FICTION-ONLINE An Internet Literary Magazine Volume 7, Number 2 March-June, 2000 EDITOR'S NOTE: FICTION-ONLINE is a literary magazine publishing electronically through e-mail and the Internet on a bimonthly basis. The contents include short stories, play scripts or excerpts, excerpts of novels or serialized novels, and poems. Some contributors to the magazine are members of the Northwest Fiction Group of Washington, DC, a group affiliated with Washington Independent Writers. However, the magazine is an independent entity and solicits and publishes material from the public. To subscribe or unsubscribe or for more information, please e- mail a brief request to ngwazi@clark.net To submit manuscripts for consideration, please e-mail to the same address, with the ms in ASCII format, if possible included as part of the message itself, rather than as an attachment. 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William Ramsay, Editor ================================================= CONTENTS Editor's Note Contributors "Family Verses" Jean Bower "How Professor Weinberg's Failure to Hand in His Exam on Time Altered the Course of Human Destiny Forever" Clifford S. Fishman "Vulcan," an excerpt (chapter 19) from the novel "Ay, Chucho!" William Ramsay "XXX," part 3 of the play "Shell Game" Otho Eskin ================================================= CONTRIBUTORS JEAN BOWER is a retired attorney. She has attended numerous poetry workshops in Washington and New England. Her poems have appeared in various journals and in the recent anthology In a Certain Place. OTHO ESKIN, former diplomat and consultant on international affairs, has published short stories and has had numerous plays read and produced in Washington, notably "Act of God." His play "Duet" has been produced at the Elizabethan Theater at the Folder Library in Washington.. His play, "Miss Julie" will be staged this fall by the SCENA Theatre in Washington. CLIFFORD S. FISHMAN is a professor of law and has published books and papers in that field. The short story is one of his preferred non- legal modes of expression. WILLIAM RAMSAY is a physicist and consultant on Third World energy problems. He is also a writer and the coordinator of the Northwest Fiction Group. His play, "Agamemnon," was recently staged by the Georgetown Theatre Company in Washington.. ================================================== FAMILY VERSES by Jean Bower My Father's Hat He doffed it to a lady (ah! who?) and found splat of pigeon poo on the fedora that shaded his blue-gray eyes. Mother in her 40's Sometimes she'd put her book down and give a party canapes of shrimp on toast squares with mayonnaise and ketchup, crustless white bread sandwiches, cookie- cutter shaped, Old Fashioneds rye with sugar, orange slices, maraschino cherries. Or she'd go to lunch one arching feather on her hat, small-waisted suit, stone marten stole, high-heeled shoes to show her ankles to advantage. But mostly it was books: Louis IX, the sainted one, his life (she loved the Capet kings) or Eleanor of Aquitaine whose realms were fiercer, finer things. She dreamed, and planned to translate Don Quixote. ================================================== How Professor Weinberg's Failure to Hand in His Exam on Time Altered the Course of Human Destiny Forever by Clifford S. Fishman Yaakov Weinberg was supposed to submit his exam to the faculty secretariat on Tuesday, May 1. The Associate Dean for Academic Affairs called him that afternoon to remind him. "I know, Regina, but look, the exam won't be given until the 8th. So what's the big deal if I don't get it for a couple more days?" "Maybe it doesn't seem like a big deal to you," the Associate Dean said, "but you never know how one thing might lead to another." * * * You could blame it on the weather, I suppose. If it hadn't been such a beautiful spring afternoon, human history would have continued more or less on the same path. But May 1, 2001 was a beautiful spring day, and as a result, while bicycling home from the university, Professor Yaakov Weinberg set in motion a chain of events that wiped out several huge industries, totally disrupted the world economy, and virtually destroyed personal privacy. On the other hand, it also cleaned up the atmosphere, reversed earth's dangerous drift toward global warming and opened the way to the moon, the planets and the stars. Yaakov Weinberg didn't set out to wipe out, disrupt, destroy, clean up, reverse or open anything. He wouldn't know how to if he wanted to. He didn't hold public office, he wasn't a scientist; he was a law professor. He had biked the 16-and-a-smidge miles to school that morning; now that he had completed the return trip, he should have showered, turned on his computer, and finished writing his criminal procedure exam. But he never liked writing exams, and this one was giving him more than the usual amount of trouble, and he resented being pressured by the dean, and it was such a beautiful spring day that he decided to stay out a little longer and check out the curious thing he'd noticed (but more or less ignored) whenever he biked to the University. The curious thing was this. According to the tripometer on his bike, from his house in Rockville to the intersection of Independence Drive and Connecticut Avenue in Aspen Hill was 2.0 miles. He was sure of that, because he always set the tripometer at 0 when starting out, and it clicked from 1.9 to 2.0 just before reaching Connecticut. But on the return trip, the distance from that intersection to home, on exactly the same streets, was only 1.7 or 1.8 miles. According to his bike's tripometer, at any rate. If it read 30.6 when he reached that intersection, then when he pulled into his driveway, instead of 32.6, it read only 32.3 or 32.4. Yaakov had noticed this curiosity before. He assumed it was imperfection in the tripometer-- it must register distances a little shorter as the mileage increased, until the tripometer was clicked back to zero. That he had not noticed anything like that happening on any other rides or any other routes, he attributed to his own inattentiveness. But because May 1 was such a beautiful spring day and he didn't want to work on his exam, when Yaakov pulled into his driveway at 32.3 miles he decided to check out the hypothesis. He rode around in circles on his block until the tripometer clicked up to 32.4, then retraced his route again back to the intersection of Independence and Connecticut. It clicked from 34.3 to 34.4 just before reaching Connecticut. Huh, Yaakov thought. He turned the bike around, clicked the tripometer back to zero, and peddled home. As he pulled into his driveway the tripometer read 1.7 miles. Well, he thought, there goes the faulty tripometer hypothesis. He toyed with a few others: maybe the route was two or three tenths of a mile longer biking on the south and east sides of the streets on the way out than on the north and west sides on the way back? Could it be because that distance was slightly up hill on the way out, slightly down on the return? A difference in tire pressure? The temperature had cooled off by then, and Yaakov was a bit tired, so