Deity Arms: Come Fly With Me free porn video

Deity Arms: Come Fly With Me By: The Professor Authors note: This is the first story of my promised new universe, and I'm pleased to announce that any and all of you are more than welcome to write stories in it. In fact, that's one of the major reasons I wrote this story. My story is designed as a stand-alone tale, although I may revisit Deity Arms from time to time. It makes an excellent setting for my stories which would be inappropriate for Ovid. For example, there's no place for airline flight attendants in Ovid. The town is far too small for commercial air service. When I began the Ovid cycle, I fully intended to let others write about it. Then I discovered a problem I should have realized before I started: the problem with small towns is that everything is interrelated. Residents of a small town find their lives intertwined with each other, so if I allowed someone else to write an Ovid story, I'd have to figure out how to fit it into my tales. That just wouldn't work. Deity Arms doesn't present that problem. New Yorkers, like residents of any large city, can live right next to each other for years and never meet. That means Deity Arms can allow for almost limitless stories that don't interfere with each other. I've tried to keep Deity Arms fairly simple, but by its nature, it can't be as elegantly simple as Bill Hart's magnificent Spells R' Us, or as versatile as Jennifer Adams fine creation, the Medallion of Zulo. At Deity Arms, you'll find a strange assortment of gods and goddesses. Some, like Mr. L, are based on real gods, but so little is known about them that almost any attribute can be given to them. Others, like Luk, represent gods so minor and obscure that no one remembers them. Luk is strictly a figment of my imagination. So you see, you can create and use gods until your heart is content - even ones who never existed! Likewise, Deity Arms has no actual street address. It is vaguely near Greenwich Village. For those of you who don't know New York, don't worry. It is just an old, funky, somewhat arty neighborhood like those found in many large cities. The area immediately around Deity Arms changes, since businesses in the real world come and go. Who knows? Maybe there's even a branch of Spells R' Us nearby and the Medallion of Zulo may be as near as the closest second hand shop. So have fun with it. I hope you enjoyed my story, and I hope it will prompt you to write one of your own. I'd be happy to help you - sort of fill in the details if you need my help. Just be like Mr. L and have fun! - The Professor ************************** Luk was a jealous god. Now that didn't mean that he would have no other gods before him. Quite to the contrary, Luk was content to be a minor god for all of his immortal life. The problem was, he was jealous. Other gods were at least remembered, even if they were no longer worshiped, but not Luk. Luk had been last worshiped long before Alexander had incorporated his homeland into part of an empire. He had been a minor god even then. Luk first became aware of himself in an age before written history. In what is now the Balkans, he found himself a war god of a now-nameless tribe near the Black Sea. At first, he enjoyed some small success, inspiring his followers to victorious battles (skirmishes, actually) over neighboring tribes. Then came the Greeks and Macedonians with their bronze swords and shining armor and worst of all, their insufferable gods. The defeat of Luk's people was too insignificant an event to find its way into recorded history. One minute, he was worshiped by a small but reasonably prosperous tribe; the next minute, his ramshackle temple had been torn to the ground, its wooden supports used to make a fire over which three of the tribe's fattest sheep were sacrificed to Zeus. Luk was, of course, very jealous of Zeus. The Greek god and his fellow Olympians had it all, it seemed. First, the Greeks worshiped them and then the Romans. Then once their theology had been supplanted, they moved on into more secular roles. Luk understood they had even managed to migrate to America where they were probably prospering once more. Well, Luk thought to himself, at least he was on his way to America now. Perhaps there, his fortunes would change. They couldn't get much worse. The last century had been a living hell for the forgotten god. It seemed as if every turn of events produced another war in the region. It was worse than the Turkish invasions. He had even been shot in two of the wars, but he didn't remember which ones they had been. There had been so many. Of course, being immortal, he was in no real danger, but being shot had hurt, damn it! His face had taken on a look of weary middle age, and his hawkish nose seemed almost to droop, matching the slant of his shoulders. But, he thought, as he got off the plane at New York's Kennedy Airport, his belly full of delicious airline food (which shows just how low he had fallen), perhaps things were looking up. He had managed to make it into the United States by posing as a Kosovar refugee. In a way, he was, he mused. After all, he had lived in virtually every part of the Balkans. At some time in history, he must have considered himself a Kosovar. Anyhow, America, unnerved by its lack of success in the region, had opened its doors to the Kosovars. For Luk, it was a golden opportunity. But what now? he wondered as he stood at the curb near the taxi stand outside the terminal. Perhaps he should have stayed with the gaggle of Kosovars that had flown to America with him. But no, he knew his future lay upon a different path. He just felt it. Ever since he had landed, he had felt it. Something was pulling him into the city. Something that would start him on the road to a better future. "Where to, buddy?" He looked over his shoulder to see a swarthy man leaning on a yellow taxi. He wore a yellow badge indicating that his name was Kemal. The man's accent was vaguely Turkish. "Excuse me?" he replied in his own heavily accented English. "New to town, eh?" the cabbie asked with a grin. Luk shifted uncomfortably. Cabbies all over the world loved newcomers. They never knew when they were being ferried far out of their way. "I need a hotel," he managed at last. "A cheap one." There. That would tell the cabbie he had little money. Sadly, it was true. The cabbie shrugged. "Okay. There's lots of cheap ones real close." Luk shook his head. "No! Not close." He pointed in the direction of Manhattan. "Over there." "A cheap hotel in the city, huh?" the cabbie laughed. "Okay, we find something. Not to worry." He grabbed Luk's shabby cardboard suitcase. "You come; we find." Luk sighed, climbing into the cab. This was going to cost him he knew, but he had to find out what was pulling at him. The towers of Manhattan loomed closer and closer, and for the first time in more years than he could count, Luk felt a glimmer of hope. There was something there on that urban island - something that would change his immortal life for the better. His destination came to him in a flash as the cab emerged from the tunnel connecting Long Island to the city. The driver looked surprised. "No cheap hotels there," he explained. "That too near the Village." "Village?" Luk repeated. Manhattan was hardly a village. "Greenwich Village," the driver told him. "It expensive now. All artsy- fartsy. Even bad places expensive now." Could his instincts be wrong? No, whatever was pulling at him was there, on the edge of the village. If he refused to heed its call, his future might be bleak. "I don't care. Go there - now!" The driver shrugged. A fare was a fare. This little immigrant with his weasel-like face and ragged clothes would not last long in the city. Damned immigrants, he thought to himself, not appreciating the irony that he had been in America only two years himself. The cab lurched to a stop after cutting across two busy lanes of traffic. "What's