Noir Reunion by Johnny Ostentatious

2003

CHAPTER 1

Chase Kilbey was not what a casting director would call marketable. First off, he was thirty-seven years old—a relic in the eyes of Hollywood. Not to mention, he had a receding hairline that underscored his huge forehead. Plus, he had a mole on his left ear, which never failed to mesmerize the attention of passers-by. Despite all of this, his face radiated an inner strength that caused most people to warm to him instantly. Of course, his cobalt eyes might have had something to do with that.

Currently, Chase sat in his boss’ office. His boss, Pierce Price, was on the phone, scolding a salesman.

“I don’t care,” Price bellowed into the mouthpiece. “We had a verbal agreement. When he buys six hundred units of Oprah Experiencing an Orgasm, then, and only then, does he get fifteen percent off the list price. Don’t let him lowball you. You—What’s that? No, you were going to say something. What was it? Say it. Go ’head. I’m listening. Uh-huh…uh-huh…yeah. You finished? Good. Now listen to me, don’t turtle on this deal. Play hardball. I know this guy’s type. If you give him an inch, he’ll grab the whole freakin’ yardstick. Be a man! Stick to your guns. If this asshole starts seriously backing out of the deal, simply lie and tell him we have a low profit margin on it. Say something like we’re eating most of the shipping on this, so we can’t budge on the price. If that doesn’t work, try another tact. Use your imagination. Whatever you do, don’t come back here until you sell those six hundred units for fifteen off list. If you come back with anything less, you’re on the street.”

Chase yawned. This was about as exciting as a 1990’s John Hughes movie. The banter went on for a couple more minutes, Price ending each sentence with a finger jabbing the air, as if the caller could see him.

To pass time, Chase stared out the window. It was a sunny afternoon here in southern California. It was so sunny that even the p.m.-rush-hour smog couldn’t block the bright rays.

Chase leaned back. Sun glared off the office floor. He didn’t mind. The glare blocked out a good portion of the industrial park’s parking lot. The industrial park rented out space to a dozen businesses, one of which was Adult Entertainment Enterprises—Chase’s employer.

Adult Entertainment Enterprises, or AEE as the stockholders called it, specialized in porn for every fetish there was a market for. Times were good for AEE. Thanks to the dot-com boom of the nineties, AEE reached millions of perverts that previously hadn’t registered on the porn industry radar. The reason was elementary. Before the Internet, if you wanted adult-only material, you had to go to specialty stores deep inside the underbelly of American towns and cities—the kind of stores that neighbored between pool halls and cigar shops. But with the Internet, perverts could log online and effortlessly find anything their demented sex drives desired. And even though the dot-com gold rush ended years ago, AEE prospered more than The Howard Stern Show. AEE sold subscriptions and DVDs to its online customers and used most of that capital to strengthen its distribution to porn shops.

Chase closed his eyes. He couldn’t believe he worked in such an immoral industry. Back in high school, if a fortuneteller had told him where he’d be today, he would’ve laughed in her face until his funny bone ached.

Chase opened his eyes and bowed his head. Strange how when you’re young, you reach for the stars, but at middle age you discover you’re still in the observatory.

Lifting his head, Chase stared out the window. The sun’s glare was gone. He focused on the park across the street. A pair of eucalyptus trees waved back and forth in unison. Between the trees lay a wino. For a second, Chase envied him. That wino didn’t have to get up early every morning and report to work for a ten-hour shift that paid slightly more than minimum wage. What Chase wouldn’t give to leap out of his chair and storm out of his boss’ office while giving him the finger. Chase smirked at that. How could he not? It was every workingman’s fantasy. But he couldn’t quit. He enjoyed crawling home each night to a warm bed and microwavable meal. And his wife, Monique, would kill him if he ever told his boss to Sit and spin while I spit in your eye, you greedy motherfucker! No way could Monique’s job at the zoo cover their bills, even if Chase was unemployed for only a month. But all of that might be a moot point. If things worked out the way Chase hoped, he and Monique wouldn’t have to worry about money for a long time. Maybe never.

Chase’s boss slammed down the phone. Chase jumped imperceptibly. For a moment, he had forgotten where he was.

“Fucking sales rep,” Price said. “He’s calling me, asking for advice, right in front of the fucking client! Jesus, I knew I should’ve never hired anyone so green. So what can I do for you, Kilbey?”

“I just wanted to make sure—”

Price jumped out of his chair. The movement sent a whiff of his Drakkar cologne in Chase’s direction. Chase tried not to gag.

Price stood in front of his fish tank. It ran the length of the wall behind his desk. He stepped to the left side of the tank and tapped the glass. The only fish in the tank, an oversized piranha, came to attention. It bared its teeth.

Price reached above the tank, the piranha’s beady eyes following him. Price pulled down a fish bowl from an onyx shelf. Inside the bowl were four small koi, the largest one measuring only four inches long. They swam around in the bowl in a circle, none of them leading. It’s almost like a chain, Chase thought.

Price’s hand dove into the fish bowl. The koi ignored him. Price’s hand swerved around in the bowl like a shark. Using his thumb and index finger, he pinched the tail fin of one of the hapless koi and yanked it out of the bowl. The other three koi quit swimming around in a circle. They stared up at the rim of the fish bowl, their mouths open in confusion, barbels dangling.

Price returned the fish bowl to the shelf. The koi hanging from his hand tried to flail free. Price pinched the tail fin harder. The koi’s gills fluttered.

With his free hand, Price opened a section of the fish tank lid. The piranha was unable to leap up and bite the hand that was about to feed it because of a perforated plastic compartment near the top of the tank. The compartment was six inches in diameter. The piranha gravitated towards it. Price dropped the koi into the compartment. Water splashed onto Price’s gold bracelet. He closed the fish tank lid.

The koi surveyed its new quarters. The piranha attacked, its fangs digging into the compartment’s holes, scratching the plastic. The entire tank shook. Sensing its fate, the koi pressed against the lid of the tank. Price, smiling, pressed a button on the lid. The compartment collapsed; the four sides snapped to the top of the lid, as did the bottom of the compartment due to a hinge that hooked to one of the sides. Predictably, the piranha lunged for the koi. The koi swam away and gave the piranha a good chase, but it was no use. This was the predator’s home turf, and—more importantly—it was hungry. Chase knew the piranha was starving. His boss constantly bragged how he only fed it once a week.

Price, still smirking, turned around to face Chase. Behind Price, the koi’s blue scales mixed with an aqueous cloud of blood. The piranha snapped its head back and forth, its slaughter creating a whirlpool of bubbles, which soon made the feeding frenzy unviewable.

