*LONE GUNMEN:
EQUAL
OPPORTUNITY
EMPLOYERS*

	

*LONE GUNMEN HQ - MONDAY MORNING*

On his fiftieth birthday, Melvin Frohike realized that he was going to
be one of those old men who only needed to sleep a few hours out of
every twenty-four. This didn't bother him, much; after all, what was the
point of trying to sleep the eight-hour norm if you had to get up and
pee every few hours, struggling after each trip to the can to settle
back into a restful state?

He'd always been a night owl, and enjoyed the society of other night
owls, denizens in a world that nine-to-fivers seldom knew existed.
Oddly, for a night owl, Frohike also loved humanity's early morning
shift, people who had to rise in the small hours to get to blue collar
jobs, to serve coffee in diners, to bake the day's doughnuts and breads.
He didn't care much about the office and professional world; the perfect
time for sleeping was undoubtedly 10 a.m. until 3 p.m.

Since Byers' long-term health seemed to depend on a regular schedule of
hitting the hay at 12:30 a.m. and rising for a quick shower and shave at
6:30 a.m., and Langly could be counted on to keep him company until 2 or
even 3 a.m. in the morning (if no heavy gaming tourneys were in
progress), then sleep until noon the next day, it was usual for Frohike
to have the late hours of the night all to himself.

	

Frohike liked the schedule -- when it worked. It meant that, unless they
were all out chasing a story, there was usually someone awake to keep an
eye on things in the office. In an unpredictable world the three of them
had managed to orchestrate a precarious, but harmonious, routine.

Now their three-of-a-kind hand was threatened by the addition of a wild
card, a joker with the unlikely name of Jimmy Bond.

Frohike glanced over his shoulder as something creaked across the room.
The clock on his computer said 3:30 a.m. Jimmy's abrupt visits could
occur at any hour of the day or night. Frohike was unsure if the big,
hyper goofus had *any* routine in his life.

Although he knew that Byers and Langly were in bed, and he was the only
other person in the apartment, Frohike pushed himself away from the
computer, stretched and began a perimeter patrol. Ever since they'd
discovered that Yves had gimmicked herself into their space (and that
Jimmy had known long before they reviewed the monitor tapes, and
forgotten to mention it) paranoia had ruled at Lone Gunman headquarters.

The surveillance screen showed an empty hallway. Water dripped in the
darkroom sink, as usual, and the creaking sounds were a result of the
natural old-age of the building that settled above them like an
overweight broody hen. Away from the soothing drone of computer
equipment , Frohike heard the faint noises escaping from Langly's room.
Sinus problems there, Frohike thought, taking odd comfort from the
familiar chainsaw snoring.

They'd been arguing over what to do about the door locks just before
Byers yawned and said his polite good-nights slightly after midnight.
Langly had been insisting they install a couple of iron bars on the
inside of the front door, and build a secret escape passage to use when
they had to leave the place unattended. The stud-finder sat in front of
Langly's computer, where he'd thrown it in disgust. After spending most
of the evening investigating the outer walls of their space, he had been
unable to find a spot both he and Byers could agree might have the
potential for this project.

Frohike had refrained from pointing out the stupidity of the
stud-finder; most of their walls were concrete block. He'd also stayed
out of the argument. Not that he wasn't worried about Yves; it seemed
not to have occurred to the other two that even if they *could* build a
secret escape door, Yves could -- and would -- find it.

They had plenty of other, more solvable, problems to worry about. Like
the lack of a good lead story for their next edition.

Black coffee sounded tempting, Frohike thought as he went back to his
computer. They were out of makings, though. Byers needed to go grocery
shopping, but money had been tight, and they were all reluctant to
mention it for fear Jimmy would start to shower them with groceries. It
was bad enough they had to take his money to pay for printing and
distribution costs. Frohike had the nagging worry that one day the boy
would turn up with plastic bags full of yuppie-label beer, quilted
toilet tissue and boxes of Lean Cuisine.

On impulse, Frohike surfed over to the USANA site to check out the
latest information on a series of FOI court cases. They'd never had the
money to pay dues, but Frohike didn't see any philosophic problem with
joining the United States of America Newspaper Association. They did
some good stuff for real journalists.

Reading through the headline menu, a number caught his eye.

"Spending in newspaper advertising hits $48.7 billion in 2000."