wrong?" Luk asked, clutching his ragged coat to his chest. "No wrong," the driver growled. "We here - where you say." Luk looked out of the cab. He had been so lost in thought that he had not been paying attention to his surroundings. That was not good, he realized. A cabbie would be able to drive him all over the city for an inflated fare unless he paid attention. Oh well, the damage - if there was any - was already done. The neighborhood was a pleasant one, he realized with a wave of relief. Unlike the concentrations of tall buildings at the southern end of the island, this area consisted of smaller buildings, mostly two or three stories high or less, made of brick and brownstone, arranged around a small park which occupied a small block of its own. Most of the buildings were modest but neat, a store or restaurant gracing the street floor with apartments or inconspicuous offices on the upper floors. "Which building is it?" called out to the driver as he exited the cab. "Don't know," the driver admitted, pulling his tattered suitcase from the trunk and setting it on the curb. "Did not see number you gave, but must be here. Is that block." Luk peeled a bill from his meager roll of money, then sighed as the driver's hand remained extended for more. Reluctantly, he placed another bill in the driver's hand. The driver's meaty paw surrounded the bills. He didn't offer any change as he smiled and leaped back into the cab, screeching away from the curb and back into the chaos that was New York traffic. Luk could only shake his head. He had paid too much, he knew. But what was his choice? He was just a poor forgotten god from a rural province. The big city was a frightening mystery to him. He wasn't even sure where he was supposed to go. Then a thought struck him. The pull was still there, but it was all around him. Which direction was it actually coming from? He closed his eyes while gripping his suitcase tighter as protection against would-be thieves. The neighborhood looked pleasant enough, but one could never tell. With his eyes closed, he began to feel the pull. It was coming from the nearer side - the north side - of the square. Triumphantly, Luk opened his eyes. Before him stood a large building in the middle of the block, its brownstone fa?ade weathered by age and city pollution. It rose six stories above the pavement, making it by two floors the tallest building on the square. Above the polished heavy oak front doors, two gargoyles perched on a ledge. Between them, carved into the stone, were two words: Deety Arms. But part of the stone on one of the words had either worn or been chipped away, for the second "e" looked more like an "i" at first glance. Deety Arms. Or maybe it was Deity Arms. In any case, it was a fitting sign. His confidence returning for the first time in what seemed like centuries, he strode toward the oak doors. A bit of his confidence waned as he entered the building. The polished oak wainscoting and plush green carpet in the lobby bespoke of old wealth. Even the hunter green wallpaper above the wainscoting reeked of money. Luk had felt the old brownstone might be a key to his future, but what possible future could he have here? He was just a poor country god, not sophisticated in the ways of the world. A security guard looked up from his desk as Luk approached. The guard was big and burly, and Luk cringed under his harsh scrutiny. "Can I help you?" the guard said, surprising Luk with his politeness. "I...I..." Luk began nervously. His English wasn't good enough to explain how he had been drawn into the building. Before he could flee in embarrassment, a man suddenly popped out of a door near the guard's desk. He was tall and slender, and although his skin was that of a young man, his hair was white and close cropped. Luk wasn't sure of modern styles, but he was sure the dark blue suit the man wore was very expensive. He stared at Luk with intense blue eyes. Then he adjusted his obviously expensive tie and offered a hand to Luk, a thin smile on his lips. Nervously Luk accepted the hand, not at all surprised to find its grip firm but reassuring. "You must be our new applicant," the man said in a cultured accent. "I'll be with you in just a moment. Horace here will give you an employment application. Fill it out and I'll be right with you." He turned away, then stopped and turned back to face Luk, a new coldness in his eyes. "Make sure you fill out the application completely and honestly. Do you understand?" "Yes sir!" Luk said, nearly snapping to attention. The smile returned. "Good. Then I'll be with you shortly." He disappeared again behind the door. The guard actually gave Luk a friendly smile. "Don't worry, Mr. L just likes to show off a bit. He got that look from his favorite TV show, Fantasy Island." "Fantasy Island?" Luk mumbled, not understanding. The guard chuckled, not noticing Luk's ignorance. "Yeah. Boy, you should have seen what he did with the poor bastard who cancelled that show. I wouldn't have wanted to be in his shoes. By the way, his shoes are now a size seven - women's. Mr. L made him one of the Rockettes. He - she now - does two shows a day over at Radio City." Luk wasn't sure what the man was talking about. It sounded like English, but he had no idea what the guard was talking about. Deciding that it was best to just keep his mouth shut, Luk accepted a clipboard and pen from the guard and sat down in a visitor's chair to study the attached application form. To his surprise and delight, he found the form was in his native tongue - or rather in the language he had been speaking for the last couple of centuries. Familiar with the first questions, he quickly filled out the form. He had really had no intention of applying for a job when he had wandered into the lobby, but why not? He had no other prospects. It wouldn't hurt to try to get a job. Then the questions deviated into things he had never been asked before. Things like: What were you god of? How many worshipers did you have at the height of your power? Did you encourage human sacrifices? If so, why? Luk had never imagined having to answer such questions. Who exactly was this strange Mr. L anyhow? Whoever he was, he knew Luk was an immortal. No one had suspected him of that in many centuries. No one believed in the old gods anymore, did they? Luk was perspiring profusely as he finally signed his name to the application. Nervously, his hands shaking, he returned the clipboard to the guard. "Hey, don't sweat it, buddy," the guard consoled him. "Mr. L. is really a straight shooter. You got nothing to be afraid of." Luk had no idea what a "straight shooter" was. He hoped that didn't mean Mr. L was armed. Luk had been shot more than once in his long life, and although he couldn't be killed, being shot as noted before still hurt like hell. Luk didn't like being shot one little bit. But the guard had also said he had nothing to worry about. He hoped the guard knew what he was talking about. Before he could worry more, the door opened again. It was Mr. L. The strange man took the clipboard from the guard and glanced at it for a second. Then with a toothy grin for Luk's benefit, he said, "Well, all right then, Mr. Luk, shall we talk?" Luk was ushered into a suite of offices decorated much like the lobby. He wasn't sure exactly what he had been expecting, but what he saw could have passed for offices anywhere in the world. Attractive young secretaries sat at neat workstations, their eyes never leaving the screens of their computers, while young executives in neat business suits studied documents or talked on the phones in small, tasteful offices. Mr. L's office was by far the largest, situated at the far end of the office suite with windows overlooking the square. "Please be seated, Mr. Luk," he said formally. "Just Luk, please," Luk replied. He wasn't used to any titles before his name. Mr. L smiled. "Of course. Just Luk then. Now I assume you were urged to come