he put his bike away, took a quick shower, turned on the computer, brought up the draft of the exam, stared at the screen for five minutes, wrote a sentence, revised it twice, deleted it, and brought up his e-mail program. Rachel, his oldest daughter was an environmental engineer with EPA in Boston. He figured she'd get a chuckle at feeble attempt to analyze the situation. He opened a message, addressed it to her, and in the "subject" box, typed in: "Breach in the space-time continuum?" and described what he called "my little anomaly." Rachel loved and respected her father, but she was, after all, in her twenties while he was, after all, in his fifties; and she was, after all, a scientist and engineer, and he was only a law professor. Her response to his e-mail was admirably concise. "Weird!" she e-mailed back, and promptly forgot about it. Nothing in that to change the course of human history. Except ... a week earlier, a middle level committee of the Scientific Terrorism Control Group of the National Security Agency (NSA- STGG) directed that NSA's Echelon Supercomputer Network (NSA- ESN), which monitors electronic communications worldwide, do a multi-lingual search for references to the space-time continuum. As to why a middle-level committee of NSA-STCG issued the directive, it seems the FBI was doing a Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act (FISA) wiretap on Reginald Whitehall, the second son of the second son of the Earl of Cornwall. Whitehall was a theoretical physicist who, in the past five years, he had renounced his aristocratic heritage, affected a cockney accent, espoused Third World Liberation and denounced the West, long after doing so had ceased being fashionable. Accordingly, he had been awarded with visits to Havana, Baghdad, Tripoli and other choice locations on the Jihad-Proletarian Axis (JPA). Naturally this also won him the attention of the CIA, NSA, FBI, Surete, MI5, Mossad, and affiliated members of the Intelligence Community. Whitehall was currently a Visiting Professor of physics at Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore. While at Hopkins, Whitehall was in frequent telephone and e-mail contact with Professor Katherine Noddingham Pepper, a political scientist at the University of Hull at Leeds with close ties to the KLF (Kurdish Liberation Front). During several phone calls, Whitehall made several comments to Pepper about how close he was to a "significant breakthrough on spice time." Elihu Cabot, an FBI agent assigned to the Bureau's International Terrorist Section (FBI-ITS), had recently seen a pretty good revival of My Fair Lady at the Warner Theater, and speculated that "spice time" might be the cockney-affecting Whitehall's way of pronouncing "space-time." Cabot knew from numerous Star Trek episodes that He Who Controls the Space-Time Continuum Controls ... well, just about everything. He e-mailed a memo to the NSA liaison to the FBI-ITS. The memo worked its way up the NSA chain and in late April culminated in the "space time continuum" directive. The irony is that Whitehall's references to "spice time" had nothing at all to do with theoretical physics. Shortly before Whitehall left England for his visitorship at Hopkins, he and Katherine Noddingham Pepper had fallen monumentally in lust with each other. His private love-name for her combined her first two initials and last name -- K. N. Pepper; their passionate grapplings, he referred to as "spice time." The "breakthrough" he spoke of involved securing funding for a trip back to England so they could enjoy "spice time" together. MI5 was of course aware of the nature of the Whitehall-Pepper liaison, but had compartmentalized that knowledge, and neither the FBI nor NSA had wind of it. When the NSA-ESN computer picked up Yaakov's e-mail to Rachel, a bored interception monitor glanced at it, guessed the name Yaakov sounded foreign, maybe even Russian (it wasn't; he had Hebraicized his name from Jacob following a trip to Israel a few years earlier) and, without bothering to read the body of the e-mail, sent a very low-grade request to the FBI's Washington, D.C. local field office with a request to "check this guy out." It was given so low a priority that it wasn't tasked out until that Saturday (May 5), which is why it was assigned to FBI Special Agent Albert Floogle, who was catching "priority zee" jobs that weekend. Albert had compiled so impressive a record as an agent that he would long since have been assigned as the Bureau's permanent liaison with the Hungry Horse, Montana, Sheriff's Department CBIU (Contraband Bovine Interdiction Unit, nee "cattle rustling squad") but for one fact: his wife, Minerva Floogle, happened to be the daughter of Gabriel Horn III. Four years earlier the Floogle-Horn wedding garnered some play in the media, in part because of its euphonious name but mainly because Gabriel Horn happened to be the chairman of the United States Senate Committee on the Judiciary's Subcommittee on Oversight of the United States Department of Justice. In other words, Senator Horn controlled the FBI's budget. Minerva Floogle (nee Horn) did not want to live in or near Hungry Horse Montana. She preferred Washington, D.C. The Bureau preferred to be funded. The Bureau and the Senator came to an understanding. But by May of 2001 that understanding was somewhat strained. Three months earlier Albert had been directed to follow a suspected drug dealer's car. Three minutes into the assignment he lost his quarry, then picked up the tail again. Unfortunately the car he diligently followed for the next ninety-seven minutes, from the mall to the library to the dry cleaner, and ultimately seized, towed, searched and dismantled in an unsuccessful quest for heroin, had a slightly different license plate number than the car he had assigned to follow. (It was also a different make and model.) More unfortunate still, it happened to belong to the Chief Judge of the United States Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia Circuit. Even more unfortunate, the Chief Judge's wife was driving it at the time. Since then Albert had found himself assigned to "TDW" status, which officially stood for "Temporary Detail Workstation," informally known within the Bureau as reserved for agents judged "Too Dumb to Wipe" themselves. His most challenging job in the past three months was carrying the Bureau's classified garbage down to the incinerator in the Hoover Building basement. In fact, the only reason he was on duty at the local field office that Saturday was that he'd volunteered to fill in for a sixty-two year old agent who was checking out a time-share condominium in Massanutten Mountain in the Shenandoah Valley. So maybe you could blame the whole thing on Shenandoah time shares. Albert was a man seeking redemption. When the memo to "check out" Yaakov Weinberg came in at about 11:37 that Saturday morning, he saw it as an opportunity to prove his merit and get out from under the dark cloud that had stalled his career. Yaakov and his wife Elisheva (nee Elizabeth) had gone to synagogue that Saturday morning as usual. Services ended a bit after twelve, and