Jeez. A little of that would have been good. According to the last
pie-chart Byers had created from his bookkeeping program, they'd had a
four-figure income last year.

Frohike clicked on the headline and scanned the story. Classified
advertising alone was over $19 billion, the story claimed.

Election year bonanza, Frohike thought with disgust; even if they'd
agreed to take the money, no one had come to them offering sticky
political dollars.

Few advertisers seemed interested in them at all.

To be fair, Frohike admitted to himself, they hadn't pursued advertising
dollars aggressively. There were too many potential conflicts of their
interest with the interests of businesses that might appear in their
headlines. Manpower was another problem; their time was already maxed.

Still. $48 billion dollars could trickle down and feed a lot of budding
-- and gnarled -- journalists.

The headline hovered in the back of his mind as Frohike moved from
Freedom of Information cases, to mad cow disease, to hoof and mouth
virus, to genetically altered corn and hormone-bloated chickens. By 5:00
a.m. he had a couple of ideas for a lead story, and the queasy
conviction he was going to have to turn into a strict organic vegetarian.

 

*LATE MONDAY AFTERNOON*

"The connection is too tenuous," Byers argued. "We'd need hard proof,
and that will take time."

"Have you come up with anything? You were supposed to be tracking states
that are getting ready to try and make DNA sampling at birth mandatory."
Frohike's stomach complained about the toast and jam he'd had after
getting out of bed. He really wanted a cheeseburger, but the image of
staggering cows was still putting him off.

"That's so lame." Langly had been glued to his computer for the last
week, recreating his game's virtual moment of crowning glory. He'd
forgiven Frohike for killing the power to the shredder -- and his
computer; the game recreation included an expanded coronation scenario
with a slightly indecent many-maids-a-waiting enrobing ceremony. "I like
Frohike's story. Government and big food companies feeding us hormones
to keep a good pool of basketball players coming. The sports industry is
nearly as powerful as the tobacco industry, ya know. Actually the
tobacco industry has been buying up the big food suppliers for some
time, so there might even be a link there."

"I'm not saying it's not a good story. We just haven't done the work,
yet." Byers shook his head. "We'll run Frohike's follow-up piece on the
War Criminal Hunters and their most-wanted list."

"Not very sexy," Langly said, flipping his hair back over one shoulder.

"But solid." Byers frowned. "We're in a bind, and Frohike did the work.
The DNA story will be ready by the next issue."

"I hope so. It just makes my blood boil when I think of all those babies
who might have their futures ruined. At least with the chicken thing,
they can grow up to be good American hoopers. But to be forced into the
DNR? That's like the sneakiest branch of law enforcement there is. Those
guys make the CIA look like 45-year-old Sunday afternoon men's league
dabblers." Jimmy Bond eased around the workbench and peered over
Langly's shoulder. "Whatcha doing?"

"Byers." Langly's voice carried a strident demand.

"Jimmy ..." Byers began. He broke off as the office phone rang.

"I'll get it!" Jimmy bounced across the room. "Office of the Lone
Gunman, your complete conspiracy news source! Jimmy Bond speaking."

Frohike felt his eyeballs roll in their sockets. The kid was way too juiced.

"That would be so cool." Jimmy waggled his eyebrows at them. "I just
don't know. Let me ask." Jimmy placed his hand over the receiver. "How
much do we charge for a full page ad, guys?"

"I'll take that." Frohike elbowed Byers and Jimmy aside. "Hello? This is
Melvin Frohike."

"Hello Mr. Frohike. This is Edwina Norton; I own the Acme Ad Agency. Are
you the advertising manager?"

The woman's voice sounded weary, Frohike thought. "We're a small
business, Ms. Norton. Today I'm wearing the ad manager's hat." Frohike
heard Langly make a rude snicker, and flipped a finger in his direction.
"Our receptionist said you were interested in a full page ad?"

"I've got a client ... a friend really," the woman said. "I'm familiar
with your publication; it seemed like the perfect vehicle for what she
needs. I've got your mechanical dimensions, but not your rates."

"A camera-ready, full-page ad?" Cha-ching! Frohike took a deep breath.
"Five hundred would do it ..."

"Yes!" Across the room, Jimmy was trying to high-five Byers.

"Fine. I'll e-mail the ad. As for payment ..."

Frohike could hear a rustling noise on the other end of the line. "Cash
would be better, but we'll take a check. Our mailing address is on the
masthead ... do you have it?"