here." "Yes," Luk replied. "I felt... something. It brought me here." "Of course it did," Mr. L agreed, sitting behind his large oak desk as he studied the application. "Hmmm... I see here you were a war god. So did you spend a lot of time with the military?" "Uh...no," Luk managed. "I got to be honest. I not much of a war god." Mr. L smiled. "Actually, that's good. War gods tend to be a little rigid." Luk didn't know whether to be relieved or insulted. Considering the power he suspected this Mr. L possessed, it seemed safer to be relieved. Mr. L continued to thumb through the application. "So it would appear you have no special talents." Luk thought of mentioning he was a pretty decent farmhand but he doubted if that would raise his stock in Mr. L's eyes. "No. None." "No special abilities or attributes?" "No." What, he wondered, was an attribute? Well, he probably didn't have any anyway. Mr. L sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Luk, I can't tell you how often I see this. It's so sad, really. One minute you're a god with worshipers and sacrifices and the next minute..." He spread his hands in a helpless gesture, his manicured fingernails nearly glistening. "It would be better if you had some useful talents," he went on. Luk's heart sank. Was he about to be turned away? Mr. L noted the fear in his eyes. "There's nothing to be concerned about, Luk. We've never turned away a god yet. Of course, you'll have to start at the bottom, but it will be something you've had experience with before. We provide lodgings as well. You'll be on the seventh floor - it's a modest accommodation, but I think you'll be comfortable there." "Seventh floor?" Luk asked. Maybe his English was worse than he thought. Or maybe he had meant the second floor. After all, the building only had six floors - didn't it? "I'll explain later," Mr. L said with a wave of his hand. "For now, let's get you started." "Uh..." Luk began reluctantly. Mr. L cocked his head. "Is there a problem, Mr. Luk?" "No...no problem," Luk assured him. He regretted his interruption but he had to know. "What... what do we do here?" There was a devilish gleam in Mr. L's eyes. "What do we do here? Why, we have fun, Mr. Luk. We have fun..." *** "Atlantic four-one-seven, you are cleared to land..." The voice droned on with runway and wind speed information. I gave the requisite "Roger, Newark," repeating my instructions to the tower and putting us into a gentle descent that wouldn't even jangle the nerves of the most jittery passenger in the back of the bus. It wasn't exactly fancy flying, but I enjoyed it. It was a living. I had flown airliners for fifteen years - ever since I had gotten out of the Air Force. It wasn't as if I missed flying fighters because I never had flown them. While in the military, I had flown KC-135s. That's the big pup that carries aviation fuel for midair refuelings. It's like the plane that explodes in the movie Air Force One. Yep, that's a KC-135. It's nothing but a big gas can in the sky. So flying 737s for Atlantic Air Express was a treat after flying KC-135s. Oh, I know. A lot of pilots don't like the 737. It's not a glamorous plane at all. It's small and squat, and in the industry, they're often called "FLUFs." That stands for "fat little ugly fuckers." But take a look at the big new birds. They practically fly themselves. In fact, you can load in software that will allow them to taxi out, take off and land without human intervention. The pilot can be there just to take the blame if something goes wrong. Now where's the fun in that? Not the 737, though. You've got to fly the FLUF. That's what makes it fun. In fact, that's probably why I ended up flying for a little shoestring outfit like Atlantic. There I was, young Air Force Lieutenant Robert O'Brien, Air Force Academy class of seventy-eight. I could have flown for anybody but I loved the 737. The Air Force has some and I had wanted to fly them, but they needed crews stupid enough to go up into the sky with thousands of pounds of aviation fuel in the place where there should have been passengers. So I made up my mind: when I got out of the Air Force, I would only fly for an airline that exclusively flew the 737. Well, there was another factor, too. I wanted to live in New York. I mean, I was a swinging bachelor again after my wife took off just before I got out of the military. She was out on the West Coast and I wanted to be as far away from her as possible. Besides, I was raised in upstate New York and taught from an early age that Yankee baseball was the only baseball worth following. Also, if you're a bachelor, New York is a great place to be. There are tens of thousands of eligible young women, and half the eligible guys are gay. All the more for guys like me, I reasoned. Atlantic Air Express was just starting up then. Flying out of Newark, the airline was a niche marketer. That meant it didn't go after every passenger. Instead it made a reputation for business travelers by flying two hour routes out of Newark with frequent arrivals and departures. Flights to the West Coast were less frequent, but they arrived and departed at convenient times. Fares weren't the cheapest but they weren't the worst either. Bill Farnsworth, the founder of the airline, was well connected, and he managed to get good slots at many airports, so flight times were convenient for business travelers. When you fly for business, time is money, so convenient flight times often can make up for more expensive fares. He was a marketing genius, too. He knew the full package business travelers wanted. First, they wanted enough seat room to spread out their Wall Street Journal in the morning and use their laptop coming home that evening. He gave it to them, with a First Class section that was both big and affordable. Sure, that meant a few less seats, but the seats he had were usually filled, both in Coach and First Class. Next, he realized that a good cup of coffee and a gourmet Danish went over a lot bigger than a rubber omelet and soggy sausage. Have you ever noticed how the big boys in the airline industry put out a food product that would cause a riot if served in a prison? I mean, United even manages to screw up a cup of Starbucks coffee. So that was what Bill did. He made sure we served light, simple, and above all, tasty fare. And the passengers loved it. Then there were the flight attendants. I mustn't forget them. There was a time when flight attendants were sweet young things. They were high school beauty queens and college dropouts who used the opportunity to fly to meet well-heeled businessmen and pilots. Object: matrimony. The system worked great for a while. Airlines lured the business traveler with flight attendants that looked like they had just stepped out of the pages of Playboy. One airline even advertised "the Air Strip." During that performance, an attractive flight attendant would start out in something almost like a sarong. Then after takeoff, she would strip down to a more revealing outfit. No, it wasn't obscene - just revealing. Southwest Airlines started out dressing their attendants in hot pants and go-go boots back in the disco era. Then all of a sudden, flight attendants decided they wanted to be treated like professionals instead of flying cocktail waitresses. They demanded to fly after being married. Hell, they demanded to fly when they were pregnant. Labor was in short supply and the women's movement was in full swing. In short, they got their way. That's why some of the flight attendants today look like somebody's Russian grandmother. The rest are male. Again, Bill Farnsworth to the rescue. Amid criticisms that he was trying to start Hooter's in the air, he recruited a bevy of sweet young things to be his flight attendants. They smiled, they even giggled, and they served drinks to tired businessmen as if they were getting them relaxed before a night of fun in the sack. Pay a little extra for a ticket on