“I’m sorry,” Price said, returning to his desk, “you were saying.”

Chase gulped. “I just wanted to stop in and pick up my check, since I’m going on vacation.”

“Okey-dokey.” Price opened a drawer and pulled out an envelope. “Here you go.”

“Thanks,” Chase said, making for the door.

He was almost there when Price asked, “Where you going?”

“Huh?”

“Where are you going on vacation?”

“Oh, back East. We have a little reunion to go to.”

“That’s right,” Price said, clapping his hands once. “You grew up in—what was it, Pittsburgh?”

“Philadelphia,” Chase said.

“Right. The City of Brotherly Love, huh?”

Chase forced a smile. “That’s what they tell me.”

“Which airline are you taking?”

“Oh, we don’t fly. Me and Monique were never too cracked up about flying, and after 9-11, we definitely don’t want to hop on any airplane.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“Probably not,” Chase said, “but we don’t mind driving. You get to see a lot on the road.”

“But by the time you arrive for your reunion, it’ll be time to leave.”

“We’ll have a good ten days out there. That’s more than enough time to catch up with our family and friends.”

“Right,” Price said, snapping his fingers, “you’re taking three weeks off.”

“Mm-hmm. Well…um…uh, I guess I’ll see you in three weeks.”

“Have a safe trip.”

“Thanks.”

And with that, Chase closed his boss’ office door and jogged through the warehouse to the parking lot.

CHAPTER 2

Chase slid into his Astro Van. It was colored maroon, except for the seats, which were black vinyl. The van was the only vehicle that he and Monique owned. Consequently, it served as an example of how their opposite personalities merged together into a happy medium. Chase was a self-admitted slob who shuddered at the mere mentioning of any type of housekeeping. Monique, meanwhile, was anal-retentive to the point of bordering on germ-freak status. These two polar personality traits resulted in the van being pleasurable for passengers to ride in. The van was clean but messy enough so it didn’t feel like you were riding in a loaner from the car dealer lot.

Chase picked off the floor the half-full cup of soda he had gotten for lunch from the drive-thru at Wendy’s. The ice had melted, but he didn’t care, although he did cringe after the first slurp. Tasted syrupy.

Chase started the van. For a change, the engine turned over on the first try. The radio came to life. Punk rock blared, courtesy of the local college radio station. Chase shook his head. He couldn’t believe he still listened to punk rock. Of course, the main reason it still entertained him was because one of his best friends from high school was a fervent fan of the genre. Not that there was anything wrong with that.

Chase placed his hand on the gearshift. He took the van out of park and meant to put it in drive but paused at neutral.

Why was his boss acting so cordial back there in the office? Usually, he never had a kind word to say about anyone or anything. In the three years Chase had worked here, he couldn’t remember one time his boss had addressed him without using the word moron. Maybe his boss’ behavior was a fluke, like Tom Hanks starring in a good movie. Or maybe his boss was experiencing the onset of a midlife crisis, and he’d finally realized what a jerk he’d been to his employees for the past fifteen years. (Part of his boss’ modus operandi was to fire anybody who brought up the notion of a labor union.)

“Whatever,” Chase said into the steering wheel, shifting the van into drive. He sipped on his warm soda and listened to NOFX sing about the libertarian plan. The Astro Van tore out of its parking spot.

CHAPTER 3

From his office, Pierce Price watched Chase Kilbey’s Astro Van zip across his parking lot. Price had separated two slats of his venetian blinds to see which direction Kilbey was heading. The Astro Van idled at the parking lot exit, its left-rear turn signal blinking. Kilbey waited for a break in the four-lane avenue. After a couple minutes, an opening appeared. The Astro Van sputtered into the distance.

Price removed his index and middle fingers from separating the two venetian slats. He was glad to do so. The setting sun was beginning to hurt his eyes. Never mind that Kilbey’s muffler rattled louder than the springs of a bed at the neighborhood whorehouse.

Price strode to his desk and picked up the phone. He hit speed dial, then the number 1.

“Hi, it’s me,” Price said into the phone. “No, I’m not calling from my cell. Yes, he just left. He’s going back to Philadelphia for a ‘little reunion.’ Mm-hmm. That’s what he said. Okay. B—”

Price didn’t finish saying bye. His contact on the other end had disconnected.

CHAPTER 4

Monique Kilbey hosed down Macy, one of the African elephants here at the Anaheim Zoo. Macy made sure her large ears and long eyelashes received adequate H₂0 treatment.

This was Monique’s eighth year working at the zoo. She’d been here ever since she and Chase had moved to southern California in 1995 so Chase could pursue his dream of becoming a working character actor. When they first moved out here, Monique had a research job lined up at UCLA that sounded as if it was a step-up from the marine biologist position she had at the Trenton Aquarium in New Jersey. But when she and Chase arrived in Anaheim, there was suddenly no money budgeted for the position. It didn’t take a college graduate to realize that was a lie. The man who had hired Monique, Mr. Feasly, flirted with her during the job interview, but she had thought nothing of it. Boys and men had been giving her preferential treatment for as long as she could remember. A long time ago, she’d made a conscious decision not to let it go to her head. She saw the devastating effect that flawless physical beauty had on her mother.

Growing up, Mrs. Flemming won countless beauty contests. She even won the Miss Universe pageant. But once middle age made its appearance, she fought every wrinkle and grey hair like a Roman soldier annihilating Christians. First, she started exercising more than Jane Fonda on a looped videotape. When that failed to halt the aging process, she invested in every makeup product the local super drugstore stocked. Then, at the age of thirty-five, she asked her husband for money so that she could afford plastic surgery. He refused, saying they had a mortgage, plus they needed to save for Monique’s education. Mrs. Flemming begged for at least a nose job. Mr. Flemming still said no. Finally, one night at dinner, she said, “Either give me the goddamned money for the surgery, you selfish prick, or I’m divorcing you.” Mr. Flemming jokingly pulled out the Yellow Pages from the china closet and opened it to the legal section. Mrs. Flemming whipped out a business card from her pocket and called a lawyer. Monique, ten years old at time, sat there shocked, jaw on her plate of chicken stir-fry. A year later, Monique’s parents divorced. Immediately after the court proceedings, Mrs. Flemming landed a job as a salesperson, selling infomercials for local TV stations. She did get the plastic surgery she desperately desired, and soon initiated a string of affairs with Philadelphia-area bluebloods—some bachelors, but mostly married men. Monique lost track of her mother around her sixteenth birthday (when she transferred to another high school), but as a strange twist of fate, she’d recently discovered that her mother had remarried and was living in Beverly Hills.

