Charlie Malone didn’t have to tunnel between the sewer and the bank vault. The Water Authority had done it for him.

That was the genius of the thing. Charlie was doing his dissertation on the architecture of New York City sewer tunnels when he learned the interesting fact that this particular building had its own tunnel to the now-abandoned sewer line. It was for a now-defunct utility purpose, and created long before the bank made its home in the building, but it still existed, with only a brick wall to separate vault from tunnel. No one else knew. Why would they?

Charlie’s father was a mason. Charlie had worked for his dad during the summers in high school. Chiseling out the appropriate number of bricks and mortaring them back into place was child’s play.

He carefully divested himself of his coveralls, only to reveal a second pair underneath. A plastic shower cap prevented any hairs’ being left as evidence, and surgical gloves prohibited fingerprints. Goggles protected even a stray eyelash from escaping.

The money was in a fire-walled cabinet. Charlie wasn’t interested in people’s jewelry and documents that might be left in the safe deposit boxes. Just the cash, please—enough to pay off his student loans and pay back the money his parents (who really couldn’t afford it) had lent him for a car. Besides, the cash was insured, so who was the victim? A multi-billion dollar corporation? Charlie laughed at the thought. He was taking a specific amount and leaving the rest. Not enough to be noticed right away. Not even enough extra to go out to dinner. Only what he needed.

Charlie finished counting and closed his briefcase. This was easy. Too easy, he thought. He could never do it again, Charlie reminded himself. Once in a lifetime. He took one last look around the vault and headed for the hole in the wall.

The goggles limited his peripheral vision. He hit the edge of the bricks with the side of his face, hard. The goggles banged sideways across the bridge of his nose, breaking it in one blinding flash. Wincing, he stepped more carefully through the hole and sank down to the concrete floor for a moment. The pain was severe, but he was home free. He just had to brick up the wall and get to an emergency room. He’d tell the doctors he ran into a doorframe.

Then Charlie looked down and noticed the trail of blood leading down his coveralls, over the wall and into the vault…

Perfect.

Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

“Wherefore I also, after I heard of your faith in the Lord Jesus, and love unto all the saints, cease not to give thanks for you, making mention of you in my prayers; that the God of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of glory, may give unto you the spirit of wisdom and revelation in the knowledge of him.”

Maryann closed the book gently and smiled at the small circle of elderly women in folding chairs down here in the church basement. “Today’s topic is ‘attitude of gratitude.’ And before we begin, I’d like to say that I’m very happy to be here, leading my first prayer circle here at Epiphany. Let’s go around the circle so we can introduce ourselves and mention something we’re grateful for. We’ll make a list and include all these things in our final prayer this morning. Shall we?”

The woman in the chair to her left laughed pleasantly. “It’s nice to meet you, Maryann. I’m Evelyn, and I’m thankful for my five beautiful grandchildren.”

The next woman murmured approvingly. “Helen here. I’m grateful for my health and old friends.”

“Lovely,” Maryann agreed, dutifully recording both items.

“My name is Beatrice,” said a tiny little woman in a straw hat decorated around the brim with silk bumble bees. “Oral sex.”

Maryann’s pen skidded across the page. “I’m sorry?”

“Oral sex,” Beatrice reiterated, a little louder. “Surely you’ve heard of it.”

“Perhaps she’s a virgin,” Helen whispered.

“I’m not a—”

Evelyn shook her head. “What are you, forty? You know what oral sex is, dear.”

“Oral sex is the proper name for it, anyway” Beatrice continued. The bumble bee hat bobbed on her head as she spoke. “It was a godsend back when I had my hysterectomy. How can a loving couple possibly be expected not to do anything for six whole weeks?”

“Jack and I only managed two,” Helen confided. “After each of our children was born, we could never go the entire three weeks.”

“Well, that’s my point,” said Beatrice. “I took care of Wally, and when he had his prostate operation last year, he took care of me every night.”

“Ladies, ladies!” Maryann cleared her throat sternly. “I’ll just put ‘love’ on the list. Let’s move on. What’s your name?”

“Oral sex,” Beatrice repeated. “I was very specific about that.”

The next woman shook her head sweetly. “There’s nothing wrong with it, you know.”

Maryann blushed. “Well, what are you grateful for?”

“Well, I’m Daisy, I’m Deacon Fred’s wife, and I’m thankful for Viagra.”

She sighed and stuck her pen into the spiral of her notebook. “Now, let’s be serious, Daisy.”

“I am serious, young lady. Have you ever gone six years without sex? Viagra’s the best thing that’s ever happened to us. That’s V-I-A-G-R-A.” She reached into an enormous white pocketbook and brought out a handful of hard candies wrapped in cellophane. “Butterscotch, anyone?”

Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly, except Ephesians 1:15-17, which is obviously copyright the apostle Paul (although I didn’t ask him for permission to quote). All rights reserved. Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

Got something going on tomorrow. Might not be back for a while.

