The Mural. Michael Mallory

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      “Oh.” Jack could not decide if that boded well or ill. Marcus might have worked up the balls to tell Emac that Wood City was a disaster zone, and if so, he was probably basking in his new-found authority. Or he might have been browbeaten by Emac for something or other and went into hiding, should anyone else call. “I guess we’ll find out tomorrow,” Jack said. “I’ll be in early.” He hung up and went to the kitchen and grabbed a Sam Adams from the fridge. It was 4:39...close enough to five-thirty. Then Jack retrieved his laptop, which was still by the front door, and carried it into the dining room, setting it up on the other end of the table Robynn was using to draw. He winked at her when she looked up. Powering up, he then pulled his microcassette out of his pocket, plugged in the earpiece, and played his notes back, transcribing them on the screen, minus the bits of commentary that were nobody else’s business. A slow typist, Jack had to rewind and play back certain parts over and over again, but two beers later, he was finished. He would put the notes on CD and take it into the office to finish his report there. Before powering the laptop down again he made sure that he also had copies of the pictures on the CD.

      It was nearly seven by the time Elley got home, and by that time there were five empties lined up near the sink. “Looks like I missed the party,” she said, glaring at them.

      “Hi, Mommy!” Robynn called, racing into the kitchen, her new drawing in hand.

      “Hi, sweetie. This is a lovely picture, Robynn. Now go in the other room, okay? I need to talk to Daddy.”

      Jack Hayden had never felt so busted in his life. It was not simply the beers, though they were bad enough when he was supposed to be watching Robynn. But he harbored an irrational fear that Elley had somehow found out about Dani, and what they had done up in San Simeon...and done, and done, and done...until Little Jack had throbbed like it he’d stuck it in a hornet’s nest. Maybe he had. As soon as Robynn was gone, he said: “Look, if it’s about the empties—”

      “I have to go to New York for several days,” Elley interrupted. “I have to leave tomorrow.”

      “That’s a bit sudden, don’t you think?”

      “It doesn’t thrill me to the marrow either, but we’ve just landed a big new account and the company is based in Manhattan, so we’re throwing a kind of welcome party for them. I’ve been working on it all day.”

      “Shouldn’t they be throwing the welcome party for you?”

      “They’re paying for it. I’m not sure they realize that yet, but the cost of the party comes straight out of the fee they’re paying us. It’s our way of showing what we can do for a new client, impress them with a dog and pony show.”

      “How long will you be there?”

      “The event’s on Friday, so we’ve got a few days to make the final arrangements and set everything up, and then I’ll have to stay the weekend, maybe even into next week, to meet with all of the executives.”

      “You the only one going?”

      “Of course not. Blaise is coming as well.”

      Jack looked at his wife. He had no proof that his wife was servicing Blaise Micelli, the founder of Orbit Marketing, but the thought had occurred to him quite regularly ever since that incident at Orbit’s office Christmas party last year, when Micelli had spilled a drink on his lap and mopped it up with a napkin, which picked up traces of bright red lipstick—Elley’s shade—from his zipper area.

      “You’ll have no trouble taking care of Robynn while I’m gone, I presume?” Elley was saying.

      “Why would I have trouble?”

      Elley examined the five dead Sams by the sink, then gathered them all up, walked to the trashcan, and loudly dropped them in. “I can’t imagine.”

      “All right, all right.”

      “No, it’s not all right, Jack. I come home from a grueling day at the office followed by a miserable drive from Santa Monica to find you alone with our daughter, having consumed the better part of a six-pack. What proof can you give me that it won’t be a six-pack and a half tomorrow night, and even more while I’m gone? And where the hell is Nola, anyway? She’s supposed to be here.”

      “Daniel’s in trouble again, so she had to go. And I’m sorry, really. I had a grueling day, too, and I just lost count. I’ll be good while you’re gone, promise. Is my word good anymore?”

      Elley couldn’t hide her surprise at his rolling over so quickly and easily. “I’d like it to be,” she said, then: “Yeah, it’s good.”

      He approached her and took her in his arms. “You know I’d never deliberately to anything that would hurt Robynn, or you.”

      “I know that,” she said, hugging back. “It’s the accidental things I worry about.”

      That makes two of us, he thought.

      “Mommeeee,” Robynn called from the other room, “can I come back in yet?”

      “Of course, sweetie,” Elley called back, pulling away from Jack as the girl rushed in to excitedly tell her that she had learned a new word from Nola today: basura.

      “Basura, doesn’t that mean ‘trash?’”

      “Mm hmmm. She was taking out the garbage when she said it. What’s for dinner?”

      “Robynn, Mommy just got home. I was sort of hoping maybe Daddy would have fixed something, because Mommy’s got to pack tonight to go away tomorrow.”

      “Why do you have to go away?” the girl whimpered.

      “It’s Mommy’s work, sweetie. Sometimes I have to go.”

      “Sounds like a take-out night to me,” Jack said, feeling a rush of guilt over sitting and drinking and pretending to work and not even thinking about providing dinner. “What’ll it be? Pizza? Chinese? Frog salad?”

      “Yuuuuck!” Robynn cried, giggling.

      “I’m not in the mood for Chinese and I don’t want the calories of pizza,” Elley said. “There’s a new fish place down on San Vicente. I drive by it nearly every day. I think the sign says they do take-out.”

      “Do you remember the name?”

      “Seafood something. Seafood Hut, Seafood Crate, I don’t know.”

      “I’ll find out,” Jack said, scurrying back to his laptop, linking onto the web and putting in a search for Seafood West. L.A. San Vicente. Three choices popped up (including, for some reason, Amazon.com), but only one seemed like the candidate. “Could it be Seafood Shanty?”

      “Yes, that’s it,” Elley said. Using the number he found online, Jack called in an order for the three of them: fish and chips for Robynn, salmon for Elley and sea bass for himself.

      “Do they deliver?” Elley asked

      “Yeah, but I’ll go pick it up,” Jack replied. “It will get here quicker that way.” The truth was, he wanted to get away and on his own, if even for a few minutes.

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