“Monique!”

Monique snapped out of the trance the memories of her mother had put her in. She saw Charlene calling her from the roof of the Pachyderm House. Like Monique, Charlene was a zookeeper. Charlene had dark skin and black hair, an effect of her Cherokee ancestry.

“Can you wait another half-hour?” Charlene asked, hands cupped around her mouth like a megaphone.

“Sure,” Monique answered. She and Charlene carpooled when they were on the same shift.

“Okay, thanks. Benjamin is being a real pain today.” Benjamin was the western lowland gorilla that had arrived last week. He made it a point to sling dung at the zookeepers and bully his co-dwellers in the Primate House. “I’ll meet you out by the car,” Charlene said.

Monique gave Charlene a thumbs-up, then shut off the hose and turned to Macy. “Well, girl, you should be good to go.”

Macy concurred by raising her trunk. The California sun shined off her dripping wet tusks.

Monique left the elephant yard, her boots and socks squishing.

CHAPTER 5

Monique opened her locker and grabbed from the top shelf a couple clean socks and an extra pair of boots. She kept at least one backup of each part of her uniform. She was glad she did so, especially on a day like today when her socks and boots seemed to get hosed more than Macy.

Wearing the dry socks and backup boots, Monique dropped the drenched socks and wet boots into a plastic 7-11 bag, which she placed in the tote bag she brought to work everyday.

Monique was about to close her locker when she saw that one of the Polaroids of Chase and her had untaped itself from inside the locker door. She picked the photo off the concrete floor. A feather clung to a corner of the pic. She blew it away and studied the Polaroid. It was from their vacation last year, from the week they spent hiking and camping in Yellowstone National Park. The photo showed them posing at daybreak in front of Old Faithful.

Monique placed the photo on the inside of her locker door, tucking the right edge of the pic into a slit on the side of the combination lock. She then closed the locker and walked down the long hallway to the parking lot.

This hallway always made Monique uncomfortable. Even though both sides had doors to offices and labs, it was still spookier than walking alone at night on a college campus. Maybe she didn’t like this stretch of hallway because it was so dim. The only illumination came from twin-head floodlights that gave off a yellowish white hue.

Halfway down the hallway, Monique stopped quicker than you could say Jumanji. Why did she stop? She wasn’t sure. It was…instinctual. Something deep inside her grey matter told her to halt.

Suddenly, one of the lab doors opened. Without hesitating, Monique slammed her back against the nearest wall. Her left shoulder hit a bulletin board. The board stayed intact, but a couple flyers fell off, their pushpins clicking to the ground like jacks. One of the flyers landed on her shoulder. A corner of it rested on her earlobe, just above her miniscule diamond earring; the flyer tickled her a little. Peripherally, she saw that it was red and made of heavy paper. Why was she able to see it so clearly? Oh, jeez! She was standing right in front of one of the few beams of light this hallway offered.

Out from the lab stepped two men, both wearing white knee-length lab coats. One of the men was about Monique’s age—thirty-seven. He was lanky with a blond ponytail. The other man was much younger. Looked to be no older than twenty-five. He was of average build and height, and had black, curly hair. He wore fashionable eyeglasses, the kind with slim, oval frames.

“Dude,” the twenty-five-year-old said in a New England accent, “we’re going to be sooooo rich.”

“We’ll have to wait and see, man,” said the partner in a mellow voice, the kind Monique associated with hippies.

Clutching her tote bag, Monique slid down the wall, out of the path of the light beam. The red flyer remained on her shoulder; the thought didn’t occur to her to remove it. She was almost completely out of the light’s path—only her feet were illuminated—when the flyer left her shoulder. She must have twitched without realizing it. Damn! The flyer flew over her head in an arc. She froze. It landed on her other shoulder. One of the flyer’s edges tapped the knob of her shoulder, and since the flyer was made of heavy paper, it made the unmistakable sound of bending. Monique slid fully out of the light. The flyer began its s-l-o-w descent to the floor.

“What was that?” the New Englander said.

“What was what?” the hippie said.

“Didn’t you hear it? Sounded like a sneak squeaking.”

From her spot in the dark, Monique saw the hippie pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Look!” the New Englander said.

The flyer landed in the middle of the hallway. The New Englander stared at the flyer, while the hippie massaged his own eyelids.

“Look,” the New Englander said, “that’s not the only flyer on the floor. There’s a whole bunch of them. How’d that happen?”

“They probably fell off the bulletin board when you opened the door,” the hippie said wearily.

“Hello,” the New Englander called. “Anybody there?”

Monique gripped the handles of her tote bag. She prayed the smells of the animals on her weren’t too potent.

“Come on, man,” the hippie said, “let’s go get a bite to eat.”

“I heard something. I know I heard something.”

“You’re being paranoid, man. I told you to back off the coke, didn’t I?”

“Somebody’s here,” the New Englander said. “I know it. They heard everything we said.”

“But we didn’t say anything, man,” the hippie whined.

“You have the stun gun on you?”

The hippie sighed and nodded towards the lab door. “It’s in there. Where we left it. Next to the…experiment.”

The New Englander moved for the lab door. Monique felt a drop of sweat run across the back of her neck.

“Look, man,” the hippie said, “you can go in there, get the stun gun and lurk up and down the hallway like a madman, but I’m going to the car and driving to McDonald’s, then going home. We’ve been here for thirteen hours, man, and quite frankly, I’m exhausted.”

“Just give me five minutes,” the New Englander said.

“No.” The hippie started down the hallway. Once within Monique’s vicinity, he turned, still walking, and said, “I’ll see you back at the house, man.”

“All right, all right,” the New Englander said, “you win.” He jogged to catch up with his partner.

Monique pressed against the wall. The New Englander wasn’t jogging down the center of the hallway. He was on the right side—the side where she hid in the shadows. If he bumped into her, who knew what would happen? She might be able to defend herself if there was only one of them, but she wouldn’t be able to fend off both.

The New Englander jogged towards Monique, his arms swinging wildly. She tensed up. The New Englander reached her. His elbow just missed her, but the bottom corner of his lab coat brushed her knee. Monique gasped. The New Englander stopped jogging. He turned.

“You coming?” the hippie said from the mouth of the hallway.

