chuck's place if I get a chance, make sure he's okay.  If he
comes in, try to keep him here until I get back, or at least see if you can figure out what's going on."

"Sure.  Be careful, Gary."

"Bye."

Marissa waited until the back door clicked shut, then let out a little sigh.  Gary was going to be running
all day, and if Chuck remained AWOL she wouldn't have much time to deal with record keeping.  That,
however, was hardly important, not if something really was wrong with Chuck.  She refilled her cup and
headed for the office.  If she hurried, she could get some work done before the staff came in.
 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~
 

Moves like a fist through the traffic
Anger and no one can heal it
Shoves a little bump into the momentum
It's just a little lump, but you feel it
In the creases and the shadows
      ~ Paul Simon
 

The apartment building in which Chuck lived, a high-rise, high-security affair in the Gold Coast,
required a buzz-through from a resident or clearance from the security guard to pass from the main
lobby to the bank of elevators.  Chuck's lack of response to the summons and Gary's current appearance
were making obtaining either one of those difficult in the extreme.

For the third time, Gary pushed the button on the lobby intercom, a polished brass affair set into the
green marble wall.  Tapping his foot impatiently, he spoke into the box. "Chuck!  C'mon buddy, you
home?"  He snuck a glance at the uniformed guard who sat at a massive cherry desk in front of the
elevators.  Any second now the guy would decide it was time to remove this loud, mud-spattered
stranger from the building.

Well, it wasn't Gary's fault that it had rained all day.  It wasn't his fault that the playground where
Michael Tourissini would have fallen from the top of the slide, the construction site where Nancy
Hardbine would had have lost her foot to an out-of-control jackhammer, and the vacant lot where Stevie
Yep would have been pummeled within an inch of his life by a gang of fifth-grade bullies were all
several inches deep in cold March slop.

His fault or not, his appearance wasn't endearing him to the guard, and he sure as hell would have liked
to get out of his damp clothes and into a hot shower.  Right now, though, finding his friend took
precedence over such niceties.  After he'd escorted Stevie safely home, the Yeps had let Gary use their
phone to call McGinty's.  Chuck wasn't there; hadn't been in at all.  The worry laced through Marissa's
voice had been an echo of Gary's own.

"You're going over there, right?  You'll find him?"  He had only been able to promise her that he'd do
his best.

Which meant more than standing in a lobby talking to an unresponsive box.  Squaring his shoulders,
Gary strode over to the implacable guard, who raised one eyebrow at the Creature from the Black
Lagoon and waited for an explanation.

It took a lot of sincerity for Gary's pleas to reach through the muck.  Finally, after endless questions
about who he was, how he knew Chuck, and why he wanted in Chuck's apartment, Gary produced a
business card from McGinty's with both their names on it.  The guard called the building manager, who
finally agreed to escort Gary to the thirty-fifth floor and Chuck's apartment.

Slouched against the wood-paneled walls of the elevator, the manager pushed his hands down into the
pockets of his khakis.  He watched Gary narrowly, head tilted to one side.  "You check up on your
friends a lot?"

"Nope."

"Hm."  Mouth partially open, the short, stocky man rolled his gum from one cheek to the other, shifting
his gaze to the floor.  That was just fine with Gary, who didn't appreciate being made to feel like a
suspect, like a criminal, just because he was concerned about a friend.  If only Chuck had given him a
spare key...but there never had been a need.  The two friends spent most of their time together working
at the bar or running around doing the paper's bidding.

Finally, the elevator stopped and the doors slid open.  Gary had to control himself to keep from
breaking into a run to Chuck's apartment, five doors down.  He tried telling himself that if something
really awful had happened, it would have been in the paper.  That helped.

At least, it did until he saw that the door to Chuck's apartment was standing slightly ajar.  Then his
mouth went dry.  Oh, shit.  Gary's eyes widened and he looked at the manager, who shrugged.

"Nobody's allowed up here except residents and their guests.  He probably just left it open."

Yeah, right.  "Chuck?" Gary called through the crack between the door and its frame, but there was no
answer.  He used his elbow to push the door open, and caught his breath at what he saw inside.

The manager whistled.  He stood just behind Gary in the doorway, arms akimbo.  "What a slob."

"Chuck's not a slob," Gary muttered, stepping around the overturned stools from the breakfast bar, open
CD cases, and scattered magazines.  The cushions of Chuck's oversized leather armchairs were lying on
the floor as well.  "Not this kind of slob, anyway."