as was their wont, they stood around at the kiddush afterward and shmoozed with their friends 'til about 12:50. They arrived home at about 1 p.m. They pulled into their driveway just as Albert Floogle was loading Yaakov's computer into the trunk of his car. "Hey, what the hell!" Yaakov said. "National security," Albert said, flashing his FBI credential. For an instant Yaakov was indecisive. The credential looked like the real thing (at least, it looked like the ones Muldur and Scully used on the X-Files), and he believed deeply in national security. On the other hand the only copy of his just-completed criminal procedure exam (due Monday) was on his hard drive. "Bullshit," Yaakov replied, and wedged his car up against Albert's, thereby preventing Albert from going anywhere. "I'm going to have to order you to remove your car," Albert said severely. "Bullshit," Yaakov said again, rather proud that, although a law professor, he was able to express himself so succinctly when the chips were down. At this point Yaakov's next door neighbor Ernest walked by, with his miniature bull dog, J. Edgar. "Hey Jake," Ernest (who kept forgetting it was now Yaakov) said, "what's going on?" As Albert flipped open his credential for Ernest and Yaakov shouted "This idiot's trying to steal my computer," J. Edgar relieved himself on Albert's right rear tire; some of the urine splashed off the tire onto Albert's right rear foot, which did not improve his disposition. Ernest asked Yaakov, "What you want me to do?" "Call the police!" Even at this point the course of human history would have remained more or less the same, except that two weeks earlier, for Ernest's birthday, his wife Ernestine bought him a cell phone, which was on sale cheap because it was an undigitized, unencrypted analog phone. Because the contract with the cell phone company included free weekend use for the first six months, instead of going inside his house and picking up his hard-wired phone, Ernest flipped open his cell phone (mimicking the wrist flick Captain Kirk had made famous decades before) and dialed 911. "Please send the police to 4227 Hazelnut Drive," Ernest told the dispatcher. "There's a crazy guy claiming to be an FBI agent who is trying to steal my neighbor's computer." When you listen to the tape of Ernest's call to 911, you can hear Albert shouting "National security!" in the background. Gerald Tribune could also hear it on his scanner. Gerald described himself as a free-lance journalist. Mostly he mowed lawns for his brother's landscaping company, but in his free time he liked to check things out, ask a lot of questions, and hope for the big break that would one day permit him to follow in the footsteps of his hero, Matt Drudge. Mostly his efforts got him cursed at and punched. Gerald was cruising the Aspen Hill-Rockville area, hoping for a six-car collision, gas leak explosion or some equally serendipitous calamity, when his scanner picked up Ernest's call to 911. As it happened, he was only two blocks away, and made it to Hazelnut Drive in under a minute. He hopped out of his car, camcorder running, and taped Yaakov calling Arnold an idiot, Arnold flashing his credential and explaining that it was a matter of top national security relating to the space-time continuum, and Elisheva shouting that Arnold was a fugitive from the X-Files. Then the cops showed up. Patrol Woman Charlotte O'Hara was not in a good mood. As she was leaving the house at 7:30 that morning her daughter put her toast, jelly- side down, on the new couch in the family room -- again. ("Tara O'Hara, how many times have I told you...!") At the station house she learned that her regular partner had phoned in sick and she was assigned to ride with Mike Standish, a decent guy but slow enough on the uptake to think his station house nickname, "Garlic," was a token of affection. Charlotte hoped the "check out a disturbance call" on Hazelnut would be interesting enough to shake off her sour mood, but her disposition was not improved by the way Yaakov and Albert and Elisheva kept shouting at each other. Nor was it improved by the way Gerald ducked in and out, filming, shouting questions and suggesting that Charlotte and Albert stand closer to Yaakov's car so he could get all three of them in a nice, tight shot. And when J. Edgar anointed her right foot, Charlotte lost it. She handcuffed Yaakov and Albert and Ernest and Gerald -- no small accomplishment, as she only had one set of cuffs. Then she and called for the paddy wagon. At the station house, J. Edgar piddled on Desk Sergeant Mario Marinara's chair. Mario responded by ordering Mike Standish to tie J. Edgar's leash to the bars of an empty holding cell in the basement. Then he sorted things out pretty quickly. Charlotte, he decided, had showed less than perfect judgment in hauling everybody in, but Mario, prompted by his characteristic generosity of spirit, was willing to write that off as time- of-month stuff. The only one who actually deserved to be locked up, he figured, was the nut-job who had stolen the professor's computer and impersonated an FBI agent. It happened that Mario's brother-in-law Trent Wellborne was with the FBI, so just to yank his chain, he called him. "Hey Trent? This is Mario. Got a guy here who broke into some professor's home, stole a computer, says he's one of yours, matter of national security. I figure, who am I, a lowly local cop, to interfere ---" "Quit yanking my chain," Trent answered, and then, prompted by a sixth sense, added, "uh, what's the guy's name?" "Lemme see," Mario said, "his very official looking credential says his name is Albert Floogle." "Oh, shit," Trent said. Trent, as it happened, had been the agent-in- charge of that drug surveillance back in February. In the end -- no, it would be better to say "in the middle" -- almost everybody was mollified. Yaakov agreed not to charge Albert with burglary; in exchange he got his computer back, and Officer O'Hara and Special Agent Wellborne each agreed to appear at his seminar next semester. Ernest got J. Edgar back (although he had to rush him to the vet to treat him for severe dehydration). Albert got unarrested and assigned permanently to the dead file room at the Hoover building. Gerald, though, was pretty ticked off because when the camcorder was returned to him, there was no tape in it. Even at this point, the world economy and individual privacy would have been safe and travel to the stars would still be a far-off dream. Except that Gerald complained about the missing tape to Woodward Bernstein, stringer for the Washington Post, who decided to interview Yaakov and Ernest, and wrote a clever "Style" section article about it ("Space-Time Breach in Aspen Hill?"). In the article, a resident along the route commented, "That explains it. I always thought it took an awful long time for me to mow such a small lawn. Who knew I was also mowing Alpha Centauri?" And that indeed was the beginning of the end of life as we knew it. Because Marty Swift happened to read the article, and Marty was a physics graduate student at the University of Maryland who would soon lose his fellowship