Marlene South left Sisters of Serenity as though shot from a cannon. Five years of uniforms, religion-laced academics and strict curfews had pushed her to the very extremes of her limited patience and she would attend further institutions of education over her dead body only. Acting was her goal. Hours of secretly studying at the school of TV soap operas filled Marlene with a confidence borne of naiveté. With a cruel disdain for gratitude, she blew her parents off, packed a bag and headed for the theatre's bright lights—any theatre.

In less than the blink of an eye, Marlene discovered that her talent was non-existent and in a very short time she found herself earning less than a living, writhing about a well-used pole in a dingy, smoky club called Rumps. Between the mandatory salary, necessary to keep the licensing and the tax people satisfied, and meager tips, she soon realized that things had to change. One particular denizen of Rumps attached himself to Marlene through copious but stingy contributions at each of her performances and on one particular night, when a violent thunderstorm sent floods roaring through the streets, he was the only customer the club could boast.

A brief explanation of the gift horse adage by her boss found Marlene sharing a booth and a watered down drink with her erstwhile admirer. As it turned out, the customer ran a small travel agency called Fly Away Today, which coincidentally needed another sales person. With the incentive of more money on a regular basis, Marlene accepted the offer and the obvious reason behind it and became the new sales representative for Fly Away Today.

Within two years, word of mouth brought Marlene's talent for setting up and selling vacations, to the ear of a major agency that dealt only in corporate vacations and in the time it used to take for her to writhe once around the pole at Rumps, she kissed Fly Away Today and her blubbering employer goodbye. Success followed Marlene in her chosen career, making her the first choice of corporations to plan and execute their conventions, holidays and confidential getaways. That was how she met Carleton Trasker.

*****

"WOT THE HELL—" Elora George rose from behind her crap table-sized desk and in a few solid strides, crossed the large office and snatched open the carved mahogany door. "BOORLAND! Get yure wee ass in here p-r-r-r-ronto!" She spun on spindly heels and marched back to her chair, plopping down and crossing her brown, muscled legs.

"Miss George, you ca—"

"Close that door, Boorland."

He did, and approached the massive desk tentatively. "You, uh- called, Miss George?"

"Aye, I did. Is this yure memo I find soiling my in basket then?" She sailed the piece of paper toward him.

Hoyt swallowed a grin. It was always all he could do when faced with the Amazon-sized, caramel-coloured Elora George incongruously speaking with a Scottish brogue. "M-memo?" He lifted the paper to his owlish glasses and nodded. "Yes, ma'am, it is."

"I di' nae recall requesting information on this subject, Boorland. Did I ask for something? Were you tasked wi' bringing me updates then?" Her dark eyes flashed ominously.

"Uh not specifically, ma'am. Mister Ditchburn asked me to archive some files that had been hanging around untouched, I happened to have the Trasker file up when he came by and he asked about it."

"Wot exactly did he ask, Boorland?"

"He wanted to know about any information I'd discovered."

"Aboot the young man one of yure sairches turned up?"

"Yes. He expressed an interest and told me just to update it and archive it."

"Did he now, and what exactly were his instructions?"

"When I told him that updates required a data base entry and an automatic memo to senior management he uh- told me to follow the rules..."

"But?" Elora leaned several pounds of linen, suit-covered breasts on the edge of her desk.

"Uhm- but not too make a big deal out of it." Hoyte dropped the memo on the desk and carefully flattened out the wrinkles.

"Well my wee friend, how do we account for this then?" He snatched his fingers back as she cracked a foot-long letter opener on the offending memo, shrugged uncomfortably and winced a smile. "This is a big deal, Boorland."

"I just followed the rules, ma'am." He backed toward the door. "Can I go now?"

*****

Chris Ditchburn cursed and tried for the umpteenth time to get his tie the right length. The office door flew open and the ornate mirror hanging on the back smacked him square on the nose.

"Arrrgh, Jesus!" He stumbled back and fell onto the cream leather sofa, leaving a thin streak of blood across the seat cushion.

"We've nae time for games, Christopher and yure makin' a mess o' the furnishings." Elora slammed the door and shook the memo in a raised fist. "Boorland tells me yew asked for an update on the Trasker file."

"Mmph, my dose, I thingk it broken."

Elora leaned down and slapped his hand away, grabbing his proboscis and giving it a mean tweak.

