As she rides by by David M Pierce Page A

more strawberries than jam in it, unlike the brand I bought, and, of course, a big pot of espresso, all served up on a tray with considerable style by my pal.
    My pal finished up what looked like the last of a croissant.
    My pal sat himself on the end of the bed and helped himself to some fresh coffee.
    My pal retied the belt of his light cotton kimono more securely around his trim waist.
    My pal was not happy.
    My pal did not see why I should have all the fun from then on.
    I told my pal it wasn’t from then on: Strickly speaking, he still had a role to play and things to do.
    “Walk-on shit,” my pal muttered.
    “Also,” I said, “Your faucet drips, you call the plumber, not the vet.”
    “Meaning precisely what, as if I couldn’t guess?” he asked sourly.
    “Know much about guns?” I put to him.
    “Yuck,” he said disdainfully flicking a cake crumb off the coverlet.
    “Exactly.” I picked up my weapon from the bedside table, and gave it an expert twirl. “The bullet comes out that end there, going faster than Superman, even, despite his press agent’s claims. There is a question of language, as well.”
    “What language?”
    “The language Ted and Phil speak,” I said, lavishly buttering another piece of cake. “I speak it too. It’s sort of like the opposite of body language.”
    “I know, I know,” he said through his perfect teeth. He jumped up and began pacing about the guest room. “It is merely that when one gets attacked directly or insulted directly or affronted directly or threatened directly, one feels this pressing need to respond directly.” He fell into a karate stance and lashed out into a fearsome series of acrobatic kicks, whirls, lunges, and slashes.
    When he was done, he bowed to me. I pointed one finger at his tummy, and said, “Bang bang. You is dead. Twice already.” Then I made a little bow to him. He directed a scowl my way. It turned into a sigh, then a small grin.
    “I’m going for a swim,” he said. “Work off a little of my snit. Maybe I’ll do a few Tai Chi exercises out on the front lawn after, that should scare the panties off the neighbors and anyone else who happens to be sneaking a peek.”
    “Good for the complexion too, I heard,” I said.
    “Still,” he said from the door. “Still.”
    “Yeah, I know,” I said. “It’s tough not getting to show what a big sissy you’re not. Don’t forget the tray.”

Chapter Seven

    See, we was workin' in this run-down, one-pump garage out on Highway 104,
    About ten miles northeast of Tucson , and the very last I heard...

    T iming.
    Who was it who said, everything is timing? Jack Benny, of course, and William “Bill” Bulova... oh yes, and soufflé chefs.
    To inflict the maximum amount of physical inconvenience and financial embarrassment on Phil and Ted, I had to get the timing just right, which would take a bit of doing and a bit of luck. But first things first.
    I arose. I showered at leisure, using a pristine cake of some fancy soap called Pears, which was completely transparent, by the way, then shaved with care, then dressed, then packed up the few items I’d unpacked, then snuck downstairs to the kitchen. The clock on the wall, which was in the form of half a large orange, said it was seven-thirty, which meant I had a half hour to wait before ringing up the curtain on the final chilling act of my Machiavellian master plan. I spent part of the time tracking down, then finally connecting with, an old pal, another part of the time checking the sports pages in the morning paper—the Dodgers were down to five and a half games back, the Giants seven and a half and totally out of it yet again—and the rest watching Phineas making innumerable trips out to the car with last-minute additions to the mountain of vacation gear he’d already packed. He was wearing a bright yellow jogging outfit and sneakers.
    So was I, as it happened. On his last trip out to the car, he added his white leather cap and