because he had produced nothing even faintly resembling worthwhile work in the last eighteen months, and when that happened Marty would have to have no choice but to go to work for his father in the family plumbing supply business, so Marty was desperate and decided what the hell, I'll check this thing out. Marty was dating a secretary in the geology department and prevailed upon her to appropriate a department vehicle with a scientifically precise tripometer. From Yaakov Weinberg's driveway to the Independence-Connecticut intersection was exactly 1.987 miles. In the other direction, the exact same route was precisely 1.763 miles. He did it again. The results were the same. A third time. The same. Next, he drove 0.4 miles from the intersection toward Yaakov's house and back. The return was 0.4. From the 0.4 mile mark he went another 0.4 and back. The same. From the 0.8 mile mark he went another four tenths. The trip back measured only 0.2 mile. Shortening the distance each time, he pinpointed the anomaly, which ran along the fence separating 14302 Bauer drive from 14304. So as it turned out, Yaakov indeed had discovered a breach in the space-time continuum, a breach which Marty located precisely. He quickly wrote a paper, posted it on his web site, and waited for the offers to come in. The first "offer," of course, was from NSA-STCG, but by then it was too late. Others had seen the posting, and soon some very powerful scientific instruments were focused along that fence on Bauer Drive. The space-time continuum breach having been confirmed, it was not long before scientists all over the world found several other mini- breaches. And only months after that, several different people developed techniques to exploit those breaches to transmit first inanimate objects, then animals, then human beings, over larger and larger distances. And as the power to transmit items grew, so did the ability to zero in on precisely where they were to be delivered. Within two years, at the cost of a few dollars' electricity, virtually anything could be transmitted, or transported, or (as the process inevitably became known, "beamed") anywhere on earth. Anything -- from a boxcar full of machine tools to miniature cameras and microphones -- could be "beamed" across thousands of miles, -- through walls, ceilings and floors -- to rematerialize exactly where it was aimed. Which, of course, pretty much destroyed privacy as we know it. It also wiped out the transportation industry: who needed cars, trucks, planes, trains or boats? Or gasoline, or tires? Or interstate highways? Tens of millions suddenly out of work. Billions in bank accounts and retirement funds, worthless. The world economy in a shambles. Whole nations, suddenly impoverished and stripped of their influence in the world. On the other hand, the virtual abandonment of cars and trucks has left the atmosphere cleaner. The ozone layer is making a comeback. Several satellites are being readied for beaming into earth orbit, and from there, the plan is to beam entire habitats to the moon. Researchers predict Mars will be accessible by the end of the decade, followed quickly by the larger moons of Saturn and Jupiter. And maybe a decade or so after that ... the stars? And all because May 1, 2001 was a beautiful spring day, and Yaakov Weinberg didn't want to work on his criminal procedure exam. Like Regina, the Associate Dean, said, one thing can lead to another; you never know. ================================================== VULCAN by William Ramsay (Note: this is chapter 19 of the novel "Ay, Chucho!") Pierre was insistent on getting the joint bank account opened and the fifty thousand deposited immediately. So I began my trip to El Salvador on an Air Caribe flight in a 12-passenger Havilland from Santiago to Grand Cayman. I sat up front with the pilot. It turned out that he had trained at Fort Lauderdale Airport with my teacher, Jake Collins. At one point, after closing the cockpit door, he put his finger to his lips and let me take the controls. It felt good to be back in the pilot's seat again, scooting away high above the white puffs of the cloud tops. In Grand Cayman, I took a taxi into town and finished my business at the bank. It took a little longer than expected. I had been thinking about things while at the controls of the Havilland, and I decided that I wanted to make sure that Pierre wouldn't take advantage of me. Mr. Cooper at the Bank of Cheshire and Grand Cayman was very helpful, and the two of us ended up arranging it so that I would come out of the deal with a little bit of "insurance" in case of problems -- for one thing, I changed the personal code for the account to one that suited me better. I also was able to take some other precautions, taking advantage of another account that Pierre had at the bank. I had absolutely no intention of cheating Pierre -- but I didn't see any reason to neglect my own interests, either. I was taking risks, lots of them -- and it was my father's money that was at stake. Anyway, I was in plenty of time to get back to the airport to catch a TACA flight making a stopover from Miami on the way to San Jose, Costa Rica. From San Jose, I made a connection to San Salvador. Approaching Ilopango airport, the old green volcanoes didn't look so mysterious this time, or maybe it was just that I was too nervous to think about time and immortality. I pictured Amelia meeting the plane, then Pepita, then both of them together -- measured alto greetings of "Hello, Chucho" crossing with soprano shouts of "Felipe!" By the time the brakes had squealed into action on the runway in Ilopango, I came close to forgetting why I was there in the first place. I exited the plane, heading down the narrow corrugated tunnel toward the passport control and customs, worrying some about my parents, but more about myself. When I passed through the "Nothing to Declare" line and the door swung open to the clump of people meeting the plane, I felt very unready to face whatever music there would be. Familiar faces in the crowd. One with black hair -- Paco -- the other was blonde -- Valeska in a new avatar of the Afro-Cuban spirit. Paco smiled, gave me an tight abrazo. Valeska put her arm around my neck and gave me a fat-lipped kiss on my ear. Her tongue lapped quickly in the opening of the ear canal and slurped. I pulled my head around to look for the other girls -- not a sign of them! I felt smothered in the dual embrace, but I was so relieved not to see the either Amelia or Pepita that I closed my eyes and let go. Then I felt a third hug, lower down. "Chocolate milkshake," said Valeska's son Pedro, looking up at me. "Later," I said. "Oh!" said Valeska to her son. "Quiet!" "Amelia's been held up in Miami -- she should be here tomorrow," said Paco. As we went to the car, Valeska pulling Pedro along, him yelling "Thirsty!" and digging his feet in, Paco whispered to me: "A friend of yours is waiting back at the hotel." Yipes! Pepita. I closed my eyes in the car as we made trip in from Ilopango. As about the fifth serious pothole had succeeded in jouncing my eyes open, I realized that I should be able to handle one