"ARRRghhh! Jesus, Elora wha—" He sat up suddenly, feeling tenderly about his face. "Hey! It doesn't hurt any more." A final drop of blood skittered down his tie, settling in the fold where it rested on his pants. He stood and looked in the mirror. "Jesus! It's bent!"

"The Trasker file, Christopher." She pointed deliberately to the mark on the sofa. "Yew'll be payin' for that yurself."

He accepted the sheet and read it carefully, dabbing at his nose. "I never told him to work on the file... I mean not to actually do anything. He found some new information and I told him to add it to the file. It was to keep him out of my hair. Jesus, Boorland is a munch, I was told he gets all these crap cases from everybody." Elora slowly placed her hands on her broad hips. "C'mon Elora, just ignore it."

"Are yew aware, Christopher, all memos are automatically copied tae the company database with attachments directed tae each partner every month? Of course yew air, Boorland told yew!" She raised one fist to the ceiling and Christopher cringed, covering his nose.

"What's the big deal?"

"This particular file has a very bad history that we'd prefair to leave undisturbed."

"Fine. I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

"See that it doesn't, Christopher."

*****

Walter Jaeger stroked his military moustache pensively as he studied his computer screen. As senior partner of JGD&S, he liked to spend several minutes each morning perusing the memo files of the company members before checking his stock portfolio and his list of appointments from his secretary. This morning the memo flickering on his screen left Walter watery-kneed and slightly bilious. Walter's personal financial success was his sole purpose for being in business. There was nothing selfless in his approach when taking steps to achieve that end and when his company inherited the still open but mainly forgotten file for the Trasker trust, he saw it as right at the top of those steps.

With the aid of his lawyer partner, Elora George, he began a campaign of exploring investments they might make in the market with an eye to reaping huge profits. Her role, in exchange for a share of the anticipated profits, was to assess a suitable portfolio in which they would invest seed money of their own, backed by the capital in the trust, and to ensure the activity remained confidential. Walter's job was to plan for the secret transfer of money as needed.

A suitable block of stocks was identified and the money was advanced on margin. Anticipating a surge in that particular area of the market, Walter made his plans to move money from the trust. As profits increased the money would be paid back. With the absence of a legitimate claim against it, the trust had lain dormant for years, the perfect source of emergency funds. Nobody even remembered it any more—or so Walter had thought. The very day he made the first transfer to their private account he'd powered up his laptop and viewed the memo. A frightening vision of his future swirled before his eyes and he uttered aloud an alarmed beep. He punched his intercom and asked that Elora George be paged to his office.

Walter swiveled slowly around in his chair to face the spectacular cityscape, usually a satisfyingly calm vista enjoyed from his thirtieth floor office—but not today.

"Good morning, Walter." Elora slipped into the huge office and clamped the door shut behind her. "I know wot yure concerned about," she said, waving her hard copy in his direction. "Our new partner assigned young Boorland the file wi' his usual expectation—nothing. Unfortunately, our young intern applied himself and unearthed a wee bit o' unsettling information, requiring an update and an automatic memo."

Walter kneaded his temples and looked up as if in pain. "Who is this young man he's found?"

"No idea, but the file's archived now so it doesn't matter."

"Hell, Elora, all the senior management and board members will see this!" He pointed to his computer screen. "This cannot be allowed to go any further. You know what we've planned with the Trasker trust. If this file is reopened we could- we could be..." He tilted his head back and sucked in an enormous lungful of air, expelling it with a long, wailing whine.

"Walter, calm yurself now. 'Tis but a wee setback, we'll bury it all again just as we did before. But for now the money should gae back."

"And this Boorland? What if he—"

"Nae, nae. Young Boorland won't be sniffin' around this file anymore... and nor will Christopher," she chuckled privately.

"See to it, Elora. Don't forget where your neck is in all this."

She folded the memo and leaned across the desk, tucking into Walter's breast pocket. "I di' nae take kindly to threats, Walter. Consider just who the senior partner here is, I'm simply following orders."

Walter rose from his chair to his full six feet four inches and, resting on his knuckles, leaned across the desk almost bumping noses with his partner. "I'm well aware who the senior partner is, Elora, and also who made all the initial stock arrangements. You would be well disposed to remember that as senior partner, I will issue threats if I feel the situation calls for them. Do you understand?" The question caused a tiny burst of spittle to stain the front of Elora's cream linen suit.

