Bill Hammons: Writing and Running in Boulder, Colo.

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18

Cohn’s smile and eyes didn’t waver. “Such an ugly term. I prefer the acronym MIT, for ‘Multiple Insertion Therapy’. I’ve already set something up in New Orleans for Mardi Gras. The woman will remain anonymous and masked, of course--this is beyond revolutionary--but I used my college connections again and found a group of bright young men, very physically fit, too, who would be very happy to provide their services. They play hockey at Adams College--didn’t you go there briefly, Bacon?”

A jarring slam of the office door was the answer to Cohn’s question, and Henry ran out the front entrance of the complex, past his suitcase and rucksack and a Calvin who tried to apologize for carrying out his employer’s instructions. Henry chased down the limousine which he had watched Elaine step into from Cohn’s front window, and the limousine pulled to a stop as he caught up with it at one end of the driveway.

“Why’d you stop?” Henry asked as he plopped his sweating form onto the seat opposite his last client.

“Driver, the airport.” Elaine didn’t look at Henry, but instead looked out the window as the limousine turned onto the road. “I thought you might like a ride to the airport.”

“But my bags are back at the clinic.”

Elaine shrugged. “Details, Henry. That’s only fitting: this is your chance to start over again. What’s in your hand?”

“Hush money.” Henry smoothed the envelope’s surface out somewhat and opened it to pull out a check. His eyes bulged. “Quite a bit of hush money.”

“There you have it.” Elaine pulled her coat more tightly about herself. “Now you can start over in style.”

Henry stuffed the check back in the envelope and stuffed the envelope in the tuxedo pocket over his heart. “Elaine.”

“Yes?”

“Come back to New York with me. Let’s have this baby together.”

Elaine burst into a laugh, then leaned out of her seat to cradle her temples with the tips of fingers topped by red nail polish. Her laugh became an anguished sigh. “I’ve been impregnated by a cybergigolo.” Then, after she sat up once more to stare out the window with streaked mascara, “Driver, stop and let Mister Bacon out.”

“I’m not leaving without you.”

s.t.u.d. by W.R. Hammons:

1/ 2/ 3/ 4/ 5/ 6/ 7/ 8/ 9/ 10/ 11/ 12/ 13/ 14/ 15/ 16/ 17/ 18/ 19

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