The New Englander stepped towards Monique. She saw him as a silhouette. He reached into one of his lab coat pockets. Out came a scalpel. He held it at chest level. For a second, the blade glinted.

“Hope you enjoy taking the bus back to Cypress, man” the hippie called, his voice faint. He must be in the parking lot, Monique thought.

“Fuck it,” the New Englander mumbled. He deposited the scalpel back into his pocket and resumed his jog down the hallway, his footsteps echoing.

Once the New Englander was completely out of sight, Monique exhaled loudly and dropped her bag. Her legs felt as if they were filled with Jell-O. She could have collapsed to the ground but resisted the urge. Instead, she marched across the hall to the lab door that the hippie and the New Englander had exited.

CHAPTER 6

The door was unlocked. The New Englander had been so intent on locating Monique that he and the hippie had forgotten to lock the door. Monique smiled at their carelessness, while stepping into the lab, closing the door behind her, dropping her tote bag and turning on the light.

The lab was small compared to the other ones Monique had seen at the zoo. On the left were supplies jammed in metal cabinets with glass doors, and on the right was a black marble table. The space between the cabinets and table was barely wide enough for one slender researcher, let alone two of average bulk.

Monique shrieked.

On the marble table lay a baby harp seal. Around its neck was a leather collar. Attached to the collar was a chain. The end of the chain looped around an iron ring screwed into the wall.

“Oh my God!” Monique said, hands over mouth.

The seal looked up at Monique with droopy, glassy eyes.

“What have they done to you?”

Monique petted the seal’s head. It leaned sideways in an effort to nestle against her, but the chain was too short. Monique unbuckled the collar. The seal undulated towards her. She stroked its short, white fur, then stopped.

At the end of the table was a closed laptop. Monique opened it, finding it had been left on. Again, the hippie and New Englander’s carelessness amazed her.

The only program open on the computer was Microsoft Word, with a log that detailed the hippie and New Englander’s experiment. They had injected the harp seal with a serum that rose its body temperature, letting the seal inhabit any climate, not strictly arctic ones. Monique saw how an experiment like this could make the hippie and the New Englander wealthy. With the serum, southern California zoos could display wintry animals without worrying about recreating frigid, glacial conditions, saving zoos millions of dollars. Monique frowned. She wondered how many seals the hippie and New Englander had murdered in their quest for fame and affluence.

A rage filled Monique. She swiped the laptop off the table and rose it above her head. She was about to hurl it to the floor when a better idea hit her. She placed the laptop back on the table, then grabbed a lab stool, sat on it and began deleting all of the computer’s files. Afterwards, she emptied the recycle bin and reformatted the hard drive, guaranteeing that the hippie and New Englander couldn’t bring up any files associated with “the experiment.” Next, she searched the room for any hard copies of their data. She didn’t find anything. They must have done everything electronically.

By this point, the seal had worked its way off the table. It rolled around on the floor, clapping its flippers.

“Well, kid,” Monique said, “it looks like my work is done here. Do you need a ride?”

The seal barked.

Monique picked up her tote bag. “Let’s go find Charlene, then.”

CHAPTER 7

Chase opened the door to the apartment he and Monique had called home for the past five years.

“Hon, you here?”

“In the bathroom,” Monique answered.

Chase deadbolted the door and tossed his keys and wallet into the glass bowl next to the door. He and Monique always put their valuables in this bowl. Monique had created it back in high school for her craft class. Painted on the bowl, in fluorescent green, were seven infinity symbols linked together to form a chain.

Next to the infinity bowl was the day’s mail. Chase fanned through it. Nothing but bills and junk mail. He dropped it into the bowl, which sat on a waist-high end table. At the foot of the table was a rack that held magazines, catalogs and phone books. Chase and Monique had bought the table, like most of their furniture, at a yard sale.

Chase and Monique loved yard sales. They couldn’t get enough of them. They were such yard sale aficionados that they would drive out of state if one was advertised heavily on the Internet. Friends and acquaintances often asked Chase and Monique why they were such ardent yard sale patrons. Chase would joke that they were forced to be frugal “’cause we gots no money,” while Monique would answer seriously that it was a resonance of their working-class roots.

Chase walked through the living room. He passed the kitchen on the left. The smell of last night’s supper, shrimp scampi, hung in the air. Better take the trash out tonight, or the rats’ll be back, he thought.

Chase headed down the hallway that led to the bedroom. Halfway there, he stopped to open the bathroom door.

“Hey,” Chase asked, “how we looking on packing?”

“Pretty good,” Monique answered.

She was sitting on the floor in front of the bathtub, her back to Chase. Her auburn, permed hair was up in a bun, exposing her slender neck. Chase was about to kneel down and kiss that alluring neck, when he saw it.

A harp seal peeked over Monique’s shoulder. Chase knew it sounded crazy, but he swore it was smiling at him.

Monique turned around. “Chase, meet Spanky. Spanky, Chase.”

Spanky barked. Monique dropped her hand into the tub (it was half-full), cupped some water in her palm and poured it over Spanky’s head. The seal closed its eyes in delight, then splashed around.

“Where did that come from?” Chase asked.

“That is Spanky. I found him at the zoo.”

“What, they were giving them away?”

“Not exactly,” Monique said.

“Well, what exactly?”

Monique told him. After she finished, Chase asked, “Won’t they know you took this…er…um…Spanky? I mean, won’t those two guys go to the zoo, tell them what happened, then the zoo’ll do a search and find your fingerprints all over the lab?”

“I don’t think so. I seriously doubt that that hippie and New Englander were sanctioned by the zoo. I can’t see the zoo funding that sort of research. They’re pretty conservative.”

“Okay, but once they find out their seal’s missing, even if they don’t go looking for it, won’t they have backup files of the stuff you deleted?”

“I’ve already thought about that and have made sure they never hurt any other animals again.”

“How’s that?” Chase asked.

“I called the American Medical Association, the SPCA and the zoo’s front office, and left anonymous messages on their voicemails. One of them should be able to put those two scientist creeps out of commission. And just in case that doesn’t work, I called Paula Garrett.”

“Paula Garrett?”

“She’s the one on Channel Five that does those exposés on cruelty to animals.”

“Those guys’ll get arrested for sure.”

“I hope so,” Monique said.

By now, Chase was sitting on the edge of the tub. He touched Monique’s cheek and tucked a curl of her hair behind her ear. She smiled.

“So,” Chase said, “who’s watching the old Spankster while we go back to Philly?”

“Oh, he’s coming with us.”

“What!”

Monique shrugged angelically.