They both straightened up and Walter continued with one hand in the universally recognized stop position. "You will get that fag, whatshisname...Wiggens. Get him on this and you will stay on top of it until any reference to the facts in this memo are buried—deep. Am I clear, Elora? Partner?"

The office door closed quietly behind her as she left, shoulders squared, jaw clenched and a stream of invective hissing from between her teeth.

*****

"I don't mind telling you, Wilfred, I was scared. I thought she was going to fire me on the spot."

"But she didn't, did she, Hoyte. No. Of course not. So then, do you think they swallowed the bait?"

"Well if they didn't swallow it they're sure chewing it over. Frankly, I think they're gagging. The partners are stomping around yelling at one another; C actually smashed D on the nose. Word was, she broke it."

"My, my, what did your little memo actually say, Hoyte old boy?"

"I just wrote that the record of a young man with statistics closely resembling those of the missing heir turned up in one of our random data searches."

"That's it?"

"That's all it took. All internal memos are automatically recorded into the company database and password protected by the auditors and board members. They are reviewed on a regular basis."

"Ahah, so it can't be swept under the carpet then. Very good Mister Boorland. Keep me posted as to any developments." Wilfred rang off, nodding his head in satisfaction.

"Well, Wilfred," Jeantrine called from the bedroom, "did your little ploy work?"

"As they say, my dear, we have lift off."

"Oh goodie! I'm waiting."

"Amusing, Jeantrine. Very amusing." He gathered up his dressing gown and padded toward her throaty chuckling.

*****

Chris Ditchburn pulled up the archived file for Trasker and sat reading all the information very carefully. His eyebrows rose as he read the sum it represented and the fact that it was suspended in limbo by the court until the legal heir could be established. He read the update by Hoyte about the young man possessing uncannily similar statistics to those of the missing heir and his interest slid up a notch. He touched his nose and frowned angrily; the bend was more than noticeable, it was downright prominent. The doctor had told him it would require some serious surgery to correct, if possible at all, and that he should consider perhaps just leaving it.

Not an auspicious beginning for a new partner.

*****

When the telephone rang Terry was already halfway out the door and he hummed and hawed just long enough for the answering machine to kick in. The voice was the one he'd dreaded hearing ever since he received the fax at work.

"Terry, Wilfred Graeme-Hughes here. Sorry I've missed you; hate chatting up these infernal machines. I'm free this evening for a get together if you can manage. Call me and let's set a time. He left his number and a few more sentiments then rang off. "Good then. Cheerio."

Terry slumped in defeat and slowly closed the door. Don't put it off. Get it over with, he thought. I'll call when I get to work.

The voice of the woman that answered the phone surprised Terry; somehow he didn't associate Wilfred Graeme-Hughes with anyone who emitted such a vocal sensuality. The enthusiastic greeting he recalled from his vacation—too bubbly and too familiar, interrupted his thoughts on the subject.

"Terry, at last! Pleased to see your machine alerted you to my message."

"Wilfred," Terry answered dully, "how are you?"

"Top drawer, old man. Top drawer. Listen, are you free for some dinner tonight? I'm at a simply smashing hotel with a five star dining room. My treat, what say you, we'll catch up on old times?"

Terry didn't hold out for too much of an evening considering the paucity of 'old times' they had shared, but a five star meal, now that was worth considering.

"Aah- sure, I guess, Wilfred. What time and where?"

"Splendid. Say seven at the Royal Oak Arms."

"The Royal Oak Arms! I can barely afford to say the name, he thought. "Uh, sure. Okay, seven it is. See you then."

"Can't wait, old chum. Ta-ta, then."

*****

Terry pushed through the etched glass revolving door and coasted to a slow halt, taking in the overwhelming opulence of the Royal Oak Arms lobby. The carpet pile was so thick he thought he might twist an ankle treading on it. A gold arrow, embossed on a piece of polished walnut, directed him to the Acorn Room, the hotel's dining room. Patterned broadloom swirled around the room, lapping gently at copper kick plates at the base of gleaming walnut banquettes, upholstered in Cobalt blue fabric. He smoothed the front of his, off-the-rack sports jacket and approached the matinee idol maitre d' who guided him through the room to a private booth on next to a blindingly white grand piano. Wilfred Graeme-Hughes flashed a brilliant smile and raised one hand reminiscent of the Queen waving to her subjects.