Atlantic? Sure, why not? You could always put it past accounting if you tried. Then you got a convenient flight time, a decent snack, and a little extra leg room to put that woody of yours you got when a flight attendant in a skirt short enough to make Ally McBeal blush served you your afternoon scotch. Yummy! Yes, no doubt about it. Bill Farnsworth was a miracle worker. He had come out of nowhere with plenty of seed capital. Nobody knew where he got the money, but he seemed to have plenty of it to throw around. He had leased three 737s and started running them on East Coast routes. The next thing everybody knew, it was half a dozen planes - then a dozen. Now with nearly thirty planes in the air, he was a force to be reckoned with. The big airlines had tried everything to put him out of business. They tried matching - even beating - fares but they couldn't match his cabin service. When a businessman had the chance to pay about the same fare on Atlantic Air or one of the big boys, why not get pampered by a sweetheart on Atlantic Air? The alternative was getting a bag of peanuts or road kill served up by a middle-aged flight attendant with hips so wide she could barely make it down the aisle. Next, they tried fomenting labor trouble. It shouldn't have been that hard. Our unions had all agreed to lower wages than any other airline. Add to that the fact that the flight attendants were one small step above waitresses at Hooters and it should have spelled labor trouble. Nope. The unions would walk into Bill Farnsworth's office and agree to just about anything he proposed. Nobody knew why - it just worked that way. "The cabin is secure, Captain," a sweet feminine voice came through the intercom. "Thanks, Muriel," I said brightly. "Any time, Captain." My copilot, Jeremy Miller, pushed a shock of dark blonde hair away from his forehead and grinned his usual lopsided grin. "Why do I get the idea you weren't just thanking her for securing the cabin?" I grinned. Jeremy had watched Muriel and I leave together the night before. We had been on layover in Atlanta. Since Jeremy was from there, he had spent the night with relatives, leaving me alone in our hotel room. I had had my eye on Muriel for about a month. As it turned out, she had her eye on me, too. And as they say, the rest was history. "You've got a dirty mind, boy," I said, imitating his Southern drawl, "and I love you for it." Jeremy laughed as I turned the aircraft for final approach. "When are you gonna settle down and get hitched, Bob?" "Never!" I said emphatically, cutting back on the power. "I tried that once and didn't like it." "You don't want to have kids?" "Whatever for?" This was an old discussion. Someone reading a transcript of our conversation would have assumed that Jeremy was the older, more mature, speaker. All he wanted in life was a good job, a loving wife, and a house full of kids - preferably someplace south of the Mason-Dixon Line. Except for the good job, we shared no common goals. Still I liked Jeremy. He was a good kid. He hadn't flown military, but he would have been a good officer. He had a lot of self discipline. He had wanted to fly as long as he could remember. He did odd jobs in high school just to make enough money to take flying lessons. I got the idea his parents could have afforded to pay for his lessons, but they wanted him to pay for them himself just to see how much flying meant to him. Then in college, he flew short hop air cargo to smaller cities out of Atlanta. He logged more hours than I ever logged in KC-135s, and I had a lot of hours. Then when he got out of college, he snagged a job with Atlantic Air. I knew he would have preferred to fly for one of the bigs - particularly Delta since they were headquartered in Atlanta. No such luck, though. He tried to get on there when they were in a temporary hiring freeze. So he ended up with Atlantic. I had flown with him several times. Although he had only been with Atlantic a couple of years, he could handle a FLUF with the best of them. I was senior enough that I could usually pick my schedule, so I tried to fly with Jeremy on the Atlanta run as often as possible. That way I got a room to myself. I could sometimes find a willing flight attendant to share my bed. And if I couldn't, there was plenty of action in Atlanta. We made an effortless approach and landing at Newark. I was actually glad to get back on the ground. I had been flying a lot over the last couple of months. Now I only had one day off. Then it was back to a four day grind which would leave me overnighting in three different cities. But that was it. After that I had ten days off before flying again. I planned to look for a new place in Manhattan during those ten days. I had renewed my place in Jersey on a month-to-month basis in hopes of finding something in the city. The problem was my income. As I've indicated before, pilots with Atlantic don't make the big bucks they pull in over at American or United. And living in the city wasn't cheap. If you wanted to live well in Manhattan, it helped if you were a Middle Eastern oil potentate. Jeremy and I checked in at the crew lounge for messages and found ourselves in the middle of a big party. Most of the crowd were flight attendants, jumping around and squealing while showing a lot of leg. It was heaven, I'll tell you. A few pilots were there, too. I noticed they were mostly the singe guys like me, looking for someone to take home after the party. Foremost among them was Jack "Doc" Vincent. He got the nickname "Doc" because he wanted to be every flight attendant's personal gynecologist. I mean, I was usually on the make, but Doc made me look like an untalented amateur. "Watch out for Doc," was part of every flight attendant's informal training. Doc was just on his way out. I waved at him from across the room, and he waved back, pointing with a gleam in his eye at a little brunette flight attendant in front of him who was obviously leaving with him Doc always did have a thing for brunettes. "There's a lot more of them," he once told me with a devilish grin. I almost passed the party up. Muriel had drained me dry the night before in Atlanta, and to be honest, I was getting a little old to burn the candle at both ends. As it was, I had let Jeremy handle the controls for almost the entire flight. I wanted to go home and sleep straight through until I had to fly again. But curiosity got the best of me. I recognized one of the flight attendants on the edge of the little crowd. It was Donna Westfall. She and I had screwed like minks one night last winter in Detroit where we had been stranded during a snowstorm. "What's the occasion?" I yelled over the laughs and giggles. "We're just having a little going away party for Jennifer Higgins," she told me with a grin. "She's moving to Chicago to work for American." That was often an occasion for a party at Atlantic Air, I thought. The money and working conditions were better at the larger airlines. At forty-three, I was one of the older pilots at Atlantic. Most of the young guys left after five years or less. It was the same with the flight attendants, especially once they decided to get married and/or have a family. Jennifer fell in that category. At thirty, she was pretty close to the upward age of our flight attendants. She had lived in Manhattan and had met some corporate rising star. Word was he had been transferred to Chicago, so it looked as if she was going to follow him there. Jennifer looked happier than the proverbial pig in shit, I thought as I poured myself a glass of punch and took a minute or two to enjoy the party. I was happy for her. She wasn't my type - a little too much of the "girl next door" look for me with her short red hair and dusting of freckles. But I had always liked her. She had flown with me a number of times, so I made my way up to the little crowd surrounding her to wish her well. "Thanks, Bob," she said to me with a grin when I had