The manager's eyes narrowed under bushy grey brows.  "What are you saying?"

"Someone did this," Gary said quietly, surveying the damage while a pit opened in his stomach.  He had
the overwhelming urge to pull out the paper and check it again, cover to cover, but not in front of this
man.  Besides, he'd already done that half a dozen times this afternoon.  "Something happened."

"It couldn't have, I'm telling you, our security system--"

"Didn't work," Gary finished.  His voice, low and quiet, sounded as if it was coming from someone else.
Gary took a few tentative steps through the foyer and into the main living area.

"Chuck?"  Heart pounding, he checked the bedroom, the bathroom, even the linen closet, but there was
no sign of anyone, just more mess.  All of Chuck's possessions appeared to be in the apartment, at least
as near as Gary could tell--but they weren't in the greatest shape.  A spiderweb crack bloomed across the
big-screen TV; the stereo receiver was upside-down on the floor, wires trailing off to nowhere; and the
computer keyboard dangled off the desk, while the monitor lay in the opposite corner of the living
room.  It didn't look like a robbery, it just looked like a mess.  Gary stood in the midst of it, turning a
slow circle in the living room, one hand rubbing the back of his neck as he tried to figure out what had
happened.  "Where could he be?"

"Try the kitchen," suggested the manager.  He leaned against the door frame, watching the scene with
interest but not concern.  "I saw this movie once where they killed a guy and stuffed him in his own
refrigerator."

His hand dropping back to his side, Gary stared at the man for a long moment.

"They had to chop off his legs to make him fit, though."

Unbelievable--but Gary caught himself looking at the refrigerator anyway.  He shook off the thought
before asking, "You wanna call the police or something, and make yourself useful?"

"Nope."  Extracting another piece of gum from his pocket, the manager unwrapped it and added it to
the wad in his cheek with an offhanded shrug.  "Doesn't look like anything's been stolen.  The lock
wasn't broken, and there ain't no body, so as far as I can tell, this is just a case of a guy who tore his
apartment up lookin' for his keys or his little black book or something, and forgot to close the door on
his way out."

"But--"  Surveying the chaos with a growing sense of helplessness, Gary fought the urge to shake the
smaller man out of his complacency.

"Look, you wanna call the cops, go ahead, but they'll tell you the same thing.  They don't have time to
mess with this unless there's some proof of foul play."  The manager nodded toward the hallway.  "Let's
go."

There was plenty proof as far as Gary was concerned.  Chuck took too much pride in his possessions to
do this.  He needed to check around some more, needed to see if there was any clue.

He needed to find Chuck.

"Look, I'll let myself out, okay?"

The manager shrugged again, and again Gary wondered what it would take to rouse the man into
action.  "Suit yourself."

Hoping that someone might have noticed something unusual, Gary decided to question the neighbors.
The few who were home didn't recall anything out of the ordinary, and none could remember seeing
Chuck in the past day or so.  The closest he could get was that Mrs. Hennessy, two doors down, had
asked Chuck to keep the noise under control when he "had those rowdy friends of his over to watch the
basketball game last week."  Gary thanked her, but frowned as he turned away.  He knew he hadn't
been invited to watch the game at Chuck's.  Not that Chuck didn't have other friends, but still...

Returning to the apartment, Gary looked around one more time, but couldn't find anything that would
explain the disarray.  He finally located the cordless phone behind the television, resting next to the
football that Joe Damski had autographed for Chuck at Gary's behest.  Trying not to let his hopes get
too high, or his fears sink too low, he dialed the bar.

Crumb picked up on the first ring.  "McGinty's."  In the background Gary could hear the television,
cheers, and clinking glassware.

"Crumb?  Hi, yeah, it's me.  Look, uh, Chuck's not there right now, is he?"

"Fishman?  Haven't seen him in days.  Where is the little weasel, anyway?  For that matter, where are
you?  We could really use some help tonight, you know."

Damn.  "I know, I'm sorry.  Is Marissa free?"

There was a moment of hesitation, then Crumb asked, "What's going on?  Fishman in some sort of
trouble?"

Gary considered telling Crumb what little he knew, but then he recalled his conversation with Marissa
that morning.  If Chuck had done something incredibly stupid and illegal, Crumb would be obligated to
report it, wouldn't he?  Better to keep this quiet for as long as possible.

"No, he's--well, I don't know," he answered honestly.  "I just need to talk to Marissa, okay?"

"She's in the kitchen, hold on."