girl at a time. It looked like I had one girl, or two at most, but not three -- because from the way he held her neck in his hairy, tanned arm, it looked like Paco had taken over the handling of Valeska. But when we got to the hotel -- the Sheraton this time, we figured the C.I.A. could afford it -- it soon became a question of who was handling whom. I registered and sent my suitcase and backpack upstairs. Then we met Pepita in the restaurant on the pool level. My first glimpse was of patches of white skin and chartreuse fabric peeking through the dark green leaves of an overgrown dracaena. When I rounded the plant, I got the entire tableau, her healthy Amazon body in a jumpsuit with a very wide brass zipper straight all the way down the front, sitting in the middle of a crimson vinyl-covered booth. She looked like a green fruit in a ripe red pod. She was smiling uneasily. We sat down, Valeska gave Pedro a banknote and he ran off. She put her arm around Paco and squeezed tight. He grimaced and groaned, apparently with pleasure. Pepita looked at me as if she were asking for something. Valeska dropped her hand down under the table, at a level with Paco's beltline. Pepita glanced at them, then turned to me. "There are a number of things we haven't yet reached an understanding about yet in this exchange." "We can talk," I said. "Oooh," went Paco. A waiter approached, shoes slapping on the tile floor. Paco, turning conventional, moved Valeska's hand away and ordered daiquiris for everyone. Valeska yawned. The waiter left and Paco took her hand and eased it back under the table. I noticed Valeska was wearing a jeweled gold pin I didn't recognize. "How did you get involved in all this?" said Pepita, taking my hand. It disappeared inside the cup of her large white fingers. "Felipe? Hmmm?" she said in high-pitched but molasses-smooth tones. "It's complicated." "Felipe," she said. "It's good to see you," I said. Paco groaned again, I was afraid he was going to attain orgasm right at the table. Valeska's arm moved more rapidly, her face looked intent and blase at the same time. Pepita closed her eyes. "Let's..." She opened them and glanced at Paco's face. "What?" I said. "Let's talk about it somewhere else. In your room." What with the porno video put on by Paco and Valeska and Pepita's high, sweet voice, my penis was getting plenty hard. "Let's go," I said, carefully easing myself up out of the booth. I noticed Valeska's face had changed, she was frowning, her other hand was in her own lap. "Uhhn!' said Paco. "Oosh," said Valeska. "Sssss," said Pepita, shaking her head. I took Pepita by the hand and we walked out of the restaurant. I turned at the low stairs up to the main lobby and looked back at the table. Valeska and Paco were still intertwined. Two thin legs and a small rear end clothed in blue shorts were sticking out from under the tablecloth: Pedro had returned. Then Valeska suddenly screeched and rose from her seat and Pedro scrambled out from under the table. "Pedro!" she screamed. Pepita and I headed toward the elevator. Pepita put her arm tightly around my waist and leaned her head down on my shoulder, her strawberry hair tickling the hairs on my neck. Alone in the elevator, I pulled on the big brass zipper and had the catch on her brassiere open before we reached the third floor. A waiter with a dinner cart got in on the fourth. He stared, but Pepita took him by the shoulder and turned his head away from us. She kissed me. The waiter looked up and smiled. I pulled my mouth apart, bared my teeth, and smiled back. As we got off on the sixth floor, Pepita turned around, grasped the open sides of her jumpsuit, and flashed at the waiter. "Salud, comrade," she said. The waiter looked as if someone had just hit him in the kneecap with a baseball bat. "Here," I said, handing him a five-dollar bill, "go out and buy a magazine." As the elevator doors closed, she wrapped her arms around me and said, "Felipe, you arrogant capitalist, corrupting the proletariat." I zipped her up again temporarily and led her by the hand toward room 666. As I took off my underpants, I felt a stinging slap to my rear. I had almost forgotten the physical demands of our relationship. I grabbed her and spanked back. "Oh, Felipe, it's so good to have you back! Hit me again!" After we made as much battle and love as I could manage, I fell asleep, only waking up to eat the steak and mango ice cream that Pepita ordered from room service. I dozed off again feeling drained, bruised, and happy both in body and mind: with good relations restored between me and Pepita, a major obstacle to arranging the exchange seemed to be cleared up. "Felipe." I felt a shaking. "Felipe. 'Youth, divine treasure....'" she said, quoting the Nicaraguan poet Ruben Dario. "Oh, yes, I've missed you." It was the middle of the night, but I yawned and tried to wake myself up. The "Felipe" reminded me of the continuing problem with my dual identity. I had registered with my American passport, under my real name, and I flinched when the phone rang earlier that evening and the desk asked for "Mr. Revueltos." Pepita didn't hear of course, and she might have thought that I would use a nom de guerre, anyway, but in case of slip-ups, I particularly didn't want to have her associate me with the name of the hostages to be exchanged. "Me too, Pepita." "You and that woman with the hair!" I suppressed a giggle. "A good proletarian." She reached down, took hold of my penis, and squeezed tight. "Ouch!" She relaxed her grip. "It's good that your handsome right-wing friend Paco is keeping that little tart busy. Otherwise..." and she slapped my face with light little taps. "Not again! Not just yet, darling," I said. "Poor Felipe!" She caressed one of my bruised cheeks. "Ouch!" "Anyway," she said, "tell me how this exchange came about. Why you?" I professed ignorance, saying that Fidel had found my expertise useful, and that since Americans were involved, he thought my fluent English would be of help. "You know," she said, "I don't think much of Raul Castro. I don't know what's going to happen to Cuba when Fidel goes." I raised my eyebrows. "But," she said making a face, "the Cuban comrades have given us so much support, we'd help them to recover the King of Spain if they asked." "When will the American prisoners arrive in El Salvador?" I said. "They should be arriving any time, perhaps tonight." I was startled at the chill that went up my back -- after all this time. My parents out of Cuba! It had seemed like such a long nightmare. Now to get Raul safely exchanged for them -- and I would have my father back -- and I presumed a loyal son's share of the bearer bonds that could save me from bankruptcy and perhaps torture or assassination. I couldn't go to sleep, so I reached for the inside of Pepita's thigh. A good sound slap on my arm told me that the track was clear. When I woke up again later, the light around the edges of the curtains had become bright. Pepita was awake, reading an agricultural pamphlet, her steel-rimmed glasses setting off her magnificent, prow-like chest, breasts hanging slightly askew. After I had kissed her