Terry sat up and regretted the move instantly. A large boulder rolled from the back of his head and smashed against the back of his eyes. Squinting, he sagged back against a soft cushion and concentrated on the fuzzy shape in front of him.

"Feeling better?" The voice was familiarly sultry.

"No."

"Ooh, poor Terry. Here sit up and have a sip of this." A soft hand curled around the back of his head, drawing it forward.

"I don't want—"

"There's a good boy. Swallow it down, don't dribble on that nice shirt now."

The warm liquid seemed to shock his system and his vision cleared as he coughed himself into a sitting position. "What was that? It tasted awful."

"Just one of Miss Twilly's mystery potions, Terry. No point asking; deep dark family secrets and the like. Nevertheless, quite amazing isn't it?"

Terry cleared his throat and sat straighter, eyeing the amused smile on the face of the woman opposite him. "It is indeed. You are Miss Twilly I take it." Jeantrine fluttered a slow lash and tilted her head in acknowledgement. "So, now that I seem to be able to think again, would someone please explain what's going on?"

Wilfred shoved a large footstool in front of Terry and sat down facing him while Jeantrine slipped onto the sofa beside him. "Twenty-eight years ago a young woman named Marlene South had a brief fling with an extremely wealthy man named Carleton Trasker. The liaison produced a surprise and, for the gentleman, an unwanted offspring, which suddenly became the sole heir to the gentleman's estate. Of course long and fierce legal battles ensued and Miss South, shrewdly and not a little fearfully, situated the baby with a foster family, keeping their location and identity secret from everyone involved while she continued the legal battle."

Jeantrine shifted on the sofa, her leg resting lightly against Terry's knee. "In a bizarre twist of fate, about five years ago, within a few years of one another, both the principals died, Trasker by a massive stroke or heart attack, and Marlene South in an automobile accident." Terry shifted his leg, drawing a slow smirk from Jeantrine. "Both sides had to fall back and regroup but without the actual, physical heir, the thrust went out of Marlene's case. They did manage to get a judgment, putting the claim on indefinite hold until all possible sources had been exhausted. This meant that the trust was locked until the judge ruled otherwise. Wide awareness of Carelton Trasker's reputation allowed the judge to make his ruling with a clear conscience."

Terry stared at Wilfred totally confused. "Why are you telling me this? What the hell do I care about some estate claim?"

A slender finger slid up behind his ear and twiddled his hair. "This is the best part, Terry, pay close attention." He flushed and brushed her hand away, although not harshly.

"We," Wilfred waggled a finger between Jeantrine and himself, "and a few other associates have done our own thorough investigation of this case and have put together very convincing, if not perfect, plan to gain control of the Trasker estate."

"This is the best part?"

"It's coming, Terry." The finger returned.

"I won't bore you with all the details, but we have managed to introduce credible evidence of the existence of Marlene South's baby into the midst of Trasker's legal department, which in turn has reawakened the claim and, if you'll pardon the French, scared the shit out of them."

"I couldn't be happier for you, I guess. But I still don't see—"

Wilfred leaned closer, eyes shining brightly. "You, Terry my boy, are that new evidence." Jeantrine snuggled closer and Terry felt his pores open in a sweat of panic.

"Wha- are you nuts?" He tried to push himself up but his hand landed on a firm, silk covered thigh and ahead was Wilfred's wildly beaming face.

"Let me finish, old boy. You will soon see the merit in this proposal." He rocked back, slapping his hands on his legs with enthusiasm.

"Look- don't bother finishing anything. I'm outta here. You are both—"

"Going to be filthy rich, as are you, Terry." Jeantrine breathed in his ear and crowded closer, her free hand pinning his to her thigh.

"It's perfect, my old son. You are the right age. You came from a foster home. You even bear a similar resemblance to Marlene South and you are an upstanding, honest, hard working member of society."

"Goddamn right I'm honest! Too honest to get mixed up with a pair of loonies like you."

"Terry, Terry. Calm down and listen. You don't have to lie or anything. Just don't deny."

"Deny what? What am I denying? And do you mind giving me a little room?"

Jeantrine moved to the far end of the sofa and drew her legs up, watching him.

"When the questions start coming just answer them honestly. You didn't know your real mom. You were raised by a foster couple." Wilfred spread his hands implying the simplicity of it all. "It wouldn't hurt to hint that you heard your mom died accidentally somehow—"

"You bastard! You've been scouting me for this since Europe, haven't you?"

"I think Terry's a little tired and upset." Jeantrine stood in one graceful motion and stood beside Wilfred. "Why not call it a night and we can get together again tomorrow. Cooler heads and all."

"Brilliant, my dear. What say, Terry, lunch tomorrow or perhaps dinner again?"

"In your dreams." He lurched up from the sofa, grabbed at the sudden searing pain in his head and blundered out the door.

"Right then. I think that went rather well, don't you Jeantrine?"

"Sure honey, whatever you say."

