Walter Jaeger stroked his military moustache pensively as he studied his computer screen. As senior partner of JCD&S, he liked to spend several minutes each morning perusing the memo files of the company members before checking his stock portfolio and his list of appointments from his secretary. This morning the memo flickering on his screen left Walter watery-kneed and slightly bilious. His personal financial success reached a point early on whereby he needed to take steps to protect it. The birth of his only grandchild provided a perfect ploy and he began setting up a trust, financed by a complex transfer of funds to a shell company registered in the name of his grandchild. Unfortunately, under his stewardship business declined. A new generation of young turks made the wheeling and dealing he was used to far more difficult, and more and more money was required to keep the business pathways clear. He even began dismantling the trust, losing that money down the same black hole. Consequently, Walter's fortunes dwindled and when several other business investments failed all at once, he found he needed to find fast money to cover substantial losses. With the aid of his lawyer partner, Bondra Croft, he made several large loans from a private party assuring that the situation remained confidential. Unfortunately, unlike a regular bank, Walter's lender established fixed deadlines for repayment-non-negotiable. A frightening vision of his debtor swirled before his eyes and he uttered aloud an alarmed beep.

He punched his intercom and asked that Bondra Croft be paged to his office. Walter swiveled slowly around in his chair to face the spectacular cityscape, usually a satisfyingly calm vista enjoyed from his thirtieth floor office - but not today. He looked up eagerly as Bondra entered his office, watching as she made her way to the leather settee alongside his desk, seating herself comfortably.

"Well?"

"Well, Walter, it seems our crack team of investigators traded for socks." He stared blankly at his partner. "They blew it, Walter."

"Socks...?"

"I'm trying to get hold of Nora but she's not answering her cell."

"Jesus H. Christ! Didn't you tell her how important this was?" Walter slammed his pen down, ducking as it bounced up near his face.

She crossed her legs slowly and brushed away some imaginary lint from her skirt. "This was your your idea remember. You wanted a series of cutouts to keep you well shielded so I arranged for Nora, and on your recommendation, Wiggens."

"The girl was the error in this plan," he pouted.

"Would it have mattered, Walter? Mister Wiggens doesn't sound much like the first horse out of the gate."

"We've used him before." The endorsement was less than enthusiastic.

"Then all's well, isn't it, Walter." Bondra rose gracefully and came around behind the desk. "The worst that can happen, dear, is public humiliation and possibly jail." She smiled deliciously and kissed the top of his thinning hair.

"The worst thing that can happen, Bondra dear, and probably will, is our friend will have us both cemented into large barrels and dumped in the lake."

"Let's not get too far ahead here, darling. Wiggens is looking for Nora right now. As soon as he finds her I'll have him bring her in." There will be no barrel for Bondra, my dear, she confirmed silently to herself, you are the one who owes the money, Walter.

He clutched his head, worrying it back and forth. "Swell, all my troubles just vanished."

*****

Bernie (the Club) Bonducci steepled his fingers and touched them to the tip of his nose. What he was listening to was more of the same excuses for delay that he had been hearing from every borrower since time began. Even he got tired of adding financial penalties to monies that may never be collected. Jaeger was a deadbeat. Clever-but still a deadbeat. The promised payback that was supposed to happen that morning, didn't. And recent investigations by Toto, the messenger standing in front of his desk, showed a growing number of serious complications, principally, that while the switch had been made, an unknown party was in possession of his money. It was beginning to sound very Keystone Kop to Bernie. Now, after waiting around for this news he had missed his dinner reservation, and was in no mood to listen to Toto's explanations.

"He's beggin' for one more week, boss." Toto, a very large, square chunk of beef, shrugged at Bernie, causing the polyester tarpaulin that was his multi-coloured t-shirt to billow at the waist.

"And you have returned as his emissary?"

"Uhh, emissary...? I just thought you'd wanna know about the one week before I sorted him out."

"Mr. Jaeger has already had one hundred and four weeks." Bernie placed his knuckles on the desk, pushing himself up slowly. "Don't you think that's more than enough time- Dodo?"

"So uhh, you want I should ah..." The big man felt his drum-sized neck grow hot.

"If you have the time." Bernie rounded the desk, straightening his tie. "If your personal itinerary won't be compromised in any way. If the fact that I pay you to do what I tell you isn't against your business ethic." Bernie came to a halt in front of Toto, his eyes level with the slab-sized pectoral muscles quivering beneath the shiny blue shirt.

"I'll take care of it right away, boss."

"Please."

*****

Christopher hadn't held out much hope for finding the girl but the Asian lady in the coffee shop remembered her from that morning and said that she came in a couple of times a week. He left his name and phone number and asked if she would speak to the girl if she saw her again and to seal the deal, bought another coffee, to go. Christopher called his office on his cell and said that he had some personal business to attend to and would be in after lunch. His employer agreed and told him he would have plenty to keep him busy without overtime pay. Another fine mess, he thought. He needed to talk to somebody; this was just too bizarre to keep to himself. Christopher figured he'd kill two birds with one stone, eat and share with his favourite ear.

"Shay shweethaart, what'sh new?"

"Your Bogart is getting worse by the day." Christopher pulled himself onto a stool in front of Rory and tapped a finger on the shiny bar top. "Make it a vodka and soda, pal, and pass me a menu."

"Oh my god! He's actually gonna have a drink!" Rory raced up and down behind the bar, dramatically appealing for attention. He was short and stocky and loved to boast about a colourful Irish heritage when he was actually about as Irish as Castro. Rory Smith reigned supreme at his post behind the bar of the Howden Hotel, and was the greatest repository for gossip, myriad confessions, sad tales from sorrowful drunks, and one of Christopher's best friends. He also thought he was the next Rich Little. There was a wooden platform running the length of the bar that gave Rory some needed elevation, and as he darted back and forth doing his business, the boards emitted a rhythmic clack. He carefully placed the order on the bar, first wiping the area clean and covering it with a crisp new napkin. "May I watch?"