congratulated her. "Say..." I said to her suddenly, "has anybody leased your apartment in Manhattan yet?" I figured if they hadn't, I'd sublease it from her, assuming it was decent. Apartments in the city that a flight attendant could afford had to be rent controlled. If I could sublease from Jennifer, I might be able to afford to live in Manhattan after all. She gave me an indulgent smile. "I don't think you'd like it, Bob." "Why not?" I had visions of it being a dump. Jennifer knew I'd be looking for a bachelor pad. "Well..." she began slowly, "the d?cor is pretty feminine." "That could be changed," I pointed out. "Where is it?" "Well, it's kind of hard to find. It's near the Village." Near the Village and she could afford it? But it was hard to find, she said. That meant it might be tucked in off the street. I visualized a quiet, inexpensive if small apartment, near great nightlife. This was looking better and better. "I might be willing to sublet," I offered. "Or I could assume your lease if they'll let me." "My lease is up at the end of the month," she explained quickly. That was a bummer. "Look, Jennifer, even if I have to pay more, I'd really like a shot at your place. I've been looking for something in the city for a long time." "Some place where you can pick up a girl at a bar and get her back to your place before she sobers up?" Jennifer asked dryly. "Now Jennifer," I gasped in mock surprise, "do you really think I'm that kind of a guy?" Jennifer looked at me with those beautiful green eyes of hers as if she was trying to come to a decision. As I said, we had known each other for a long time. She seemed to be debating if she should go to bat for me or not. "Look, I'll give you the address. You can check it out if you want. I don't think it's right gor you, though. I'm leaving first thing in the morning for Chicago, so it'll be empty. I can have the manager show it to you." "Great!" I said with a grin. "Do you think there's any chance at all to extend that lease?" "Well, probably not since I've already given notice," she explained. Then seeing my disappointment, added, "But I think the landlord would allow you in at the same rate if I spoke to him." "Who's the landlord, Mother Teresa?" I quipped. No landlord would write a new lease at the same rate if he could figure out a way around it, rent controls notwithstanding. "His name is Mr. Logan," she replied, ignoring my jibe. "He's very nice. He'll remind you of Malcolm McDowell." "Who?" "You know, the actor." "Oh, sure." I did remember him, come to think of it. He had been the baddie in Blue Thunder, a movie all pilots got a chuckle out of. Her green eyes seemed to drill into my very soul then. "Look, Bob, I really don't think you'll like the place. I really recommend you look elsewhere." "I really think I want to see the apartment," I replied. "Am I not good enough for your building?" That did it. "Here's the address," she said, writing it down on a slip of paper. She acted as if she had just made a major decision. "By the way, don't try to drive there. Take a cab. It's a little hard to find." She was right about that. I thought I knew the city well, but Kemal, my driver, was taking me down streets I didn't even know existed. Considering the fact that he had an accent so thick that it sounded as if he had just gotten off the plane from Istanbul, I was surprised he found it so easily. I was impressed. I had expected something out of Joe's Apartment - a roach infested dive. But the building was impressive - almost stately. Facing a little square which boasted a park, it was surrounded by what looked to be a variety of decent restaurants and bars which might be good spots to troll for women. The building itself was brownstone, six floors high. Carved into the stone was the name Deety Arms. I began to wonder uncomfortably if Jennifer had family money or something. The building looked too nice to be affordable, particularly on a flight attendant's salary. If the inside was a nice as the outside, I thought I just might have found the biggest bargain in the city. I might even be able to stop looking at other places and take in a few Yankees games. The lobby was impressive, too. A single guard sat comfortably at a small desk, surrounded by comfortable trappings. The carpet was thick and fairly new and the lighting was soft and relaxing. Hell, this building made the modern apartment I lived in over in Jersey look like the projects. The guard smiled. He was a big powerful looking guy, but he acted like a real pussycat. He asked in a friendly tone, "Can I help you?" "Yeah..." I looked at his nametag. "...Horace. I'm looking for a Mr. Logan. I'm interested in Jennifer Higgins' place." His eyes lit up. It wasn't surprising. This was how things were done in the city. You didn't just go from place to place looking for an apartment if you were smart. Instead you knew somebody. You were a friend of a friend. You were related - whatever it took. Good, reasonable places in the city disappeared faster than cheap wine at a derelict's convention. "I'll just see if he's in," Horace said, subtly giving me the once-over. He disappeared behind a solid oak door, leaving me to look around the lobby. I didn't see much of it, though. I was busy watching people. There were two delightful looking black women on their way back from a shopping trip. They were dressed for action and each had a big Bloomie's sack. That was a good sign. It meant there were at least some young women in the building. Then there was the janitor. He was a piece of work. Short, sort of homely in a nondescript sort of way, he carefully polished the wainscoting in the lobby. I caught a look at his name embroidered on his tan coveralls: "Lucky." Now there was a guy who had been misnamed. If he were about three inches shorter with a name like that, he could have been the Lost Eighth Dwarf in Snow White. He looked up at me and nodded. I nodded back. Just then the oak door opened. I almost gasped when I saw the man who came through it. Jennifer was right - this guy was a perfect twin for Malcolm McDowell. He gave me a polished smile and held out his hand. "You must be Mr. O'Brien," he said in a slight British accent. "Jennifer told me you'd be dropping by." I took his hand. If there was ever a perfect handshake, this man had it. It was form without being too firm and formal without being unfriendly. "Yes, I'm interested in seeing her place - if it's still available." There was a subtle sparkle in his eyes. "Oh yes, it's certainly available. I've been holding it for you. Would you like to see it?" "Yes, please." Jennifer's apartment was on the fifth floor with a view overlooking the square. The glass had to be incredibly thick for there was no sound coming up from the street below. The apartment wasn't large - just a living room, small kitchen, single bedroom and bathroom, but it was all I would ever need. As I looked at the femininely decorated place, I became convinced that Jennifer must have had family money. There was no way a flight attendant for Atlantic Air could afford such an apartment. It wasn't that the furniture was expensive; it wasn't. Oh, it was nice in a girlish sort of way, but hardly top of the line. No, what made this apartment more than I could swing was the apartment itself. The location, the view, and the d?cor all smacked of big bucks. Besides, I would have to spend a small fortune making the place look as if a man lived in it. "What do you think?" Mr. Logan asked me after I had had a chance to wander through every room at least twice. It wasn't a huge place, but for me, it would be perfect. "It's nice," I said as noncommittally as I could. Actually I loved it, but I wasn't going to let him know. Better to let him think I didn't think it was worth...well, whatever the figure was. This place had to go for at least three grand a month. Either Jennifer's family was loaded or she had won the lottery. "Thank you," Mr. Logan said with