******

Elora closed her laptop and stood up from her desk. Outside a brisk wind was tossing litter about on the street below and people were hurrying from doorway to doorway anticipating the pending rain. Dark clouds matching her mood drifted across the top of the city, morphing from ships to faces to dragons. She smoothed her skirt, reset her collar and strode out of the office looking every bit the confident, no-nonsense manager.

"Actually, I'm busy, Elora." Chris Ditchburn hurried behind his desk and grabbed a few sheets of paper.

"As a good partner should be, Christopher. How's yer honker meanwhile?" Elora closed the door and leaned against it.

His fingers darted to the bandage on his nose. "Fortunately, it's not so broken that I can't still breathe." He sulked, seeing she wasn't about to leave. "What do you want, Elora?"

"Tell me why young Boorland was gi'n that Trasker file."

"He gets all those cold cases to dispose of according to the secretaries. I told you that."

"So why then do yew suppose he looked into this one?"

"Who knows? Bored. Curious. Just trying to do a good job. That would be grounds for dismissal, wouldn't it?"

"Sarcasm is nae a good tack to be takin', Christopher. It so happens that the Trasker trust has been, shall we say, growing over the years, and it represents a tidy sum to be used in our tax strategy, and if yew breath a word o' that, Christopher, it'll be yer last."

"What! You mean we've been steal—"

"Shall I kill you now? Here?"

He slumped down into his chair and gaped at his partner, speechless.

"If yew kin find the time, Christopher, it would behoove yew to make certain young Boorland quits his little fishin' expedition and sends no more memos."

"Jesus, what are you gonna do? Does Walter know?"

Elora gave him a pitying look and closed her eyes for a moment. "How do yew want to die, Christopher?" She said, finally, her eyes opening like missile silos.

*****

"So that's how this works," Chris thought, with a smile, after Elora left. "The memo scared the shit out of them because they've been dipping into the trust for personal reasons." He stopped talking aloud and booted up the file once again, checking the balances over the past years and finding that only one transfer of funds had been made and returned... all just recently.

He scrolled down to the current balance and his mouth dried as he read the figures.

*****

Walter looked up eagerly as Elora entered his office, watching as she made her way to the leather settee alongside his desk and sat comfortably. He punched the button and ordered his secretary to put off his morning appointment until the next day and not disturb him until further notice then stood as he took his phone off the hook. Walter joined her on the settee, taking a fatherly position next to her.

"What do you have to report?"

"I've taken steps to assure our Mr. Boorland will nae be pokin' around in the trust file."

"So the money is back safely?"

"I'd hold off celebraitin' a wee bit yet, just until we make sairtain young Hoyte follows arders."

"I know I've saddled you with all the leg work in this and I don't want you to hold it against me, Elora... it's just that to see our arrangement through to a mutually successful finish we must make sacrifices."

"You leave me wee little choice, Walter. I don't see an option." Other than making some specific moves to cover my sweet ass. She stood, straightening her dress and gave him a cold look. "Walter," she said, flicking a nail under his tie, "yew won't go and do anything silly, will ye?"

"Of course not. What about Wiggens?"

"I'm seeing him shortly."

*****

After a restless night of dreaming and tossing, Terry dragged himself out of the tangle of damp sheets and stumbled to the bathroom, picking a stubborn crust of sleep from the corner of his eye. The fluorescent sink light blazed on and he leaned on the counter until he could focus his squint into the mirror at the sorry sight reflected. Stiff, bent hair, puffy eyes, and a tongue like curdled fat. Certainly not an image one would choose to present to the world. Twenty unenthusiastic minutes later a more familiar face stared back critically; minimal nicks from the so-called safety razor, hair less than more of a fright wig, and a tongue freshly scrubbed along with the teeth.

Although it still hurt to think, he replayed what he could remember of the previous night's events, waffling between a smouldering rage and an unbidden curiosity. Back in the bedroom, he kicked off the boxers worn as pyjamas and dug a fresh pair from the dresser drawer, pulling them on with a grunt. Wilfred's proposition popped into his head again giving him pause. Standing in the middle of the bedroom, staring dolefully out the window, Terry reflected on his current state of affairs. Time was steaming past without pause; nothing earth shaking was shaping his life, no grand milestones save birthdays, accumulating at an alarming rate—not even the fabled fifteen-minute spotlight. Why was he dwelling on this now? The boxers? 'Jesus Terry, you're pathetic'.

Arguing against his funk, he finished dressing. Not much of an improvement there. A pair of wrinkled beige Dockers from a hook on the bedroom door and a pale green golf shirt, worn only once the week before. Buoyed sufficiently to think of food, he padded barefoot out to the kitchen, grabbing a frozen bagel from the freezer and nuking it to a doughy softness in the microwave. A combination kitchen, dining cum living room defined the parameters of his world, and he gloomily sat there with a small glass of grapefruit juice, eating the mushy bagel.