“No,” Chase said. “No way is it coming with us.”

“He’s not an it. His name’s Spanky.”

“Hon, think about it. Taking him with us isn’t practical. How’s he going to survive a 3,000-mile road trip in our van? He could die.”

“He’ll be fine,” Monique said. “He survived all the poking and prodding by those two demonic researchers. Why shouldn’t he be fine in the van?”

“But even though he has that serum pumping through him, he’s still a seal. He’s going to need water and other seal stuff like that.”

“He’ll be fine. We’ll bring along the steel washtub we got at that yard sale last month. He can swim around in that.”

“What about food?” Chase asked.

“What about it? They’ll be plenty of places to stop on the way.”

“How do we know the serum won’t wear off? We could get to Philly and have him get sick or something.”

“Stop worrying,” Monique said. “We’ll be fine.”

“Who’s going to take care of him when we finally get to Philly? We’re going to be pretty busy, you know.”

“I know. My dad can take care of him.”

Chase, still sitting on the edge of the tub, let loose a curt laugh. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”

“It’s like you always say,” Monique said, “where there’s a will, there’s a Kilbey.”

As if sensing Chase still had some reservations, Spanky rested his head on Chase’s hip and placed a flipper on his thigh.

“Well?” Monique said pleasantly.

Chase glanced at Spanky’s Bambi eyes.

“All right,” Chase said, “he can go.”

CHAPTER 8

The next morning, Chase and Monique packed up their Astro Van. It didn’t take long. They were light packers.

The washtub was the last item they placed in the van. The tub was oval, galvanized and could hold sixteen gallons. The bottom had two ridges in the shape of circles, one encircling the other. Specs of rust flaked from the tub’s handles. There was no other rust in or on the tub, so it had no holes.

Chase was strapping the tub into the rear corner of the van, on the passenger side, when Spanky hopped into the tub. Chase couldn’t help but laugh.

Soon, Monique returned from the beer distributor with two bags of ice. Chase slit the bags with his Swiss army knife and dumped the ice into the tub. Spanky rolled around like Winnie the Pooh in a vat of honey.

“You sure this is all necessary?” Chase asked Monique. “I mean, since they injected him with all that serum, shouldn’t he not need ice or anything cold?”

“Oh, he doesn’t need it,” Monique said. “That was made abundantly clear by the log that hippie and New Englander had on their laptop, but it’ll make him happy.”

“Who, you or Spanky?”

“Spanky,” Monique said seriously. “If you were him, wouldn’t you like to have a corner you could go and lounge in?”

“Sort of like a spa, huh?” Chase said with a smirk.

“Like but not quite,” Monique said, smirking back.

CHAPTER 9

Three days later, Monique and Chase were more than halfway to Philadelphia. They were riding through Des Moines, Iowa, with Monique at the wheel.

Before leaving Anaheim, Monique and Chase had planned out a daily schedule for their trip. They would wake up at 6:00 a.m., hop in the van and stop at the first convenience store they saw to buy milk for the box of Raisin Bran they’d brought along for the trip. After breakfast, they’d drive for six hours, then stop at a deli. After lunch, they’d drive for three or four more hours until they found a place to crash. Most nights, they parked at a camping ground, in a mall parking lot or on the side street of a quiet residential area. Every third night, they stayed at a motel in order to sleep on a mattress, instead of in the back of the van. Monique looked forward to the motel stays. Not because of the comfort, but because of the showers. She and Chase would take half-hour showers in warm water. The showers were extremely erotic. After washing each other, they did things to each other that would make Hugh Hefner blush. Monique was getting excited just thinking about it. She pushed it out of her mind by focusing on the farm truck in front of them. It had hay and corn stalks piled six feet high.

Monique and Chase were now passing through the center of Des Moines. Buildings housing insurance companies loomed on either side of the avenue. The sun was setting. The purple horizon slowly turned black.

“Oh, boy,” Monique said.

She tapped the brakes. Up ahead, construction closed off one lane of traffic. Monique brought the Astro Van to a stop. It idled under a skywalk. Shade from the skywalk shadowed the inside of the van. Monique glanced at Chase. She could hardly see him due to a combination of the skywalk shade and the headlights of the truck behind them glaring off the Astro Van’s passenger-side mirror.

“I’ve been thinking,” Chase said.

“What about?” Monique asked.

“This trip.”

Monique heard Chase crack his knuckles. The traffic started moving. The Astro Van crept out of the shade of the skywalk. Monique saw Chase’s fingers fidget.

“Things really need to work out for us,” Chase said. “I can’t go back to working for that prick Price.”

“You can always get another job.”

“What’s the point? All it’ll be is another bottom-rung gig with crappy pay and a boss I can’t stand.”

“I know,” Monique said.

“I just hope everything goes smoothly when we get out there.”

“I don’t see why it shouldn’t.”

“You never know,” Chase said, “Murphy’s Law might be in full effect. That seems to happen a lot with simple plans—things get complicated.”

“We’ll have to wait and see,” Monique said.

Chase nodded. The traffic started moving a hair faster than a snail’s pace. The Astro Van left the shadiness of the skywalk. Monique rolled down her window. She smelled horse manure from the farm truck in front of her. She rolled the window back up.

Chase sighed and shifted towards Monique. “I just wish I could make a living at acting.”

“I know, but we gave it a shot. How many aspiring actors can say that? Most only hang around their non-show biz town and whine about how they were never discovered. At least we moved all the way to the other side of the country to give you the best chance to pursue your dream.”

“True.”

In 1995, when Monique had moved out to California with Chase, they had been married for three years. The deal she made with him was that she would support him for five years while he tried to make it as an actor. She believed the odds were in his favor. After all, for the last few years they’d lived in Philadelphia, Chase had steady acting jobs in theater and independent movies. Most of them paid poorly or—in the case of indie movies—not at all; however, during their last year in Philly, Chase had netted $10,000 from his acting endeavors. Not enough to live on, but enough so that he only had to supplement his income with a ten-hour-a-week construction job. But despite all of that, Chase failed to slip his foot into the Hollywood door. He only got his big toe in by working in commercials and getting the occasional walk-on in a sitcom. Monique was just as disappointed as Chase when the five-year deadline arrived in June of 2000.

Chase opened the Astro Van’s glovebox and removed a stick of gum from the supersize Wrigley pack they had picked up this afternoon at Flo’s Deli. Chase asked Monique if she wanted a stick. She said yes. When passing it off, his wedding ring grazed her palm. It tickled a little. She smiled at him.