Wish me luck.

xo, Amy

“Hey! Barney!”

The man looked up from raking leaves and smiled. “Hey, Pete, how the hell are ya?”

“All right. Lookin’ good, buddy. Wife’s got you busy, I see.”

Barney shrugged. “Keeps me out of her hair while she’s cleaning.”

Pete’s face grew serious. “Say, I heard you were in an industrial accident. That true?”

“Yeah. Nothing serious. Part of the plant was destroyed, but I’m okay.”

“What happened?”

“Explosion in a vat. Got showered with radioactive acid.”

Pete looked horrified. “Barney, that’s awful! Were you wearing protective gear? Man, OSHA should nail that place. You ought to get a job down on the docks, the guards there make great money.”

“Well, I was wearin’ the coveralls and goggles and everything, but there was a little tear in the elbow and I guess I got hit with some radioactivity.”

“So what are they gonna do about it?”

“Nothing. The docs say I’m fine. Never reached a harmful level.”

“There’s no effects? You get showered with radioactive acid and there’s no effect at all?”

Barney took a quick look around to make sure nobody saw. “Look at this.” Taking the tined end of the rake in his fingers, he twisted the metal spikes around into the shape of a dog, as easily as another man would twist a balloon.

Pete whistled. “That’s…wow.”

Barney straightened the rake again and set it down on the grass. “Now check this out.” He held out his left arm, grunted, and morphed it into the shape of a hammer. “I can make any shape, kind of like Plastic Man. Turn my feet into water-skis, butt into an anvil, whatever.”

“Holy shit!”

With a little effort, Barney’s arm returned to its original form. “So there’s some aftereffects, but I’m not gonna bother the docs with it.”

“And you’re all right? Really?” Pete shook his head admiringly. “You should become a superhero or something, save the city.”

“From what?” Barney laughed. “I’m happy keeping a low profile. I figure I’ll enter a couple arm wrestling tournaments, sock a little money away, and the wife and I can retire early.”

“That’s great! I’m really happy for you. What will you guys do when you retire?”

Barney colored a little. “Well…that second thing I showed you? The Plastic-Man thing? Let’s just say it’s been a godsend for my marriage.”

Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

He’d never been to this bar before. Never been in this town before. But he recognized her the instant the door closed behind him. Gave her a sideways smile. Got a flirty moue in return.

She was average height, slender, with long blond hair and a flimsy, silky little top. She tapped the barstool next to her with red, manicured nails. He knew the routine. Bought a couple of drinks, smoked a couple of cigarettes, danced to a couple of songs.

Did it a couple of times in her bedroom, in her apartment down the block from the bar.

In all the towns he’d traveled to, all the bars he seen, the bar slut always looked the same. Same tight jeans, long hair, delicate little nothing of a top. That was how he knew—it was almost a uniform, like they must hold an annual convention or something to decide what kind of tight sexy clothing to wear for the year. And a slut was cheaper than an escort service—try explaining that on a travel expense report. Buy her a couple drinks, shoot some pool or dance a couple slow songs, and you’re in.

She was pretty good. Not amazing, but fun, a nice diversion. Not good enough to remember her name tomorrow morning. Or if he ever came back to this town. He took a drag off his cigarette and looked over at her, blond hair cascading on the pillow. Remembered her last words to him: “I have to be up at six. Don’t know when you’re leaving, but there’s coffee in the cupboard. Just rinse your cup before you go.” And she touched his cheek softly. “G’night.”

And now he was still awake, lying in her bed, next to her, thinking that was a nice thing to say and wishing he remembered what her name was. She’d said at some point during the evening, but he hadn’t really been listening.

He wondered if she knew there was somebody like her in every town, maybe even in every bar. He wondered if making it with every guy available made her feel special or wanted. Was that what she wanted? To feel special? She’d made him feel special, just by offering him a fucking cup of coffee. What did it say about him? What did it say about her? Maybe she only did it because she was bored and lonely, like him. But maybe there was more to this woman than the ones he’d been with before. What if she was different? Maybe he should try to wake up with her, fix the coffee for her, maybe even take her out to breakfast…

When he woke up, she was gone.

No note, no goodbye kiss. No phone number in case he wanted to get in touch again.

Just like all the others. Bitch.

Slut.

He rinsed his coffee cup and got in the car. His tears made it hard to see the road.

Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.

I just wrote this little exchange, and I’m pretty pleased with it. Those of you who are Nims fans will be pleased to know that the new, longer project I’m working on is a second Nims novella, featuring Mrs. Galloway and expanding on their working relationship.

“Oh, poo,” cooed Mrs. Galloway, “aren’t you adorable when you’re in a pet?”

The widow smiled. “I think the gentleman doth protest too much…”

Copyright Amy Frushour Kelly 2006, all rights reserved, etc.