Wilfred's plan played through his head with a little more clarity and in the stark light of day Terry could actually see a thrilling merit in the plan. He chewed thoughtfully and then concentrated on exactly what he had been told. Obviously his role would be vital in getting the trust and he would personally be the one receiving the key or whatever, to the account. He mused about that and then made a call to his friend Fred at work.

Fred had provided the right answers to terry's questions and they ended their conversation on a very positive note. Terry went back to his breakfast and when his phone rang, he had to quickly wash down a mouthful of the gummy mess before he could answer.

"Yeth?"

"Terry?"

"Yes, who's this?"

"Jeantrine Twilly, Wilfred's friend."

"I know that. What do you want?"

"Id like to know if I could meet you someplace or maybe come over there; I would like to talk."

"If it's more of the same from last night, the answer's no. You and your friend, Wilfred are a pair of crazies."

"Terry, if you would just give me a chance to explain properly you'll see that we are not so crazy after all." The voice came down the wire like medium emery on a satin pillow. Terry squirmed on the hard kitchen chair, tonguing clumps of bagel from his gums. "I'm just asking for a short meeting."

He deflated, clenching his back teeth. "Where do you want to—?"

"There's a small coffee shop near our hotel, The Daily Grind, do you know it?"

"I'll find it. When?"

"Could we do it now, Terry? Please?" Another slither of satin.

"Half an hour." His voice was thick with regret.

"Thanks Terry, you won't be sorry, I promise."

He gave the rest of his bagel a contemplative look and tossed it in the sink. This should be interesting.

*****

They carried their coffees to a table for four by the window and sat across from one another next to the glass. Terry broke a packet of sugar into his and half a creamer, stirring with the plastic stick offered by the shop. Jeantrine took hers black and he wondered if that was significant. Meeting her turned out to be easier than he'd expected; she was relaxed, friendly and extremely easy on the eyes. Terry glanced around, massaging his ego. It seemed to him that when black women were beautiful, they were exceptionally beautiful.

"Are you nervous about something?"

He blushed and she watched him with a frown as he slurped a mouthful of the steaming liquid.

"Jesus, that's hot!" He avoided her question.

She picked up her own cup and tried a sip, setting it down and pushing it away. "Terry, Wilfred has been working on this for so long he's lost touch with the realities of his plan. He just sees everything happening exactly as he projected." The intensity of his stare made her blink and sit back. "Terry?"

"Huh? Uh, yeah. Reality, Wilfred's lost touch with reality." Lost in the dark universe of her eyes, Terry had felt some of his own reality slipping.

"That's not what I meant. Are you alright?"

"Actually, no. I- I- I think I need some air." He excused himself and semi staggered out of the coffee shop.

He leaned on the wall of the shop and took deep breaths, filling his lungs until they hurt. The hand on his back made him jump and he blew out his hoard of air with a loud whoosh.

"What happened in there? Are you sick? Was the coffee bad?" Jeantrine was holding him around the waist and pouring concern onto him like warm sauce. His recovery was set back considerably as she clutched him tighter with worry.

"I don't know what- I'm okay now I think." He eased himself from her grip and leaned his back against the cool brick. He stared at the yellow eyes surrounded by pure, unblemished whites and felt himself slipping again. "I guess we should pay for—"

"That's all taken care of." She stepped closer and took his hand. The heat crept up his arm and he worried it would cook his skin. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"No."

"That settles it." She took his arm and steered him back down the street to her hotel.

*****

Darcy Wiggens grinned like the Joker when Elora entered his office. He tipped the stained Panama forward and hitched his trousers, sliding his hands into his pockets and rocking on the balls of his feet. His long association with her company had afforded him many financially successful opportunities and as a result, he was under contract to her firm.

"Welcome, welcome, Miss George. To what do I owe—?"

"Your job? To me if yew don't ditch that lame excuse for a hat."

"I didn't mean my job." He lifted the hat from his head along with several wispy strands of hair that danced for a second before collapsing back onto his thinning scalp.

"Do yew know, Hoyte Boorland?"

"In archives?"

"Aye," she wandered over to the cluttered desk, shoved a heap of files aside, and perched on the edge. "I want you to do a wee little background on Mr. Boorland."

"Wasn't he vetted before hiring? I mean, he's been with you a long time now."

"Would I be here," she cast a disdainful eye about the room, "if what I wanted was already on file?"

"Do you have a file number and an authorized requisition?" He asked, smarting from her opening remarks.

"I just said I wanted this done. Will that be posin' a problem, Darcy?" She handed him a folded piece of paper. "That's my private cell number. Yew can be callin' me when yew have something report... and make it soon, Darcy." She stood and tugged her jacket down. Darcy's tongue hung over his chin like a dog's.

"I am looking- am I looking for anything special?" he pivoted slowly as she walked past to the door.

"My gratitude." She tossed him a free smile and left.

Darcy Wiggens hurried to his desk and opened a new file, labeling it, Boorland, Hoyte and in parentheses, Elora George. Inside he put the piece of paper with her phone number and, grinning luridly, hooked a thumb in his suspender. Darcy reveled in being around women like Elora George.