was mobile, and truly independent at last.
So what should I do with all this intoxicating freedom? And was it true, after all, that freedom was just another word for nothing left to lose? I had already lost my family, my house, all my clothes, my car—I should have felt
really
free. I didn’t—I felt cheated, robbed, and victimized. But at least they’d left me my arms and legs, and my powerful-again brain. That alone put me way ahead of Anderson. Although he probably had more clean socks.
Still, that made me feel a little better—enough to realize that I was hungry. I glanced at the dashboard clock; less than an hour before my meeting with Kraunauer. Not a lot of time. I ran my mind over the list of gourmet dining establishments in Miami that might fit my somewhat narrow needs: sandwich, good, fifteen minutes…It was a surprisingly small list. In fact, it was a completely blank list. There was no place that was close and quick that also offered something that was actually good to eat. I would have to do without. I heard a small grumble of protest from my stomach; it seemed to say,
Not really…?
And it was a fair complaint. Maybe I could eliminate one of my three qualifications? It had to be fast, no matter what, since time waits for no man, and neither did Frank Kraunauer. That meant it really had to be close, too. That left only “good,” and to eliminate that meant an outright abuse of the values for which I lived.
On the other hand, half a block ahead of me I saw a famous burger logo flashing beside the road. My stomach immediately responded to the sight with a shout of,
Go for it! No,
I said firmly.
I refuse. I will not sink so low.
My stomach rumbled threateningly.
You’ll be sorry
….
I told my stomach that I am more than my hunger. I exceed the sum total of any want that is merely physical. And we have standards, damn it! Would we really settle for anything less than excellence, out of mere convenience?
Apparently we would. Seven minutes later I was wiping the last tendrils of grease from my chin and throwing away the meager detritus of my shameful downfall. Lo, how far the proud Dexter has fallen, I thought, and I heard the burbling echo as my stomach replied,
And loving it
.
EIGHT
F rank Kraunauer’s office was in a high-rise on South Beach. Most of the absurdly expensive attorneys in Miami have their offices along Brickell Avenue, but as I may have mentioned, Frank Kraunauer was in a class by himself. He could have kept an office in the middle of American Airlines Arena, and the Miami Heat would have cheerfully rescheduled their entire season to fit his office hours. But Frank apparently
liked
South Beach, and so he had taken the entire penthouse of a shiny new tower at the south end of Ocean Drive. He had a spectacular view, of course—the open ocean on one side, Government Cut on another, and, crawling along almost under his feet, the beach and the boulevard with their teeming masses of barely dressed Brazilian models, Italian
contessas,
and Midwestern skater girls.
After working my way through three security guards and a busy but very dignified outer office, I was finally handed off to a gray-haired woman at an enormous desk of steel and walnut. She looked like a member of MENSA who had been a supermodel in her youth before moving on to a career as a Marine Corps drill instructor. She looked me over with a steely, unflinching eye, and then nodded, stood up, and led me to the end of a hall, where a massive door stood open. She waved a hand to indicate that I might have the great boon of passing through the portal and into the Presence. I bowed to her formally and stepped into a large office, and found Frank Kraunauer standing by the window looking down at the beach. The window was actually a floor-to-ceiling wall of thick and tinted glass, but in spite of the huge expanse of window I didn’t think he could see very much detail from this high up. Still, the light from the window lit him with
So what should I do with all this intoxicating freedom? And was it true, after all, that freedom was just another word for nothing left to lose? I had already lost my family, my house, all my clothes, my car—I should have felt
really
free. I didn’t—I felt cheated, robbed, and victimized. But at least they’d left me my arms and legs, and my powerful-again brain. That alone put me way ahead of Anderson. Although he probably had more clean socks.
Still, that made me feel a little better—enough to realize that I was hungry. I glanced at the dashboard clock; less than an hour before my meeting with Kraunauer. Not a lot of time. I ran my mind over the list of gourmet dining establishments in Miami that might fit my somewhat narrow needs: sandwich, good, fifteen minutes…It was a surprisingly small list. In fact, it was a completely blank list. There was no place that was close and quick that also offered something that was actually good to eat. I would have to do without. I heard a small grumble of protest from my stomach; it seemed to say,
Not really…?
And it was a fair complaint. Maybe I could eliminate one of my three qualifications? It had to be fast, no matter what, since time waits for no man, and neither did Frank Kraunauer. That meant it really had to be close, too. That left only “good,” and to eliminate that meant an outright abuse of the values for which I lived.
On the other hand, half a block ahead of me I saw a famous burger logo flashing beside the road. My stomach immediately responded to the sight with a shout of,
Go for it! No,
I said firmly.
I refuse. I will not sink so low.
My stomach rumbled threateningly.
You’ll be sorry
….
I told my stomach that I am more than my hunger. I exceed the sum total of any want that is merely physical. And we have standards, damn it! Would we really settle for anything less than excellence, out of mere convenience?
Apparently we would. Seven minutes later I was wiping the last tendrils of grease from my chin and throwing away the meager detritus of my shameful downfall. Lo, how far the proud Dexter has fallen, I thought, and I heard the burbling echo as my stomach replied,
And loving it
.
EIGHT
F rank Kraunauer’s office was in a high-rise on South Beach. Most of the absurdly expensive attorneys in Miami have their offices along Brickell Avenue, but as I may have mentioned, Frank Kraunauer was in a class by himself. He could have kept an office in the middle of American Airlines Arena, and the Miami Heat would have cheerfully rescheduled their entire season to fit his office hours. But Frank apparently
liked
South Beach, and so he had taken the entire penthouse of a shiny new tower at the south end of Ocean Drive. He had a spectacular view, of course—the open ocean on one side, Government Cut on another, and, crawling along almost under his feet, the beach and the boulevard with their teeming masses of barely dressed Brazilian models, Italian
contessas,
and Midwestern skater girls.
After working my way through three security guards and a busy but very dignified outer office, I was finally handed off to a gray-haired woman at an enormous desk of steel and walnut. She looked like a member of MENSA who had been a supermodel in her youth before moving on to a career as a Marine Corps drill instructor. She looked me over with a steely, unflinching eye, and then nodded, stood up, and led me to the end of a hall, where a massive door stood open. She waved a hand to indicate that I might have the great boon of passing through the portal and into the Presence. I bowed to her formally and stepped into a large office, and found Frank Kraunauer standing by the window looking down at the beach. The window was actually a floor-to-ceiling wall of thick and tinted glass, but in spite of the huge expanse of window I didn’t think he could see very much detail from this high up. Still, the light from the window lit him with
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