"I do." For the first time the weariness in the woman's voice
disappeared, and she chuckled, an earthy little sound that gave Frohike
a twinge of ... interest. "We don't mind paying in cash, but I'll need
to get a receipt. I could bring it to your office; there's no physical
address listed here?"

Another reason they hadn't pursued advertisers; a steady stream of
strangers coming to their door would expose them to additional risks.
*Crisp greens,* Frohike told himself. *It's only one dame.*

Turning his back on his friends, Frohike quietly gave Edwina Norton
their address.

 

*TUESDAY MORNING, 8 A.M.*

"If it's an April Fool's joke, we still get $500 bucks ... so I'll laugh
all the way to the sock under your bed, Byers."

The air was warm and heavy with the perfumed oils of fresh coffee
grounds, cayenne pepper and the nose-biting tomato sharpness of Rowdy
Dragon hot sauce. Anticipation of a cash influx had sent them out last
night on a quick shopping trip to replenish Ma Hubbard's cupboard.
Remembering all the times he'd condemned Yves' pursuit of filthy lucre,
Frohike acknowledged that the ability to pay for the basic necessities
of life was a comfort he wouldn't take for granted.

Byers finished a last bite of scrambled egg covered with hot sauce,
drained his coffee cup and blotted his lips with a napkin. "Thanks,
Frohike. Great eggs. You really think she'll show up with the money?"

"I checked out her agency. It's legit; they've been DBA for 15 years."
Frohike poured himself another cup of coffee. "I admit the ad's almost
too over the top, like something Mulder'd ..." Frohike stopped abruptly
and swallowed hard.

"I know," Byers said quietly. "Let's go print it out. I only skim read
it on the screen. Leave the dishes; I'll clean after Langly gets up."

It was definitely an ad Mulder would have appreciated.

"Bill. Come home," Byers read the 150 point headline aloud. "Do we have
any subscribers named Bill or William?"

"Seven," Frohike said. "Don't think this is aimed at a subscriber,
though that's just my impression."

"All is forgiven," Byers continued reading the more modest 24 point
type. "Your family understands about exposure to the depleted uranium
shells and the abductions. We don't blame you, and since the living room
was repainted everyone's been letting go over the solstice thing; the
children have new pets -- fish this time. Your mother was released from
that home she was in, and is living in the basement. She asks for you
every day when I put food through the trap. I've just learned I'm
pregnant. If you think back to the last time we had marital relations,
you'll understand why this condition is causing me some concern. I'm
going to need your support. The Visa bills have been coming in, so I
know they dropped you back in the area. We miss you and need you, and
since Uncle James died last month he won't be bothering you about the
transplant. Please come home, and bring the shoes. Your loving family."

"Run it in the back, just before the classifieds?" Frohike said, finally.

"As long as we get paid first." Byers shook his head. "It's one of the
things I've missed most about Mulder's absence -- being constantly
reminded that, compared to what some people face every day, our problems
are piddly, almost boring."

The blare of the door alarm shattered the uncomfortable silence between
them.

"It's probably Jimmy. I'll get it," Frohike said. He still wasn't ready
to talk about Mulder, even with the guys. "I wrote a column last night.
Proof it for me."

"Will do."

Frohike had expected to find Jimmy fidgeting in the hallway, like a big
dog eager to run out and pee on all the hydrants in the city. The little
woman with the oversized shoulder bag, flyaway curls and wire-rim
glasses was, therefore, a pleasant surprise.

"Ms. Norton?" Frohike opened the door wide.

"Please -- I'm Ed. You're Mr. Frohike?"

"M-melvin." Frohike wiped his hands down the front of his jeans, hoping
his fingers weren't still greasy from breakfast. He held out his hand
and she took it. Her fingers pressed against his in a quick, firm handshake.

"Interesting place you've got here. Is that old guy in the alley yours?
I think my Cherry's in love."

"Excuse me?" *Did she just say what I thought she said?* Frohike
wondered. Standing eye to eye with him (and they were an odd color, not
quite blue and not quite green, Frohike thought disjointedly), with
those retro wire-rim glasses and curling mass of hair that looked to be
the color and texture of pink cotton candy, wearing a moss-colored smock
and matching velveteen cossack trousers tucked into knee-high boots of
seasoned brown leather, she roused the ghostly image of someone from an
old album cover.

"The VW bus. Is it yours?"