"Terry, you old devil, you haven't changed a bit. How are you, old man?" A firm shake of the hand pulled Terry down into the booth. "A little different from our digs on vacation, what?"

"Do you know how expensive this place is?" Terry asked, adjusting himself to the plush comfort of the booth.

"I should do, I'm staying in a suite upstairs." Wilfred looked away, beckoning to a waiter. "Let's celebrate with a drink first shall we, then we can play naughty with the menu after."

"I don't think—"

"Be a good chap and bring us a bottle of Gaja Barbaresco 2000, yes?" The waiter tilted an eyebrow and departed with a crisp bow.

"What is Gaga Barbarosa – whatever?"

"Gaja Barbaresco, old man. A truly stellar wine. A measuring stick you might say for all others."

"And over the moon in price I'll bet."

"Well," Wilfred drew the word out with an indulgent smile, "when celebrating old acquaintances, what's a few hundred pounds?"

"Jesus, Hughes!"

"Graeme-Hughes, old son. And I should keep my voice down if I were you. Profane outbursts are just not done in the Acorn Room." A delicate trilling intro to, Time on my Hands, cut off Terry's reply and he turned to see a pale blue spot settle on the creamy chocolate shoulders of the pianist. He used his forefinger to raise his lower lip that sagged at the visage. The room hushed as the lyrics flowed with throaty tones among the rapt diners. Silently, the waiter glided up to the table and skillfully uncorked the wine, pouring a small amount into a silver sampler hanging from a chain around his neck.

Wilfred swished and sloshed, nodding his approval and offering Terry a wink as their glasses turned a rich burgundy with the wine. The song ended to appreciative but polite applause; the spot faded and the woman continued noodling vague melodies in the background as the din of conversation picked up once again. Terry gulped a mouthful of the wine, pausing when he noticed Wilfred watching him with amusement.

"What?"

"This is truly an adventure for you, isn't it? Dining in a place like this, I mean?" He waved his hand about.

"Well it's not my usual haunt, that's for sure." He set his glass on the pale yellow cloth and cocked his head. "Tell me something. Why did you stay in that cramped little room with me when you could afford something like this?"

"Let's order first and then we'll chat."

A soup course, a salad course and a lavish entrée of lobster tails and succulent strip loin steaks filled, by the mouthful, each of Terry's attempts to question the bizarre tale Wilfred was spinning. Wine glasses refilled over and over, dishes swept away, replaced by still another compliment of the chef's artistry. The room became extremely warm as Terry, sated beyond possibility, gulped yet another mouthful of the bottomless wine in a failed attempt at relief. Wilfred's mouth opened and closed in slow motion, his words humming through Terry's dizzy head in an endless repetition of coaxing and persuading pulses. Just as he felt he was regaining control of his senses, a vision in white slipped into the booth next to him and, without his conscious compliance, accepted his hand in greeting.

"Jeantrine is the nightingale we enjoyed at the piano earlier." Wilfred's smile seemed to detach from his face and wrap itself around Terry's head.

"Huh?"

"My extreme pleasure, Terry." Liquid honey. Eyes like eggs sunny side up.

"Uh- how uh- Jea-what?"

"Jeantrine. Jeantrine Twilly. I'm an old friend of Willy here." A satin hand patted the back of his.

"I'm uh- I don't know- I think I need to use the washroom." He excused himself and stumbled to his feet, gratefully following Wilfred's guiding hand around the tables and out through the lobby to the men's room.

"Feeling better, old man?"

"I can't get my eyes to focus. Jesus what was in that wine?"

"Nothing but quantity, old son. You seemed to quite enjoy copious amounts of the devil grape." Wilfred laughed and handed Terry a strip of paper towel to dry his face.

He leaned on the marble counter and contemplated the fuzzy image in the mirror. "What was all that about inheritance and lawyers and- and..."

"Exactly as I said, chum. You can be our key to the Trasker fortune."

"Our?"

"Certainly. Yours, mine. Jeantrine's."

"Who?"

"Jeantrine. The woman who joined us just as you bolted for the men's room."

Terry hung his head and sighed. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about. I don't know what I'm talking about. I'm not even sure if it's me talking." He squeezed his temples and held the wet towel over his eyes.

"I think a pot of strong coffee will rearrange your head's furnishings. Are we up to a trip back to the table? Mustn't keep a lady waiting you know."