there, and on the mouth and other places -- and she had given me a few slaps on the shoulder blades -- we talked about a schedule for the exchange. Pepita had arranged for an airstrip near Sosuntepeque to receive the C.I.A. plane with Raul and Pierre. She and the American agent -- Amelia -- would supervise the exchange. Afterward, the American agent -- given the code name "Anvil" for this operation -- would handle getting the prisoners -- "Iron" and "Steel" (my parents) and "Alloy" (Pillo) -- from FMLN territory into government-held positions. Pepita -- "Hammer" -- would see that Raul would return to Cuba in the same plane that he arrived in, but with a new pilot supplied by the FMLN. I -- as "Vulcan" -- would be responsible for liaison when needed. I hoped that would be never: "Vulcan"'s greatest ambition was to avoid ending up in some kind of smash between "Hammer" and "Anvil." Pepita had not been clued in on my parents' identities. She remarked that "Iron" and "Steel" must be important. I said they were undoubtedly important to somebody. She stroked my cheek and said that she wished that she were as important as that to some special somebody. "You're nice, Pepita." "'Nice'! And you could sleep with someone like that awful vulgar woman." "A good working-class girl." "Carlos Marx didn't know the people you know," she said. Her lips pursed out into a pout. I stroked her brow, pushing away the wrinkles, and then I kissed away the pout. She gently pinched back. I remember wondering if I was going to miss Pepita when all this was over with. I massaged the upper part of my arm, where the latest major bruise was. "I'm sorry that 'Anvil' didn't get here before I have to leave for Sosuntepeque." Pepita was leaving San Salvador at ten that morning. "Yes," I said, "too bad." "Well, I hope you get on with him." "Yeah." "I'll meet him sometime in the course of all this, I would think." "Maybe so," I said. I hope not, I hope not, I thought. Keeping Amelia and Pepita from exchanging notes had suddenly become an important goal in my life. Later, as I put Pepita into a taxi to make her rendezvous for the trip to Sosuntepeque, I thought: so far, so good. "You have all the instructions for communications with us out there, the code words and so on?" "Right." Just then another taxi began to pull up alongside. Through the glass, I could see it was Amelia. But she couldn't see me yet. "Kiss me, Felipe," said Pepita. Over the top of the cab, I saw Amelia raising her head. I lowered mine, giving Pepita a fast buss on the cheek. "More," said Pepita. I didn't dare look up. Through the window of Pepita's cab I could see Amelia's shoulder and torso as she alighted. I grabbed Pepita and kissed her hard on the mouth and then pulled back abruptly. "That's more like it," said Pepita, giving me a sharp little slap on the hand. "Chucho!" yelled Amelia over the top of the cab. "Take off!" I yelled to Pepita's driver. The cab lurched into gear. I could hear a thin "Fe-liiii-peeee!" as it took off, leaving me facing Amelia. "Chucho, who was that?" "Who was who?" "In the taxi." I realized I was surprised at something. "Amelia, you're talking to me, I mean really talking. Have you forgiven me?" "Oh, Chucho!" She looked almost angry. "I'm so mad." "At me?" "No, at myself." She came over and gave me an abrazo, hugging me to her small, solid breasts, softly encased in pink silk. I didn't know what to say. "When I saw that slut with my brother last week, I was disgusted, but still..." She bit her lip. "I was so glad she wasn't with you, Chucho. I realized that was all that counted." She took me by the shoulders as if I had been a naughty little boy. "Come on." "Come on what?" "I know you, you can't wait, you Cuban Michael Caine." "Errol Flynn," I said automatically. I knew what she meant. And everything within a radius of three feet of my crotch area longed for a lengthy rest, a week in some mountain monastery. She pulled at my arm. "Ouch," I said. "Did I hurt you?" "No. But wait a minute." "She looked at me closely. "Is something wrong?" A frown spread from her eyes up to her hairline. It was no use. "No, no, just wait a minute until my room is ready." "God" she said, "let's go into the ladies' room and grab a booth, I can't wait." "No, no, Amelia, remember it's Havana, no toilet paper." She made a face. "Sometimes I hate communism," she said. "Hey," she said, "this isn't Havana, it's San Salvador." I edged away. "So it is, but let me double-check." "Double-check what country we're in?" By this time we were halfway to the desk. "No, my room." I took a breath. "If the room's ready." "God," she said. "Yes, with His help..." "With whose help what?" "Oh nothing," I said. "Let's order a drink in the bar while I check -- you look like you need one, darling." "Oh, O.K. But I don't, really." "I do." I figured I was entitled to two. As it turned out, Amelia was considerate of me -- she let me have an early, restorative lunch before we took our long afternoon siesta. And some people call me selfish. ================================================== "XXX" by Otho Eskin (This is the third part of the comedy "Shell Game") CHARACTERS: HIRSCHEL A 70-year old bellhop. HENRY YURT A professional thief and con man who likes to dress as a woman. As a man, Henry is thoroughly masculine. As a woman (Heidi)YURT is feminine and attractive and obsessed with clothes, shopping and make-up. HORATIO TREADWELL. A swinish US Senator. CORLISS SHAW. Treadwell's submissive and abused special assistant. Corliss is a closet gay. ZENOBIA BIRDSONG A beautiful, very sweet, blond, somewhat dim, chorus girl - in her early twenties. Her appearance and her wardrobe strangely resembles Heidi's. BOOM-BOOM McKOOL Head of a large crime syndicate. CYBIL Senator Treadwell's wife. PLACE Two adjoining suites at Shangri La-West, a very exclusive, very expensive resort. TIME The present ACT 1 (continued) ZENOBIA Course, LaVerne usually got to be the virgin, but then she started sneezing when she got close to the ape. I did the act till LaVerne got her allergy shots. BOOM-BOOM I cried at every one of your performances. It was that good. ZENOBIA Thank you, Mr. McKool. But as much satisfaction as I get from being an understudy for the chorus line at the Ding-A-Ling Club, I aspire to higher things. I am an artist. I have something important to say. BOOM-BOOM I believe in you, Miss Birdsong. ZENOBIA That's why I came to Shangri La West. To audition for a new act where I can do something other than scream. BOOM-BOOM I would like to hear all about you, Miss Treadwell. About your life. Your dreams. ZENOBIA There's not much to tell. I'm an orphan. To make matters worse, so was my brother. Him and me we were left on the steps of Mrs. Wooten's Home for Unwanted Infants in Allentown, Pennsylvania when we were only a few days old. My brother ran away when he was nine. Since then I've had to make my own way in life. (ZENOBIA glances at her watch.) Under normal circumstances, Mr. McKool, and seeing as how you are an appreciator of the fine arts, I would love to stay and talk but the auditions begin soon. (CYBIL discovers the cosmetics case which Zenobia