“Do you ever regret moving out to California?” Chase asked.

“Why would I regret it?” Monique asked.

“You had a pretty sweet deal back in Philly—nice job, good friends, decent house…great marriage.” He smirked on the great marriage part. “That was a lot to give up to move 3,000 miles away to the land of celluloid dreams.”

“I don’t think so. You wanted to move to L.A.; I thought about it and said yes. And it’s not like I said yes right away. Remember, I took a couple weeks to think about it.”

Chase nodded.

Monique continued, “If I was even a little bit reluctant, I would’ve said no, and we would’ve worked something out. But there hasn’t been a day that’s gone by that I regretted it.”

“Even though what you’re doing now doesn’t require a biology degree?”

“I don’t mind it. In fact, some days I actually enjoy working at the zoo. Some of those animals are smarter and kinder than some people I know.”

“I just feel like a bit of a failure,” Chase said.

“You shouldn’t.” Monique hit the gas to cut around the road construction. “Why should you feel like a failure? So what if you didn’t make it as an actor. Didn’t you tell me before that only one percent of all actors are gainfully employed?”

“Yeah, but—”

“That’s some pretty high odds. Sounds like you’d have better chances winning the lottery.”

“I know.”

“Besides,” Monique said, “we still have each other.”

Chase grinned. “That’s true.”

“And I would like to think that if the roles were reversed, you would’ve moved thousands of miles for me.”

“Of course,” Chase said without hesitation.

“I love you, Chase.”

“I love you, too, hon.”

And with that, the Astro Van drove through the rest of Des Moines. Monique was looking forward to their stay in a motel tonight.

CHAPTER 10

A half-mile behind Chase and Monique rode Pierce Price. He had been tailing the Astro Van in his Mitsubishi Spyder ever since they left California.

Price was glad Kilbey used his Astro Van for this cross-country trip. It was easy to tail with the stickers plastered on the bumper and rear doors. Half of the stickers were names of punk-rock bands, while the other half were slogans from bleeding-heart organizations like Greenpeace, Food Not Bombs and Books Through Bars.

Price lit a cigarette. Even though the Astro Van was easy to tail, he wished Kilbey had taken a plane. That would’ve worked out well for Price. He could’ve racked up some frequent-flyer miles. But no, Kilbey and his wife had to travel by van. Simpletons.

Price still thought trailing Kilbey was overkill, but Price’s contact in Philadelphia insisted that the Astro Van never leave his sight. Price reluctantly obeyed orders. Hopefully, when they reached Philadelphia, the aggravation of the 3,000-mile trek would be worth it.

CHAPTER 11

Thirty-six-year-old Nick Marsh was a gangly punk rocker with huge biceps and veiny forearms. Reason why his arms were so hardcore? Nick got into more fights than Don King.

Nick loved to fight. It was in his blood. His father and five brothers were fighters. At an early age, Nick’s dad had drilled into the Marsh boys that a fight was the only way to get your point across.

Nick had gotten into a fight last night. At a bar, a yuppie cut in front of him, so Nick did what any self-respecting Philadelphian would do. He grabbed the yuppie by the tie and yanked it down. The yuppie’s head bounced off the bar so hard, wood chips went flying. When the yuppie’s head came back up, Nick kicked him into the corner, where the yuppie collapsed into the unconsciousness.

Why?

That was the question Nick constantly asked himself. Why did he feel the need to get into a fight at the drop of a drink? The answer was obvious. He was a small guy: five-two. Fighting was his way of showing the world he wasn’t going to be stepped on or pushed around. He first became aware of this motivation eleven years ago, at the age of twenty-five, but the frequency of his fighting was the same now as it had been when he was a teenager. What could he do? It was in his blood. After all, his father had boxed professionally in the 1950s on weekends in Atlantic City casinos.

Currently, Nick was in Chicago. He was onstage, playing bass for the punk band Farting Out A Fetus, or FOAF as their small but devout legion of fans called them. FOAF was three-quarters through their half-hour set. They played for a crowd of two hundred in a church basement at an all-ages show. It’s hotter down here than the gas coming out of my ass, Nick thought.

Nick stood in his usual onstage position, to the right of Dave the drummer. Nick wore the same outfit he’d been sporting since junior high. Black Chuck Taylor high-tops, blue jeans, white T-shirt and a choker chain necklace with a little combination lock hanging above his manubrium.

Nick’s bass solo was coming up. He built up to it, riding a G chord as Dave beat the bass drum and pounded the floor tom. Nick stepped up to center stage. FOAF’s two guitarists moved aside and stopped playing. Time for the bass solo. Nick ripped into it. The solo lasted only five seconds, but in the hyperkinetic world of punk rock, that was an eon. Nick finished the solo as he had every other night of FOAF’s six-week tour. He strode back to his spot next to Dave’s floor tom and struck the last note of the solo while stamping on an effects pedal. The pedal gave the note a reverb-ish effect. As the reverb faded, FOAF’s two guitarists returned to center stage and began playing again, their power chords louder than a train crash.

The song ended. FOAF ripped into their next song, a thirty-second ditty called “Profit.” Nick played it with his eyes closed. “Profit” was FOAF’s oldest song—five years. It was the first tune Nick had learned to play for the band when he joined nine months ago.

Nick wasn’t so much a member of FOAF as a hired hand. He shared no songwriting credit and had no say in touring or business decisions, which suited him fine. He’d been in bands before where every member pulled their weight creatively and managerially, but that usually led to bickering and the inevitable breakup. Nick enjoyed played in FOAF. It was refreshing to be follower instead of a leader. Although, Nick knew eventually he would get the itch to book his own life again. Until then, he would enjoy this setup, his version of a vacation.

FOAF paused between songs to allow the lead guitarist to tune his Les Paul. The rhythm guitarist, the band’s vocalist, bantered to the audience. Nick glanced at his watch on his left wrist. The watch was part of a three-inch-wide leather wristband; spike studs encircled the watch. It was 10:45 p.m. They had to be off the stage in fifteen minutes. Since this was an all-ages show, they had to be mindful of curfew.

The lead guitarist was still tuning his Les Paul. Nick studied the audience. They stared at the band, waiting patiently. Except one audience member. In the back of the basement, a fourteen-year-old girl leaned against the wall, attention fixed on her PalmPilot.

The lead guitarist finally finished tuning his Les Paul. Immediately, FOAF ripped into the first of their last three songs. Towards the end of the two-minute tune, Nick began missing notes. It wasn’t because of inebriation or any other musician cliché. Rather, it was because his attention was elsewhere. Namely, on the fourteen-year-old with the PalmPilot.