a smile. "Now shall we discuss terms?" I sighed. Might as well get the bad news over with, I thought. He'd give me the number and I'd tell him I'd think about it. Then we'd shake hands and I'd never see him again. "Sure." He produced a folder I had not seen him carry into the apartment. He must have had it in the apartment already, I reasoned. In it was a lease. With my pilot's vision, I was surprised to see my name was already on it. A bit presumptuous, I thought. "Now the term of the lease is one year," he began. "However you can break the lease with sixty days notice so long as we have another tenant waiting in the wings, so to speak. There's a small damage deposit, of course, and no pets are allowed without the expressed permission of management. Now if you'll just sign here..." I raised my hand. "Wait a minute, Mr. Logan. We haven't discussed the rent yet." He looked at me in mock surprise. "Oh, haven't we? Well, the monthly rent will remain the same as Miss Higgins paid. That would be eleven hundred dollars a month." I nearly dropped my drawers. Eleven hundred a month for an apartment like this near the Village? It was impossible. I managed to start to say, "How...?" Mr. Logan smiled. "How do we keep the rent so low? Well, let me give you a little history of Deety Arms, Mr. O'Brien. This building was built by John Deety back in the late eighteen hundreds. He was a theologian - Harvard trained - and a younger son in one of New England's most prominent families. He wanted this to be a special place, so he turned it over to a management firm which still handles it to this day. So you see, since the ownership remains the same, there is no huge debt service to worry about as there would be if the property had changed hands. Our firm is very old and well financed. We prefer to choose our tenants carefully and charge them fairly." "But you don't know anything about me," I pointed out, not ready to believe I could have a dream place for eleven hundred a month. Hell, I paid more than that already to live in Jersey! "Oh, but we do," Mr. Logan said with an enigmatic smile. "Miss Higgins was kind enough to tell us about you. You seemed just right for our little family." Jennifer said nice things about me? I mean, granted, I had never given her cause to dislike me. As I said before, she wasn't really my type - too much of a girl next door for me. But she had to know I had quite a reputation among the flight attendants. I doubted if she approved. Well, why look a gift horse in the mouth? "Where do I sign?" With another smile, Mr. Logan pointed to a line on the contract and handed me a pen. I took a moment to look over the agreement. There was nothing out of the ordinary. Everything was as he had said. I noticed the building was operated by El and Associates, LLC. El was an odd name, I thought. Maybe it was Spanish, since "el" of course means "the" in that language. I checked the date. It coincided exactly with the date I would have to extend my old lease. No way, though. It was bye-bye Jersey for me and hello New York. I signed gladly. "Excellent," Mr. Logan said, taking the lease and my twenty-one hundred dollar check which covered the damage deposit and first month's rent. "Now when do you think you'll be moving in." "I'm not sure," I told him. "I'll need to set up a moving company and..." "Perhaps we can help you there," he interrupted. As if on cue, there was a knock at the door. "Ah, that would be Mr. Luck." And it was. The little guy I had seen polishing the woodwork entered the apartment with a respectful nod to Mr. Logan. "Mr. Luck here can arrange for your move. We have arrangements with a moving company." We discussed the move in detail. I was at first reluctant to use their company, preferring Mayflower or United or one of the other big companies. But as I discussed it with them - well, really with Mr. Logan as Mr. Luck just nodded when Mr. Logan spoke - it became apparent to me that they would be able to move me cheaply and professionally. Also, they would be able to move me while I was out on my four day schedule. So I was well on my way to being a New York resident. I rushed back to my place in Jersey, gave them my notice, and began to get ready for the movers. That had been what had really sold me on using their movers. I wouldn't have to pack anything up; they'd handle it all - and for peanuts! I had explained to Lucky - or Mr. Luck if you will - how to arrange the furniture and where to stow the rest of the boxes. He nodded dutifully, and as I left the apartment, he and Mr. Logan remained behind to take care of the details. It would be good to return from my trip and have my own stuff waiting for me in my new place. *** "You are most fortunate, Luk," Mr. L said after the newly signed tenant had left. "Yes," Luk agreed, not really sure why he was fortunate. If Mr. L noticed his confusion, he said nothing about it. "Often we go for weeks before a suitable candidate presents himself. This time, we can begin at once. Now you know what you need to do?" "This O'Brien, he told me where to put everything." Mr. L shook his head with a sigh. "No, no, no, Luk. Forget everything he told you. Now here's what you need to do..." *** The four days I was away seemed like four years. I was so anxious to get back to my new apartment. As I had ridden away in my cab, I noted that there appeared to be a number of good restaurants and other nightspots right in the neighborhood. It would be great. I could scout around for a girl, wine and dine her, and whisk her off to my apartment without walking a hundred yards. I managed to find a few things to occupy my time and make the days go by faster. Her name was Gloria and we were on a flight to Denver together. She was one of the newer flight attendants - young and impressionable. Something of a romantic mind hummed under that blonde hair of hers, and I think she had dreams of seducing and marrying a pilot. Silly girl. I scored again the next night in San Francisco. Not a flight attendant this time - just a local girl who thought being a pilot must really be cool. Another silly girl. Being an airline pilot is like being a bus driver in the sky. Even FLUFs practically fly themselves. "So you found your dream apartment," Jeremy surmised. We had just crossed the Mississippi heading back to Newark from a flight to LA. Jeremy had joined my crew at LAX, and I had been regaling him with stories of my new place from the moment we had climbed to cruising altitude. "You gotta see it, Jeremy," I told him proudly. "And you can't believe the service. They're handling the whole move. By now, they've already gotten Jennifer's stuff out of there and mine in. It's a real turnkey deal." Jeremy shook his head. "I never heard of any apartment building doing all of that. And the rent sounds too good to be true. You wouldn't be bullshitting a poor old Southern boy, would you?" "It's all for real," I told him proudly. "And I owe it all to Jennifer. Funny, I didn't even think she liked me that much. I mean, we've flown together a few times, but that was it." "What?" Jeremy drawled in mock surprise. "You mean there's a flight attendant out there that you haven't boffed? And now since she resigned you won't get the chance." "Okay," I laughed. "My reputation surely isn't that bad." Secretly, I was a little proud, though. "Nearly as I can tell, only Doc Vincent has you beaten," Jeremy informed me. "Doc Vincent gets 'em too drunk to know what he's doing to them," I pointed out. I meant it, too. Sure, I liked the ladies, but with me, it was mutual. I liked to make sure my partner had a good time, too, and I think they appreciated that. With Doc, it was a one-way street. I was a lothario; Doc was a sleaze ball. There was a difference, I told myself. Jeremy just chuckled when I didn't reply. By the time we landed in Newark, I was as excited as a kid on Christmas Eve. I wished Jeremy a good flight - he was on his way back to Atlanta where he