"Portia this behaviour of yours has to stop, you are not a child anymore." Rodney DeLysle shouldered his way past the throng in front of the police sergeant's desk.

"Oh for heaven's sake, Rodney you sound like father. It's not like we murdered somebody."

"You are breaking the law, Portia and I can't keep coming down here and getting you and your friends out of trouble."

"I promise I won't call you again if I get into trouble. Now can we get out of here?"

"My car is outside." Rodney signed the necessary form then he and the two women made a vee and forced their way through the crowd to the doors.

"You're a peach, Rodney, can you drop us at Flo's?"

Twenty minutes later the women stood on the sidewalk outside the brownstone and watched Rodney's car pull away, the silhouette of his head framed in the rear window.

"Sorry he couldn't help Cal but I'm sure he'll be fine. A night in the cooler to sleep it off won't hurt."

"You want to stay over, it's pretty late."

"Thanks, Flo but I think I'll grab a taxi. I just didn't want to drive home with Rodney alone and listen to his lectures, and I want a good shower after that jailhouse. I'll call you in the morning." Portia kissed her friend's cheek and walked toward the main street to find a taxi.

Crawford DeLysle snapped the newspaper pages and tried to concentrate on the contents, but his daughter wasn't making a sound as she ate breakfast and he found the silence agitating.

"Portia, please defend your actions of last night."

"Well, you're Honour–"

"Without your perceived, witty sarcasm, darling."

"I was out with friends doing what half the city - hell, half the country–"

"Without the profanity as well please." He put the paper aside and leaned an arm on the table. "In the last three months alone you have been arrested twice for the same transgression and nearly got yourself killed intervening in some total stranger's financial problems."

"His financial problem was being shaken down by mobsters for all the profits his little store made. And he wasn't a total stranger, I bought my cigarettes there regularly."

"Another disgusting habit you young women have acquired." Crawford sighed. "Do you not realize these places you attend are run by gangsters? Men who create the horrendous headlines with ruthless killings so they can continue supplying you with your illegal cocktails? My point is you are reckless, Portia, dangerously so and if anything happened to you after losing your mother . . ."

She stood and wrapped her arms about his shoulders. "Father, nothing will happen and both Rodney and I miss mother too. You men just keep DeLysle and Son doing well and I'll be more discrete in the future."

"If only I could believe that." He took her hand and kissed it.

"I have to run now, I'm meeting Flo at Mindy's. She's looking for a new dress."

Crawford watched wistfully as his daughter sashayed from the room, a long pearl necklace swinging carelessly from around her neck.

June had suggested that July would be a hot month and as the first week approached it looked like June was a better forecaster than the weather people. All through the building where David Ashby lived, large fans redistributed the hot air and relief was usually only found directly in front of one, but it was not conducive to getting anything done.

Inside his one-bedroom apartment, David flapped back and forth barefoot across his kitchen linoleum, chewing a cold bagel while reading the umpteenth draft of his assessment report. As financial manager of Trevor Auction, David had been tasked with providing his employer a passing grade for his latest brainstorm.

The phone rang and he quickly pried all the gummy bits from his teeth with his tongue as he answered.

"Hi, it's Friday and you're still home."

"I know I am. What's up?"

"Missed you last night at the police raid."

"Don't tell me. Poor old Rodney was pressed into service again."

"Don't be cruel. Rodney knows his onions when it comes to the law."

"He needs to, nurse-maiding you."

"So, what are you wearing?"

"A frown. I have a very important meeting Monday and I need secluded silence to prepare."

"I guess lunch with Flo and I is out of the question. She bought a new dress."

"'Fraid so, Dee."

"You still have to eat."

David leaned on the little phone table and sighed. Portia DeLysle was one of those mysterious women that seemed to have a knack for drawing people into their circle with little or no effort.

He reflected briefly on their relationship and how their one attempt at intimacy confirmed to both of them that they had a much better chance of being solid friends than lovers.

"Yes, I still have to eat . . . I could fry eggs on my window sill."

"But then you wouldn't have me as a companion to share a lovely bottle of wine with at say, Jessie's, tomorrow night then?"

"Jessie's on a Saturday night; just what I need. Tomorrow for dinner, but at a restaurant, not one of your gin joints."

"Waiting will be agony, David."

"Right. Bye, Dee."

Hanging up he shook his head, musing; another defeat snatched from the jaws of victory. A bit of chewed bagel transferred to his draft from his finger and he scraped it off, devouring it without mercy. Roland Royce, David's boss had given him a proposal, indicating his own enthusiasm for its contents and a deadline for a meeting the coming Monday.

David's dilemma was struggling with a way to shoot the idea down without also shooting himself. He threw the draft copy on the table and rinsed his fingers under the tap, swearing out loud over Rolly's stupid decision.

He knew he would never be able to endorse something he was so dead set against. He went to the phone and dialled his office asking for his boss.

"Mr. Royce's office, may I ask who's calling please?"

"Angela, it's David, is he free?"

"Well he wouldn't charge you, David." Her giggle seemed to come through her nose.

"Yes, funny. You've used that one before, Angela."

"I'll put you through" Mood about face.

"David! I hope you're working on that proposal." The voice was a mix of jolly and threat.

"About that . . . I think it is a bad thing to do . . ."

The silence went on so long David thought he had hung up, and he tentatively spoke his name.

"Did I ask you what you thought, Ashby?

"Uh . . . yes. You asked me for an assessment and I–"

"An assessment didn't mean opinion! I wanted to hear how well it could work!"

"Actually, Rolly an assess–"

"It's Mr. Royce to you, Ashby."

"Right. Sorry. I was going to say–"

"I don't care what you were going to say; I want a stamp of approval . . . signed. and I want it on my desk first thing Monday morning!"

David worried as he hung up. Legality didn't seem to enter into it.

Trevor Art and Auction was two separate businesses under one umbrella each with its own management. Trevor Art was ruled by Mildred Emmanuel, a mix of Joan Crawford, Tallulah Bankhead and Marlene Dietrich . . . formidable.

It was a prestigious art gallery showing only the best and most expensive of the latest stars in all fields of the art world. Those invited to show in her gallery received the full bore focus of Mildred and what didn't sell went to Trevor Auction, receiving the same intense dedication to profit.

The reverse was true in that what the auction house couldn't move was shifted to the gallery and enjoyed the concentrated diligence of the gallery staff. Roland Royce managed the auction end, and it was his latest brainstorm that had David sweating out the assessment he was directed to make.

Musical Media from the Rick Colom Collection