A nineteen-year-old meathead had cornered the fourteen-year-old in the back of the basement. She tried escaping, but he blocked her path. Nobody in the audience noticed. Their eyes were on FOAF.

Nick yelled and pointed but no audience members turned to look in the back. They must have thought he was acting goofy as part of the show.

The meathead was now taunting the girl. He tapped her ear, poked her waist and grabbed her breasts. He did each action one at a time, so as she went to cover her breasts, his other hand tapped her ear, forcing her to move her hands to her head, leaving her waist and breasts open for the next poke or grab. In the process of protecting herself, she dropped her PalmPilot. It fell to the floor. Nick heard no clacking. How could he? FOAF’s music drowned everything out.

Nick made another attempt to let the audience know what was happening. He didn’t have a microphone of his own, so he stepped towards the lead guitarist’s. But the guitarist, his back to Nick, was shouting backup vocals into the mike. Nick thought of pushing him aside but decided not to—too much trouble. Nick stopped playing his bass. The rest of the band didn’t notice. They were caught up in the moment of the music, especially Dave the drummer, his eyes closed.

“Fuck this,” Nick mumbled.

He threw his bass down. It crashed into the amp, creating feedback only a mute could love.

Nick dove into the crowd. They cheered, slapping his back. Next thing Nick knew, he was bodysurfing across the crowd.

“Put me down,” Nick yelled. “Put me down, you assholes!”

Apparently, they didn’t hear him. They held him above their heads with their hands and arms, bodysurfing him every which way but down to the ground. Well, Nick thought, if they aren’t gonna put me down, I might as well surf to the back of the basement. In order to do so, he was going to have to turn over. Up until this point, he’d been bodysurfing facedown.

Nick turned over and moved his arms and legs as if he was sitting on his butt and meant to scuttle forward. The crowd got the message. They surfed him towards the back of the basement. It wasn’t pretty, though. Nick felt long nails inadvertently dig into his back; his wallet chain snagged a couple people’s headgear; and since this was a punk-rock show, a few bad asses punched him. The punches landed on his shoulders and didn’t hurt much. After all, throwing a fist against gravity lacks force.

Halfway to the back of the basement, the crowd let Nick down. He landed on his feet, like a veteran superhero. That’s me, Punk-Rock Man. Where’s my cape?

Nick sprinted towards the back of the basement. Humid air zipped past his head. He prayed he wasn’t too late.

Not bothering to slow his sprint down, Nick ran into the meathead. He bounced off the meathead’s back as if it was made of rubber. Nick landed on the steps that led up to the bathroom. To pull himself up, he reached for the cool hollow metal railing. While doing this, he kept his eyes on the raping in the making. The girl’s eyes reminded him of a frightened rabbit that knew a clobbering was imminent.

“Hey!” Nick said.

The meathead turned slightly. Up close, Nick saw that the meathead was built like a refrigerator with a head the shape of an anvil.

“Take a hike, little man,” the meathead said in a Mike Tyson voice.

“Hey,” Nick said again. He tried pushing the meathead away from the girl but couldn’t. The meathead’s arm seemed to consist of cast iron.

The girl’s bunny eyes pleaded with Nick, tears clouding her green irises.

“Hey, Brutus,” Nick said. “Why don’t you pick on someone from your own species, say an ape.”

After the word ape left Nick’s mouth, he saw a flash of light and heard the crack of a whip. Next thing he knew, he was lying on the floor. What just happened? The question was rhetorical. The meathead had hit Nick with such quickness and force that he was on his back before his brain could register it all.

Nick sat up. Nausea caused him to sway. Ignoring his stomach’s threat to hurl, he reached for his wallet chain. He unhooked it from his belt loop and wallet. The chain measured two feet. Nick held it, a hand at each end. He pulled it taut.

Nick jumped on the meathead’s back. The meathead didn’t stagger a centimeter. Nick wrapped his legs around the meathead’s waist and threw his arms over the wannabe rapist’s head.

The meathead torpedoed his hands towards Nick. Nick cringed. The meathead’s hands—bigger than boxing gloves—tried grasping Nick’s hair, but fortunately he shaved his head monthly, his hair never growing more than a quarter-inch.

The meathead grunted and growled. Since latching onto Nick’s hair wasn’t an option, the meathead shifted strategy by grabbing for the ears. Nick swerved his head away from the meathead’s hands, which wasn’t easy because the goon’s hairy arms kept distracting him.

The meathead then tried throwing Nick off his back. Nick held on and realized two things: he wasn’t aware if FOAF still played, and he hadn’t used the wallet chain yet. No time to worry about FOAF, but he could address the second point.

Nick wrapped the chain around the meathead’s neck. The chain barely made it all the way around.

The meathead yelled like a Viking rushing into battle. He stomped back and forth. Nick held on by squeezing the wallet chain, which proved increasingly difficult. His sweaty palms kept sliding towards the ends of the chain.

The meathead stopped stomping around. He bent over, hands on knees.

Uh-oh, Nick thought. What’s he doing?

The meathead remained in that position for about ten seconds. Nick took the time to glance around. FOAF had stopped playing. The band and the audience gaped at Nick and the meathead.

Nick sensed the meathead’s breathing returning to normal. Nick held onto the wallet chain. It wasn’t choking the meathead, but it was tight enough to be labeled uncomfortable.

“You gonna die,” the meathead gargled.

“What’s that, horsy?”

Nick had barely gotten his comeback out when the meathead broke into a run. Nick held on. The meathead, yelling, ran in a circle. Nick shut his eyes. Everything zipping by made him dizzy. Suddenly, the meathead changed course. A half moment later, the running came to a grinding halt. Nick’s eyes popped open. The meathead slammed Nick’s back against a wall. Nick’s body, starting with the base of his spine, absorbed the shock of the slam. His body quivered.

“Ugh,” Nick said.

He let go of the wallet chain and slid down the meathead’s back. But the meathead wasn’t going to let Nick fall to the floor. He gripped the punk rocker by the ears. This time, Nick didn’t have the energy to swerve away. The meathead gripped Nick’s ears in a specific way, as if this wasn’t a new scenario to him. The meathead placed his fingers behind Nick’s ears and inserted his thumbs into the punk rocker’s ear canals, as far as they would go. Nick screamed. The meathead’s thumbs pushed up inside the canals. Simultaneously, the meathead’s fingers dug into the back of Nick’s ears. Nick couldn’t see. He told himself his eyes were watering, not tearing. He then wondered if the ear pain could get any worse. As an answer, the meathead moved his thumbs and fingers to get a firmer grip, then slammed Nick’s forehead against the back of his head. Nick saw stars in his peripheral vision. He fell backwards and hung upside down, his legs still wrapped around the meathead’s waist.