lived - and hopped in a cab to head to my new digs. "Where to?" the driver asked in a Middle Eastern accent. I looked up at him. Talk about a small world! It was Kemal. "Same place as last time," I told him lightly. "Oh, sure, I remember you," he said with a grin. "I know where to go." He did, too. It was Thursday afternoon and traffic into the city was already heavy. But Kemal seemed to know all the back routes where traffic was lighter. That presented a problem for me, though. I was trying to get my bearings so I could find the place on my own, but Kemal whizzed by street signs and landmarks so quickly that I really wasn't sure how to get to my new home on foot. Maybe I'd have to find Kemal every time I wanted to go home, I thought with a chuckle. And suddenly there it was - home sweet home. I practically flew in the front door. "How's it going, Horace?" I asked the burly guard as I flashed my room key. "Just fine, Mr. O'Brien," he smiled. "And you don't have to show me your key. I know all the residents here." "You have a good memory," I told him. "I try," he said laconically. The moment had arrived. I gave a contented sigh and unlocked the door. I was curious to see how Lucky had arranged my furniture. Then I opened the door, and... "What the hell?" I probably made tenants two floors away jump. I couldn't believe the sight that greeted me. All of Jennifer's furniture was gone as promised, and new furniture was in its place - but it wasn't my furniture. What was there was like something out of John Wayne's nightmares. If I thought Jennifer had feminine tastes, I had another thought coming. Every chair, every lamp, every stick of furniture reeked of femininity. Oh, it wasn't cheap stuff, but the pastel shades and laces and flowery patterns said it all. Even the pictures were feminine - bouquets of flowers and playful kittens adorned my walls. I rushed to the phone to call Mr. Logan's office. I groaned as I noticed that even the phone was a soft pink shade. Carrying it into the bedroom as it rang, I got an even worse surprise. Beyond the frilly flowered bedcover was an open closet door, and in the closet, neatly hung, were dozens of feminine outfits. "Mr. Logan," the cultured voice answered. "This is O'Brien," I growled into the phone. If I was trying to sound pissed, Mr. Logan chose not to notice. "Oh yes, Mr. O'Brien. I trust Mr. Luck took care of everything for you." "Took care of everything?" I practically yelled. "Have you been up here?" "Well... no," he replied. "I left the details to Mr. Luck." "Then I think you'd better come up here and look!" "Of course. I'll be right there." True to his word, he was there in moments, a nervous looking Mr. Luck in his wake. "Take a look at this," I yelled with a sweep of my hand. Mr. Logan looked a little taken aback. "Well, I must say your tastes are a little different from what I would have expected." "This isn't my furniture!" I howled. "Where is my stuff?" Mr. Logan turned to Lucky. "How could you make such a mistake?" he asked indignantly. "This is not Mr. O'Brien's furniture." Lucky mumbled something, but I couldn't quite hear it. "That's not an excuse!" Mr. Logan blustered. "Now call our movers and see what happened." Turning to me, he said solicitously, "Mr. O'Brien, you have my profound apologies. Be assured we will correct this unfortunate error as quickly as possible. Now please try to make yourself as comfortable as possible. We will get back to you within the hour." With that he and Lucky rushed out the door. *** As the door closed behind them, the frown disappeared from Mr. L's face, replaced by a wide grin. He placed his hand on Luk's shoulder, causing the smaller man to jump slightly. "An excellent job, Mr. Luk," he said with an appreciative chuckle. "You'll do very well here, I'm sure." *** Good to his word, Mr. Logan called me within an hour. It was about time, though. I felt like an unwanted guest surrounded by all the feminine furnishings. There wasn't even anything worth reading; the only magazines in evidence being Vogue and Cosmo. I settled in to watch a little television while I waited, sinking into a soft, peach-covered chair while I flipped through the wasteland of afternoon television. My only concession to comfort was loosening my tie since I was still dressed in my uniform. I knew that no matter what, I would have to spend at least that evening in this alien place. Well, I sighed, it wasn't the first time I had spent the night surrounded by all this femininity. Of course, the other times, it had been in on layovers in other cities. During those times, I had been a welcome guest in some local girl's bed. Somehow, this wasn't the same. "Mr. O'Brien," Mr. Logan began, "again, I must apologize profusely for this unfortunate mix-up. We have traced down your belongings. By accident, your goods were sent to Omaha." "Omaha! What the hell?" "Yes, I agree," Mr. Logan replied. "We are taking steps to remedy the error at once. In the meantime, please try to make yourself as comfortable as possible. Of course, there will be no charge to you until your proper furnishings arrive." "So how long until I get my stuff?" I asked through gritted teeth. "Oh, not long," Mr. Logan answered brightly. "We should have everything in place by Monday." "Monday? But that means I'll have to use this stuff through the weekend. I can't do that." "If you need anything - clothing, toiletries, accessories, we will provide them for you," Mr. Logan assured me. "I'm sorry, but it's all we can do." As I hung up the phone, I realized I had no other choice. My old apartment was probably rented out. As for a hotel, I wasn't made of money. Decent rooms in the city are out of sight. I was being offered as free place to stay for a few days. I looked in the bedroom at the frilly coverlet on the bed, white with little bunches of pink flowers printed on it. Well, I had slept in worse places. Besides, it would give me a couple of days to explore my new neighborhood. Resigned to my situation, I began to unpack my overnight bag. I would take a shower, get changed, and do a little exploring. Thankfully I had a fresh change of clothes in my bag. Seasoned flight crews learn to pack extra clothes just in case there's some sort of overnight delay. I'd shower first and go from there. Lucky had done a great job of unpacking everything, I realized. The place actually looked lived in with no packing boxes in sight. If it had been my stuff he had worked with, I would have been delighted with the results, but all of this feminine crap was starting to make my skin itch. The bathroom was like the home office of a cosmetics company, with every conceivable feminine beauty aid spread out on the counter. Even the soaps and shampoos were scented. I sniffed each one and picked the ones that smelled least like a flower garden and tried to remind myself that this was only for the weekend. The shower felt great. Even the liquid body wash I had reluctantly selected felt good - almost soothing to my skin. And I had to admit after I got out of the shower that the shampoo and conditioner had done a great job. My hair looked healthier. Even the flecks of gray in it had seemed to disappear. I dressed quickly in a sport shirt and khaki slacks and felt like a new man. I would have to go out tomorrow and buy enough stuff to get me through the weekend, but at least I was set for now. I had actually gotten a bit of my good mood back. I was primed and ready for a night on the town. Horace was still at the front desk. "Good evening, Horace," I greeted him with a cheery smile. "Good evening, Mr. O'Brien," he returned with an equally charming smile. "Look, Horace," I began, leaning against the side of his desk, "I'm kind of new to this part of town. Where would be a good place to go for a little action?" Horace looked a little uncomfortable. "Exactly what kind of action would you be looking for, Mr. O'Brien?" "Well," I started, ignoring the implications of his