"Watch this." Christopher said, faking a poke at his eye. "I'm sorta celebrating."

"Not work!" He clutched his chest.

"Better." He paused mid swallow watching his friend deal out a handful of bar chits. "Aw c'mon, lemme at least tell you about it before you start with the hands out." Rory scooped them back up and deposited them on the shelf below the bar. "Thanks."

"So what's the deal?" He propped an elbow on the bar and waited.

"It's uh, a case of mistaken identity... I think."

Rory reared back, "Someone thought you were a real artist?"

"Yuk, yuk, Rory. You wanna hear or not?"

"Please, my baited breath is beginning to smell fishy."

"You mind?" Christopher smiled weakly at a couple down the bar and gave Rory a deep frown. "I was at the mall this morning picking up some socks and I stopped for a coffee. The place was crowded and these two women come and share my table."

"An old one and a young one, and the young one thought you were Carry Grant."

"Are you interested or not?"

"Christopher, Christopher, Christopher, how could I not be interested?" Rory did a little rocking step behind the bar.

"That's even worse than Bogart. As a matter of fact one was old and one was young, and the young one walked off with my shopping bag. Hers was the same and she just mixed them up. When I got home and looked in the bag it was full of..." he leaned closer and whispered to his friend, "money."

"Bull!"

"Honest to god! Two hundred and fifty grand."

"Jesus Wallace, what are you gonna do?" Rory slipped into a rare, serious mode.

"I went back over and tried to find her but, nothin'. The woman in the coffee shop says she sees her now and then so I left my phone number."

"What about the cops?"

Christopher coloured slightly and toyed with his empty glass. "I uh- I thought I'd just wait on that a bit."

Rory leaned on the back of the bar, his arms out straight. "Christopher Wallace, I think you are askin' for big trouble."

"Hey! Lemme see if this girl turns up first. I'll think of something... if I have to." He nudged his empty glass toward Rory.

"Well don't be lettin' greed get in the way." Rory nudged the glass back.

*****

"Are we getting expenses for this?" Daryl glanced over at his partner as he signaled a lane change and settled in behind a small car towing a U-Haul.

"Of course we are." Butch snapped, cursing silently that he hadn't discussed payment of any kind with Bondra.

"That's good, 'cause finding this dame is gonna take more than a few minutes. We should watch for a motel with a good restaurant."

"Daryl breakfast was only an hour ago! If you'd get from behind this toad, we could make better time."

"Better time to where?" Daryl shrugged, and jerked the car into the passing lane, accelerating well beyond the speed limit. "We don't even have a plan."

"For Christ's sake, don't get a ticket!"

"You wanna drive, Butch? "Cause if you do you can be my guest. And for the record, I don't consider reheated coffee and a stale doughnut breakfast."

The run up to the service station was loose gravel and a giant cloud of dust poured in the open car windows. Daryl braked to a hard stop next to the pump and cut the engine with a harsh turn of the key. He was out of the car and on his way to the office, ignoring Butch's angry cursing at the dirt all over his papers, clothes and the car's interior. A young man with a pair of greasy jeans, a once white T-shirt and a spotted bandana, busily wiped his hands on a black rag as he sauntered toward the car.

"Fill 'er up?"

"Yeah. Regular." Butch climbed out of the car and dusted himself off, whacking at his pants with his file folder. "You serve food inside?"

"You bet. Like the sign says, autos and abdomens - we put gas in both."

Butch scrunched his nose up and stared malevolently.

"Just a little wayside humour, pops, don't get excited. The foods fine."

"Pops?" Butch flung his file in the car and thundered off toward the diner.

Cherry red plastic covered the half dozen booth seats; wear cracks formed odd patterns on all of them and changed in the pale sunshine filtering through dusty windows as heavy clouds passed over. Butch slid into the booth opposite and Daryl frowned.

"You gonna pout the whole rest of the day?"

"I ain't pouting, I just get fed up with you always puttin' me down."

"Daryl, you're a put down kinda guy." Butch flipped open a menu and beckoned the waitress who slopped over with a chrome coffee pot.

"Special's Eggs Eddy. Two bucks, includes toast and coffee."

"What the heck are eggs Eddy?"

"Two eggs scrambled with canned cream corn on fried bread."

Butch stared at the blank-faced girl. "Just the coffee and a toasted bagel. You have bagels?"

"Sesame, whole wheat, cracked wheat, New York, Montreal-"

"That's fine, that's fine. Just whatever's easiest." He handed her the menu and leaned back while she spilled coffee into his mug. "Christ, talk about android."

"Who's she?" Daryl said, looking up.

Butch whimpered and knuckled his eyes. "I bin thinkin'. The bag with the socks in should have a bill, right? If the dame paid by credit card it would say what kind, right? It would also give a time and a department and everything our friend Hoyte Boorland would need to hack the store's data and get us a name and address.

"Am I missing something here, 'cause if that's the plan, and it is a good one, Butch, then why are we out here in the car? We could have had breakfast back in the office."

"Listen Daryl, if you're trynna get under my skin you're doin' a great job." The return of the waitress forestalled any further debate and the two men just glared at each other until she left.

"So you wanna go?" Daryl stopped chewing his sandwich.

"Can I eat first?" He snorted and bit into a rock hard, toasted bagel.

"Don't forget to ask for a receipt, Butch."