"Thanks."  Gary knew Crumb was shrugging, his usual response when they wouldn't let him in on the
action.  He also knew that the ex-cop's expertise might be helpful, but for the moment his loyalty to
Chuck took precedence .

It was a few minutes before Marissa picked up the line, and when she did she sounded breathless.
"Gary?  Did you find Chuck?  When are you coming back?  The Bulls are playing the Pacers and there's
a Cubs exhibition game later.  We're already swamped."

"I'm don't know when I'll be back."  He scanned the collection of Chuck's belongings strewn over the
floor, like--like a warning, a message, but from whom?  "I'm at Chuck's apartment, and I think
something's wrong.  Really wrong."

The annoyance in her voice was replaced with concern.  "With Chuck?  He's not there?"

"Yeah.  I mean, no, he's not here.  His apartment's trashed, and nobody's seen him here all day."

There was a split second of silence while she digested this.  "Trashed?"

"His stuff is scattered to kingdom come; nothing's gone, but nothing's where it should be, either."  Gary
righted the stools and sat down on one.

"Are you sure he didn't do it himself?  Maybe he was just having a bad morning."  Marissa's voice had
dropped to a near-whisper, slipping under the sound of clattering pans.

"I don't think so.  His apartment was unlocked and there's stuff--"  Through the bedroom doorway, Gary
could see a jumble of clothing, ties, underwear, and videotapes strewn atop the waterbed; Chuck's
favorite Armani suit lay crumpled on the floor.  "Well, let's just say Chuck wouldn't make this kind of a
mess."

"What could have happened?"

Good question.  "I don't know, Marissa, I just don't know."

"Well, what are--yes, Tony, I'll be right there--"  Her voice snapped with impatience as she spoke to the
cook.

"Everything all right?"

Marissa hesitated briefly, but her response was decisive.  "Yes.  I can handle this.  You need to look for
Chuck.  You don't think he's left town, do you?"

"I don't know.  I mean, where would he go? If he's in some kind of trouble, I figure he'd come to us
before his parents."

"Really?"

"You don't know his parents."  Gary paused, trying to decide what to do next.  "I guess I'll try some of his
other friends, see if they know anything--as long as you'll be okay."

"Go.  Find him.  I'll take care of things here."

"Thanks."

"Gary, wait."  Her voice was even quieter than before.  "Chuck's not in the paper, is he?"

"No," he assured her.  "That was the first thing I checked.  I've been checking it all day long.  There's
nothing, not even a John Doe that might be him."

She let out a long breath.  "I guess that's a good sign."

"I guess," Gary admitted, though he wasn't at all sure.  "It'd be nice to have a real clue, though."

He heard a crash in the background, and Marissa sighed again.  "I'd better go, Gary.  Please keep in
touch."

"I'll let you know if I find anything."  The line clicked dead, and Gary shut off the phone.  He was about
to set it on the breakfast bar, so that at least one thing would be where it belonged if--no, when--Chuck
returned, when a thought struck him.  He hit the redial button and heard four rings, then, "This is
Gary.  Thanks for calling; you can leave a message, or try me down at McGinty's..."

Chuck hadn't called Gary in...well, Gary couldn't remember the last time Chuck had called him.  He
entered the key code that gave him remote access to his answering machine, but there were no
messages.  So either Chuck hadn't used his phone in weeks, or he'd tried to call Gary and decided not to
leave a message.

Messages...A few minutes of searching produced Chuck's own answering machine from its new home
under the entertainment center.  Luckily, the tape hadn't broken, and the message light flashed "4".
Gary hesitated for only half a second before he hit "play".

"Hi, Chuckie, it's Tabitha.  Just a reminder that the condo in Jamaica we talked about is available next
month.  Give me a call if you still want to go, okay sweetie?  Bye!"

"Chuck?  It's me.  Look, buddy, when you come to work this afternoon, will you pick up a case of vodka?
The supply truck won't be in until Monday and Crumb says we need more..."   Gary fast-forwarded
through his own message, which was two days old.

"Fishman.  You're overdue."  The voice, masculine, gruff, and thick with a Chicago accent, didn't sound
at all like a librarian.  "You know the drill."

That was it.  Overdue on what?  What drill?  Who was that guy, anyway?  Gary looked around the room,
wishing the answers would come to him, but none did, and the final message summed up his own
feelings.

"This is Marissa--Chuck, is everything okay?  We're worried about you, please call if you get this..."
 

Continued on Page 2

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