left in the Honeymoon Suite.) BOOM-BOOM I would be honored if you would call me Boom-Boom. ZENOBIA Of course, Mr. Boom-Boom. BOOM-BOOM Would you permit me to accompany you to the audition, Miss Birdsong? ZENOBIA That would be very nice. (CYBIL, her suspicions aroused by the cosmetics case, spots the common door. ZENOBIA and BOOM-BOOM exit the Empress Suite. YURT returns to the living room and puts on his blonde wig and shoes just as CYBIL opens the common door and enters the Empress Suite, carrying the cosmetics case. YURT and CYBIL stare at each other.) CYBIL Filthy, conniving, man-stealer! YURT I don't think we've been introduced. My name's Heidi... CYBIL Your name's mud... YURT There must be some mistake. CYBIL There's no mistake. (Pointing at the cosmetics case.) This yours? YURT My case! You've got my cosmetics case! CYBIL You admit it's yours. YURT Of course it's mine. CYBIL What was it doing in my husband's room? You're having an affair with my husband. You're dead! (CYBIL puts down the case and fumbles with her gun. YURT makes a dash for the bedroom door, slamming and locking the door behind him. CYBIL tries to open the door, beating at the door in a fury.) CYBIL (Continued) Come out of there, harlot! You can't escape my wrath! (CYBIL kicks at the door.) CYBIL (Continued) I'm counting to three. Then I'm coming in. I'm warning you, if you don't open the door before three, I'm going to be really annoyed. One. Two... (The door to the bedroom opens and YURT appears, as a man, dressed in one of BOOM-BOOM's suits (several sizes too large). CYBIL steps back, stunned and, for a moment, speechless.) CYBIL Where's the girl? YURT Girl? What you talking about, lady? CYBIL The girl that just went in there! YURT There ain't no girl in here. I woulda noticed somethin' like that. CYBIL I just saw her go into the bedroom. (CYBIL enters the bedroom, YURT moves toward the case which CYBIL had brought in. CYBIL returns to the living room.) CYBIL (Continued) Where the hell did she go? YURT There's no one here but me. And you. Just the two of us. CYBIL I'm losing it! I swear a girl just went in that door. A bleached blond, really sleazy looking. Obviously a tramp. YURT I beg your pardon! I guess you must be the young lady who's living here in this suite with me. CYBIL I am? YURT It's a real pleasure to meet you. CYBIL My name's Cybil. I'm not sharing any suite with you. I'm in the next suite with my husband, Horatio Treadwell. YURT Yeah. I heard of him. Isn't he the one ? CYBIL That's him. Your friendly defender of public virtue, protector of the innocent. Hail fellow well met, back-slapping, tongue down your throat kind of guy. Your typical Washington asshole. YURT This.. eh.. this girl ..how come you're looking for her? CYBIL My husband's been cheating on me with her. YURT I don't mean no disrespect, lady, but there ain't no way your husband could be having an affair with her. CYBIL And just who the hell are you? YURT My name's Heid..Heid ..Heid.. Henry. Henry Yurt. (YURT eyes the cosmetics case, which CYBIL has put on the floor at her feet.) YURT (Continued) That's a damn fine cosmetics case. Mind if I take a look? (YURT kneels to get a closer look at the cosmetics case. CYBIL anxiously pulls the case toward her.) CYBIL I can't let it out of my sight. This belongs to the slut. YURT (Anxiously) You ain't gonna open it or now...? CYBIL I'll find evidence of who she is. Then I can arrange to have her run over by a truck. You understand? (YURT still on his knees, looks at CYBIL's shoes.) YURT Well I'll be goddamned! CYBIL What is it? YURT Those pumps aren't Farragamo are they? CYBIL I guess so. YURT It's unfuckingbelievable! I've been looking for a pair that color for months. CYBIL You have? YURT A little strappy number with saucy heels. I don't know about you but I have a helluva time finding the right shoes. CYBIL If it looks good, it hurts. That's the main lesson I've learned in life. YURT Truer words were never spoken, Mrs. Treadwell! CYBIL Please call me Cybil. YURT Did you see the boutique in the lobby, Cybil? There's this darling purse in the window you know, with small beads and a stylish brass buckle that would be smashing with your shoes. CYBIL I guess I didn't notice. YURT Maybe if you're free sometime we could go shopping together. I just adore shopping, don't you? CYBIL Personally I detest it. YURT Well... yes. I was going to ask you about your outfit. CYBIL You hate it. YURT I think with just a few changes in details you could be a sensation. CYBIL Really? YURT Lose the bangles! CYBIL Really? YURT We should do something with your face. CYBIL You leave my face alone! YURT Make up, Cybil. Make up. No more frosty pink lipstick, Cybil. Frosty pink is over! Over! Over! It's history. Just a little base, a few dabs of shimmer and translucent powder. Gloss for that pouty yet serious look. Perhaps a touch of gold on the center of the lower lip. CYBIL What are you talking about? (YURT holds CYBIL's face in his two hands and stares deep into her eyes.) YURT We're looking for major eyes here. Heavy eye liner. Killer lashes. Tons of mascara. (YURT runs his hand through CYBIL's hair. CYBIL closes her eyes with pleasure and sighs.) YURT Split ends! The cross we all must bear. CYBIL Who are you? YURT We must do something with your hair. CYBIL Bruce, who usually does hair, says what my face needs is a pageboy. YURT Bruce is an animal. What you must have is wispy bangs brushed down over the forehead. And a middle part to provide drama. CYBIL I don't think I've ever met anyone just like you. YURT I wouldn't be a bit surprised. CYBIL I've spent the last eighteen years living as the wife of a senator, a life spent among the bottom feeders of American politics. I realize now there's something important missing in my life. YURT Mousse? CYBIL Do you know what my favorite word in the English language is? Love. What's yours? (YURT thinks a moment.) YURT Shopping? CYBIL I can't stay any longer. I must find that girl and scratch her eyes out. She looks like the type who hangs out in lounges. I'll check out the bar. But we must talk again. Very soon. YURT Perhaps you'd care to leave the cosmetics case with me. I can keep an eye on it. (CYBIL picks up the cosmetics case and heads for the common door.) CYBIL I'll send a note with the bellboy and let you know when I'm free to meet again. We can talk accessories. YURT (Staring mournfully at the cosmetics case.) That would be wonderful. About the case... CYBIL bient“t, my dear. (CYBIL blows YURT a kiss and exits, carrying the cosmetics case, going into the Honeymoon Suite. SHE puts the cosmetics case down and leaves. Back in the Empress Suite YURT discovers the second cosmetics case left by Zenobia and is just about to open it when BOOM-BOOM enters. BOOM-BOOM stares at YURT in stunned amazement.) BOOM-BOOM Jesus H. Christ! What the fuck you doin' here, Yurt?!! YURT Boom-Boom, you crazy bastard, how the hell are you? (BOOM-BOOM grasps YURT by the lapel) BOOM-BOOM Shut the fuck up, Yurt! You not only steal nine and a half million dollars my money. You come in here and steal my suit. You got no shame, Yurt. No fucking shame. (YURT