“Get the fuck off me, faggot!”

The meathead’s words echoed inside Nick’s head. He was having trouble concentrating. His scalp was brushing the sticky basement floor. He felt the meathead’s he-man hands on his ankles in an attempt to unlock them from around his waist. That’s when Nick saw it. The wallet chain hung from his wristband; two of the spike studs pinched together, the wallet chain its captive. Nick fought the grogginess the fight had induced. His right hand snatched the chain. The movement made his back crack, but he ignored it. Payback time.

Tightening his stomach muscles, Nick performed the hardest sit-up of his life. Halfway up, he didn’t like what was happening. The meathead was unlocking Nick’s ankles from around his waist. Nick gasped. He began descending. With what little energy he had left, he reached ceilingward, threw his hands over the meathead’s skull and wrapped the chain around his neck again. The meathead’s huge hands searched for Nick’s ears. Nick ducked and pulled on the chain. It slid up and over the meathead’s Adam’s apple. The meathead dropped to his knees with such a thud, Nick wondered if the entire building shook. Never mind that. Nick gave the chain a tug Batman would have been proud of. That collapsed the meathead to one side, like a lumbering brontosaurus. Nick hopped off of him. He looked up.

The band and the crowd gawked at him. Nick blocked them out, as he had for most of the fight. He sauntered around the meathead, who lied on his right side, arm covering face. Nick’s foot tapped the meathead’s chest. The arm flopped off his face.

“Fucker,” Nick said. He kicked the meathead, steadily increasingly his rhythm, his arms stretching out horizontally. Each kick crept lower down the meathead’s body. Eventually, Nick reached the groin. That’s when he felt a tugging on his drenched T-shirt. He turned. It was the fourteen-year-old girl.

“Please,” she said. “Don’t kill him. I don’t want you to go to prison.”

Nick nodded. He gave the meathead one final kick.

CHAPTER 12

Chase and Monique pulled the Astro Van over to the shoulder on I-95. They hopped out and stood several feet in front of the van, watching steam billow through the grille.

“Do you believe this?” Chase said, laughing.

Monique shook her head. She removed her Jackie O sunglasses and stepped back. The overheating Astro Van was smothering her.

“I can’t believe our luck,” Chase said, giggling. “I mean, the van’s fine for 3,000 miles, then boom! We’re not two miles from your dad’s house, and it overheats. Do we rule or what?”

Monique nodded, only catching half of what Chase said, thanks to the roaring by of six lanes of expressway traffic. Despite only hearing some of what he said, she wasn’t amused. She had done much of the driving over the past five days. She was more exhausted than Shamu after entertaining crowds all day at Seaworld.

Anytime Monique and Chase traveled somewhere—whether it was a party or a vacation—she did most of the driving. Not that she minded. She loved driving. It filled her with a sense of freedom. Just her and the open road. And if any vehicles in front of her went slower than ten miles over the speed limit, watch out. She had no qualms with zooming past slowpokes, whether there was a passing lane or not.

The Astro Van was beginning to cool down. It was still overheated, but not so much that it appeared like the Detroit version of a brushfire.

Monique put her sunglasses back on. She leaned against the guardrail and looked down at State Road. Traffic was heavy on the four lanes. Across the street, factories and strip bars littered the landscape that butted against the Delaware River. One of the strip bars, Cloud 9, used to be an arts-and-crafts store called Kay’s Place. As a teenager, Monique spent many allowances and paychecks there.

“What do you want to do?” Chase asked.

“Might as well start walking,” Monique answered.

“What about the Spankster?”

“Let’s take him with us.”

They opened the rear doors of the van. An eager Spanky, lounging in the washtub, greeted them. Monique petted him on the head, then pulled out a red wagon—another one of their yard-sale treasures. Chase picked up Spanky and placed him in the wagon. Before closing the van doors, Monique dumped some ice from the tub into the wagon.

Monique pulled the wagon. Spanky wasn’t too heavy.

“Hon,” Monique said to Chase, “can you walk on the left so Spanky doesn’t jump into the traffic?”

Chase did, but it turned out to be unnecessary. The traffic zooming by scared Spanky. He crouched down in the wagon, flippers covering his head.

Spanky didn’t cower for too long, though. The Astro Van had broken down two hundred yards from the Cottman Avenue exit in Northeast Philadelphia. Soon, they were off the shoulder of I-95 and walking up Cottman Ave.

It amazed Monique how little Cottman Ave had changed in the years she’d been away. When you first got off the I-95 ramp, the area was more industrial than residential. But once you crossed Torresdale Avenue, with the Septa depot on the left and Saint Hubert’s High School for Girls on the right, you entered a residential area, row homes lining both sides of the avenue.

It felt weird to walk up Cottman Ave. Monique couldn’t remember the last time she’d strolled up or down it. In the Philly borough they were now in, Mayfair, nobody walked more than a quarter-mile. Anything over that and you drove. If you were underage, you got a ride, usually from a family member. Monique’s father had chauffeured her around until she got her license on her sixteenth birthday. He didn’t mind carting her around for those fifteen years. In fact, she was pretty sure he enjoyed it. Why else was he always on time and never argumentative if she was late (unless she missed curfew)?

Monique looked down at Spanky. He was much more relaxed now that they had put considerable distance between themselves and I-95. Spanky was rolling around in what little ice was in the wagon. Every block or so, he would stop and turn his attention to a dog in a front yard that was barking at him. Spanky would raise a fin, as if a celebrity recognizing a vocal fan. The first time Spanky did this, Monique laughed.

“What?” Chase asked.

Monique told him.

“Yeah,” Chase said, “I gotta admit: that’s one cool seal.”

“Aren’t you glad we brought him?”

“Maybe,” Chase said, smirking.

They came to Bleigh Street and made a left. Monique’s father lived halfway down the block.

Like the other row homes on the block, the front of the house Monique grew up in had a short flight of concrete steps, then an open porch, and another short flight of steps, which led to the front door. The porch had a lawn, a barbecue grill, an umbrella table and two white lawn chairs. Monique sat in one of the chairs. She took off her sandals and rested her feet on the lawn; a patch of crabgrass tickled the ar