This guy is gonna kiss a snake fifty times in ten minutes.

Talk about wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. If I was that snake, I’d make him at least take me out to dinner first.

Did some work on a spanking new project today. As in December, SPASMS will be a little spotty while I get this longer work under control. I think you’re gonna like it.

xo, Amy

So I’ve heard a lot of people talking about this movie called “Brokeback Mountain,” which is apparently about gay cowboys. It doesn’t really sound like my kind of thing, but I guess the movie made an impact on my psyche, because one of the things I dreamed of last night (in addition to a boy in a sleeping bag falling through the ceiling into my living room, a trip to Albany where Rob and I discovered that women aren’t permitted to reproduce in city limits, and a trip to Macarthur Airport) was that I won tickets to watch the movie:

In the dream, two men dressed as cowboys were professional checkers players who traveled around the country playing checkers championships. Checkers was depicted as an intense, very cerebral game on the level of chess or go. When they weren’t on tour, they were walking around in the woods complaining about the trials of constant adulation. But then, while on tour, they accidentally step into a meat locker that resembles a gymnasium locker room, except everything is made of stainless steel and the women from Albany who tried to get pregnant in my previous dream were all sitting there naked, reading magazines and waiting around to have their heads chopped off and boiled in oil as punishment for attempting to have children. There were signs up in the waiting room to the effect of “YOU SHOULD HAVE ADOPTED.”

None of the women seemed too concerned over their fate, which struck me (the dream me, watching the film) as implausible. Then, as if on cue, Ted Raimi came out dressed as a Master of Ceremonies and shook his finger at the women, sternly saying, “Let this be a lesson to you,” and let everybody go, so I realized the women must have been expecting this all along, which was a brilliant device because otherwise, how could they maintain a female population in Albany?

The cowboy checkers player didn’t know that the women were released, though, so they leave the facility and jump into a 1972 Monte Carlo and drive around, General Lee-style, shooting up the male citizenry of Albany and driving up the stairs of the state capital building to gun down Governor Pataki…only to realize that they’ve made a terrible mistake and kill themselves by driving off a mountain which I could only assume was called Brokeback Mountain.

Finis

Also, I dreamt that I could eat coconut if it was mixed in with ice cream. It was pretty good.

xo, Amy

Dr. Zahovic clasped her hands on her desk and looked straight into Mrs. Hedley’s eyes. “First, I’d like to say how very sorry I am for your loss. You should know that your husband’s final moments were free from pain.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Hedley murmured. She was blinking back tears. “It was so sudden. He was just standing there, minding his own business, taking pictures of a hummingbird. The bear came out of nowhere.”

“Mrs. Hedley, we do have a priest here at the hospital, as well as social workers who can help you cope with his death.”

“Thanks. Your assistant gave me the information just before I came in here. I’ll make an appointment.” She bit her lip. “When are you going to release Phil’s body? I…I’ll need to make the arrangements.”

Dr. Zahovic nodded. “Of course. As with any violent death, there will be an autopsy performed by a state medical examiner here in our morgue. They don’t take too long. Your husband’s body should be released within a day or so.” She pushed a piece of paper across her desk toward Mrs. Hedley. “I’ll just need you to sign this consent form.”

Mrs. Hedley picked up a pen and scanned the document. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s a routine procedure. Just sign and date, and everything will be taken care of.”

Mrs. Hedley’s lip trembled. “But…am I reading this right? It looks like it says you’re going to put a stake through his heart.”

Dr. Zahovic smiled gently. “When the grizzly tore your husband’s arm and shoulder off, he died from the loss of blood. The medical term for it is exsanguination. Exsanguination victims—depending on a number of factors, of course—have a statistically high likelihood of developing into vampires. It’s a routine precautionary measure. I think you’ll find all hospitals operate by these guidelines.”

“That’s preposterous! My husband has been through enough. I refuse to sign your form.”

“It’s standard procedure. And it’s paid for by the state, so you don’t have to worry about any additional out-of-pocket expense.”

“It’s not the money, it’s that you want to hammer a stake into my husband’s chest!”

“Mrs. Hedley, I really must insist—”

“Absolutely not.”

Dr. Zahovic sighed. “You know, many hospitals don’t inform the next of kin. They just perform the procedure without consent. Here at Mercy, we’re more respectful.” She leaned close. “It could be much worse, you know. If your husband had been infected by a viral infection that mimics death, we would have been obligated by state law to burn him alive or decapitate him to prevent his becoming a zombie.”

Mrs. Hedley stood up. “I’ve made up my mind. You can take your wooden stake and shove it up your ass.” The door slammed behind her.

Dr. Zahovic shook her head. Well, rules were rules. She picked up the pen, scribbled Marianne Hedley on the dotted line, and walked it down to the morgue.

Copyright 2005 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.