backs away.) YURT You think I took your money, Boom-Boom? You fuckin' serious? Nobody fucks with Boom-Boom McKool. Everybody knows that. You think I'm crazy? You think I'm stupid? You think I'm fuckin' stupid? BOOM-BOOM Yeah, I think you're fuckin' stupid. Give me my money. YURT With all due respect, I think you're out of line here. We should try to talk this out. We're old buddies, Boom-Boom. Right? We respect one another. We're honorable men. OK, we've had our ups and downs... BOOM-BOOM Know what your problem is, Yurt? You talk too fuckin' much. YURT I can explain everything. BOOM-BOOM What's to explain? You're a lying, cheating, perverted thief. YURT What do you mean "perverted"? BOOM-BOOM You like to wear dresses. Correct me if I'm wrong but girls wear dresses. Boys wear pants. YURT I beg your pardon! Why should girls have all the fun? They get to dress up. Put on make-up. Wear perfume. Wear stylish shoes. I just like to be pretty. Is that a crime? So shoot me. (BOOM-BOOM pulls a gun and aims it at YURT.) YURT That's just an expression. BOOM-BOOM Make me happy, Yurt. Drop dead! No. Give me my money. Then drop dead! YURT Why don't we try to think of this in terms of a short-term loan arrangement? BOOM-BOOM Did you know Tony "Big Nose" Garbanzo? YURT Tony Garbanzo? BOOM-BOOM Guy with a big nose. YURT Oh! That Tony "Big Nose" Garbanzo! BOOM-BOOM Tony a friend of yours, Yurt? He come to the club? He mouth off? YURT Whatever became of good old Tony? BOOM-BOOM Good old Tony is now beneath the footings of a large parking garage under construction in Santa Monica. YURT A parking garage? In Santa Monica? BOOM-BOOM You should be so lucky. YURT I swear by my grandmother's tattoos, if I had any idea the least little fuckin' inkling this money belonged to you I'd have brought it to you immediately. You oughta be grateful it was me what found your money, Boom-Boom. Somebody else found it, they might not have been so careful. I can't believe the amount of dishonesty there is these days. I don't know what this country's coming to. Crime. Violence. Cheating. Was a time you could trust other people. A man's word was his honor. You understand. But today! You can't walk down to the corner to buy a TV guide without you being mugged. Where are the police when you need them? BOOM-BOOM You stole my money, Yurt. YURT Stole? Stole? I can't fuckin believe you said that. You think I stole your money. You shittin' me? You fuckin' shittin me? I never stole nothing from you. Would I lie to you, Boom-Boom? Would I fuckin' lie to you? BOOM-BOOM Yes you'd lie to me. You're a rotten, conniving, deceitful thief. YURT You're talkin' like I'm some kind of criminal. BOOM-BOOM You are a criminal, Yurt. Now listen carefully cause I'm gonna say this jus' once. I want my money back. Now! You robbed me. Eleven and a half big ones. You know how that looks to my associates? They think maybe I'm gettin' soft. YURT Hey! I'm here to say you're not getting soft. No way. Hard as nails, I'd say.... BOOM-BOOM How'd you like a bullet in the head? YURT That wouldn't be my first choice. BOOM-BOOM I now gotta pay that money to some guys from the East Coast. With interest. Guys who ain't so forgiving as me. They're out now looking for their money and me. Give me the money, Yurt! You got five seconds. (YURT moves carefully toward the common door.) YURT Sure, Boom-Boom. Anything you say, Boom-Boom. (YURT dashes into the Honeymoon Suite just as BOOM- BOOM aims. YURT locks the door. BOOM-BOOM tries to force open the door but can't. YURT sees the cosmetics case where CYBIL left it. Thoroughly confused now, he starts to open it. BOOM-BOOM goes to the phone, dials. CORLISS enters the Honeymoon Suite.) CORLISS (Surprised - To YURT) Who are you? What are you doing here in Senator... in this suite? YURT This is all just a simple mix up. I'm staying in the Empress Suite just next door, you understand. Mrs. Treadwell came over to visit just a few minutes ago.... CORLISS Cybil Treadwell? She's here at Shangri La West? Oh, my God! This is a disaster. It's the end of the world. YURT I've already had a word with Cybil about her unfortunate fashion choices. BOOM-BOOM (On the phone) Hello, Punchy... Yeah, it's me. I found that asshole Yurt. Right here in the goddam hotel. ...You believe it? ... I want you and the boys should start searchin' for him right away. And Two Thumbs Luzak... You heard me.... Expense is no item. I want the best muscle in the country. Cover all the entrances, the parking garage, the bars. And don't forget the ladies' rooms.... You heard me. That fucker Yurt is not getting out of this hotel alive. You unnerstand my meaning? (BOOM-BOOM slams the phone down. HIRSCHEL enters the Empress Suite.) HIRSCHEL You called, sir? BOOM-BOOM Get out of here! I'm busy! HIRSCHEL The front desk said you rang. BOOM-BOOM Can't you see I'm trying to shoot someone. HIRSCHEL Just because there are somebody else's clothes in your closet? If you damage hotel property it will be added to your bill. BOOM-BOOM Do I look like I care? (BOOM-BOOM bangs angrily on the door.) BOOM-BOOM Open this door, you thieving son-of-a-bitch! CORLISS What's going on here? (CORLISS gestures toward the common door.) YURT Oh, that! It's nothing. BOOM-BOOM When I get my hands on you I'm gonna tear you apart. Slowly. Then I'm going to put you down in disposal. Unnerstand?! (HIRSCHEL heads for the door.) BOOM-BOOM (To HIRSCHEL) Wait a minute! (HIRSCHEL freezes.) BOOM-BOOM (To HIRSCHEL) I want the key to this door. HIRSCHEL I don't have a key. YURT Cybil Mrs. Treadwell was carrying a cosmetics case just like mine. I guess she picked up the wrong one and took it with her. Left hers in my suite. Hey! I see it right over there. (YURT points to the cosmetics case.) BOOM-BOOM Whaddya mean, you got no key? You gotta have a key. (BOOM-BOOM grabs HIRSCHEL's arm.) BOOM-BOOM Make me happy, gramps. Find me a key! Or I break all your fingers. HIRSCHEL There's an extra key in the manager's office. YURT (Continued) At least I think this is mine. They look identical. I'm not sure. BOOM-BOOM Then let's you and me go there and get it. (BOOM-BOOM and HIRSCHEL leave. YURT listens to the common door.) CORLISS Why don't you go next door and get the other case? We can open them both and see which is which. YURT OK. (YURT listens at the door) It seems quiet in there. I guess he must have left. I'll go get the other case. (YURT goes into the Empress Suite, shutting the door behind him. HE crosses to the cosmetics case and struggles to open the case. TREADWELL enters the Honeymoon Suite.) CORLISS Senator, I just learned that Mrs. Treadwell is here at Shangri-Law. TREADWELL Keep her away from me. CORLISS But, sir TREADWELL And I want that girl Zenobia. Go find her. Bring her here CORLISS (Glancing at the common door) With Mrs. Treadwell here at Shangri La? I think we better leave right away. TREADWELL No way, Twinkle-toes. Get that girl! Now! I'm going to set the stage. CORLISS If you insist, Senator. TREADWELL I insist. (CORLISS leaves the Honeymoon Suite.) END OF PART THREE =================================================== =================================================