question, "I was thinking of something a little upscale where I could get a bite to eat, something to drink, and maybe an attractive young lady for the evening." "A hooker?" he asked bluntly. I could see a touch of disgust behind his impassive face. "Oh no, Horace. I have a rule - I don't pay for sex. I haven't done that since my Air Force days. I'm just looking for a date." Horace relaxed a little. I hadn't expected him to be so prudish. I wondered what he would have done if I had come strolling into the building with a hooker on my arm. Horace was pretty good sized. I wouldn't want to see him when he got angry. "Well..." he drawled after a moment's thought, "...you might try the Southwest Grill across the square." "Mexican food?" I ventured. "Some," he agreed. "Other stuff, too. You know, the Southwestern grilled steaks and all that sort of thing." "Sounds good," I said with a grin. It turned out to be a good choice. It was just what I was looking for. The customers were all upscale New Yorkers with a substantial number of them being single women. The commuters had all started home by the time I entered the fake adobe bar which occupied a third of the floor space. That left all the singles who lived in Manhattan to keep the place busy. I sat at the bar sipping what may have been the world's best margarita while I checked out the prospects for the evening. I hated to eat alone, so the mission was to find an attractive young lady, wine and dine her, and take her back to my place. Well, maybe not to my place. One look at my apartment the way it was now and she would figure I was Richard Simmons' best friend. I would just have to hope she lived nearby and didn't have a roommate. I caught the eye of more than one girl that evening, so I started to feel good. But I had my eye on one in particular. There was this blonde - she had big blue eyes. The fact that they were sad eyes made her all the more alluring. She wore a short red cocktail dress, smoky hose, and dark red shoes. The way she was perched up on her barstool made her look like a young girl who had never dressed so provocatively before. She was beautiful and vulnerable. I was in love. "Nice, huh?" That was from the bartender. He looked like he was right at home in a place called the Southwest Grill. Tall and well muscled under his denim shirt, his features were clearly American Indian, accented by the single long braid of black hair down the center of his back. He grinned, showing perfect teeth. "You want me to introduce you?" "I can handle my own introductions," I said with a grin of my own. "By the way," the bartender said, "I haven't seen you here before. I'm Trick in case you need anything." "Rick?" I asked. He shook his head. "No, Trick. The name on my driver's license is T. Richard Running Bear. T and Rick make Trick." "Bob O'Brien," I replied, shaking his hand. He had a firm grip, and I felt an odd tingle when I shook his hand. "New around here?" he asked. "Yeah, I'm just moving in over at Deety Arms." "Oh," he said with a flat tone of disappointment. "Is something wrong with Deety Arms?" I asked with some concern. After all, this guy worked right across the street from my building. If there was anything wrong, he would have heard about it. "No, nothing at all," he replied carefully. He closed his eyes for a moment. As he did so, I felt that odd tingle in my hand again, almost as if something had been removed. I began to wonder if I had pinched a nerve. "Another margarita?" he asked when his eyes had opened again. Maybe he was just tired. "Sure," I agreed. "Make it just like the last one. I fact, make two." I placed the extra Margarita in front of the blonde. "Trick here makes a great Margarita," I told her. She looked at me with a sad smile. It was all I could do to meet her gaze since my eyes naturally wanted to wander down to her ample breasts which were straining at the satiny red material of her dress. "I prefer white wine," she said with a nod at her half empty glass. Her voice was pure honey. "With Southwestern food?" I asked with mock alarm. She turned back toward her drink. "I'm not hungry tonight." "Just came in for a drink after work then?" I asked casually. "Something like that," she replied evasively. "Vera here is new, too, aren't you?" I looked up to see Trick intruding on our conversation. "She's trying to make it as a model. She wants to be the female answer to Valdez." Valdez? Then I remembered. He was that male model from Spain who had disappeared a week earlier. He had just left one of his well-known trysts with a young female model and had never shown up again. I remembered seeing his picture in the paper. Besides, you tend to remember a big blonde, blue-eyed guy with the unlikely name of Valdez. "I was just getting ready to invite Vera to dinner," I explained. I had hoped the obtuse invitation would be sufficient to get her to accept and get Trick to back off. "That sounds like a wonderful idea, doesn't it, Vera?" Trick asked. "If you say so," she said softly, a touch of something like resignation in her voice. "I do," he confirmed. "In fact, in honor of your first dinner together, the next round of Margaritas is on me." Well, if Trick wasn't a hell of a nice guy. Without another word, I put my arm gently around Vera and we walked in for dinner together. *** Mr. L put down the phone on his desk. Luk and Horace breathed a little sigh of relief - he wasn't angry. That meant nothing had gone wrong. "Horace," he began with a sigh of his own, "I don't know what you were thinking of, sending him to Trick's place. You know our Mr. O'Brien is just the sort Trick enjoys playing with." "But I thought with that new guy - that model - he just changed, he'd be busy for awhile. And he does make a great Margarita." "Yes, he does," Mr. L agreed. "Fortunately no harm was done. He was able to ascertain that Mr. O'Brien was one of ours. In fact, he even managed to get him together with his new play toy. Apparently he gave her the old 'you'll get your body back when you've slept with a hundred different men.'" "Are they still falling for that one?" Horace groaned. "I thought that one went out during the Renaissance." "Apparently not," Mr. L mused. No god ever failed underestimating the naivet? of the human species. Of course, when you looked at it from their, perspective, it was understandable. They had been taught from an early age that magic wasn't really possible, so the tricks of the trade the gods used seemed new to every succeeding generation. Luk looked confused. "Excuse me... what happened?" "Nothing...fortunately," Mr. L told him with a sharp look at Horace. "You'll find, Mr. Luck, that a number of businesses in this area are run by our fellow beings. Trick runs the Southwest Grill. Be careful of him. He's quite a prankster, and he lives just a couple of doors down the hall from you. Some of our other guests - particularly some of our American Indian guests - find him quite irritating." Luk understood what Mr. L meant, except on the seventh floor, there were no halls - or even rooms for that matter. Technically it wasn't even a floor, but the term would do. "So our friend Trick has told his new toy that she can have her male body back once she has slept with a hundred different men," Mr. L went on. "It's the oldest trick in the book. By the time she meets that requirement, she'll be so much a woman that the thought of going back to her male body will be absolutely repugnant. In the mean time, she will have become what is known in the popular vernacular 'a slut.'" "Oh," Luk managed. "Well, don't worry," Mr. L continued. "It appears no harm was done. Now let's get ready for our next surprise for Mr. O'Brien." *** Vera wasn't quite what I expected. Talk about all dressed up and no place to go, she had been dressed as if she was going to a party; yet it turned out she had no plans for the evening. She had little to say during dinner, but I finally figured that out. When she d