"Yes." Frohike forced his mind out of retrospective mode. Thankfully
Byers was coming to join them, his eyes wide and wondering as he stared
at the pink hair.

*It's better than Christmas,* Frohike thought. *Mrs. Claus bringing cash
to all the good boys. Lucky Santa. Who knew Mrs. Claus was built like a
brick ...*

"Hello. I'm John Byers. You must be Ms. Norton."

"Ed to my friends." She repeated the handshake with Byers, but Frohike
thought she held his hand a little longer then she'd held his. "I love
old VWs. I've got a '72 Super Beetle -- Cherry Red. You don't see many
of the buses around any more."

"No, you don't. Would you like a cup of coffee, Ed?"

Byers was absolutely exuding friendly welcome, Frohike thought, frowning.

"Thank you, I would."

"We won't keep you from proofreading. I'll take care of business,
Byers." Frohike touched Ed's arm and steered her toward the kitchen
table. No rings on her fingers, he noticed; no lines, either, to show
she might have worn one for a while.

He pulled out a chair, then hustled the pile of dishes out of sight.
"Cream? Sugar?"

"Black is good."

How old was she? Frohike wondered as he poured the coffee. Women do such
crazy things to their hair. Skin was usually the big telltale; Ed had
fine wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, but the line of her chin and
throat was smooth and tight. Thirty and counting? A finely cared-for
forty plus? The belted smock emphasized the fact that if she was
carrying any significant extra weight it sat high and proud well above
her waistline.

"We got the ad. No problem."

"Thank you." She took the coffee and smiled up at him.

Frohike felt something twang near his left lung, and something melt near
his navel.

"How weird did you think it was?" Ed laughed. "I don't want to sound
patronizing, but when I read it I immediately thought of your paper."

"Good call; and it's not the weirdest thing I've ever read. You said --
a friend of yours?" Frohike watched her sip the coffee. She had a small
dimple next to her lips, like a fleeting beauty mark that appeared when
she smiled.

"Yes," Ed said, slowly, as if debating whether to follow the short
answer with a longer one. She reached into her handbag and pulled out an
envelope. "Meg would like a receipt."

"No problemo. I'll go print one off for you." Frohike took the envelope
and tucked it into his vest pocket. "Help yourself if you want more coffee."

Byers was standing by the light-table near the printer, tapping a
photo-blue pen against his chin as he read. "So," he said as Frohike sat
down at the computer and began typing, "she seems nice."

"Yeah." Frohike diverted his attention from the screen to glare at Byers
for a second.

Byers smiled as he looked past Frohike toward the kitchen. "Langly seems
to think so, too."

In the background, Frohike could hear Langly's voice and Ed's laugh. He
half rose from his seat, in time to see Langly lean over and touch Ed's
hair. She was laughing. Her own fingers reached up to weave through a
dangling strand of Langly's long blond hair.

Frohike snatched the receipt out of the printer before the tractor tires
had completely let go. He ignored Byers' laugh as he hurried back toward
the kitchen.

"This is your whole staff?" Ed asked as Frohike handed her the receipt.
"Three of you?"

"We've got another guy now. Part-timer," Langly said, rummaging in the
refrigerator. "Kind of an EOE concession ..." He found the orange juice
carton, shook it, then tipped it to his mouth.

"We're a small, specialized organization," Frohike said. Later he would
make Langly eat the OJ carton, right now he just wanted to get rid of
him so he could think of a way to ask Ed if she'd like to get a drink,
or dinner, or maybe climb into a jacuzzi.

Ed finished her coffee. "It was a pleasure meeting you all."

"I'll walk you out." Frohike pulled her chair away as she stood, earning
a rude snicker from Langly for his chivalry. "I'd like to see your VW."

"That ain't all he'd like to see," Langly said as he passed, just loud
enough for Frohike to hear.

Langly had been crankier and more sarcastic then usual, Frohike thought
as he followed Ed up the stairs. He blamed it on Jimmy; they were all
finding unsuspected nerve endings thanks to Jimmy's unique ebullient
density.

"You should give serious thought to some restoration work before he gets
any worse," Ed said as they entered the alley. "I don't mean to be
pushy; I have this weird sense of family with VWs. I get evangelistic
about them."

Frohike whistled. The gleaming red Super Beetle parked behind their van
seemed wink at him. "Shit. It's a Love Bug!" he said, before he could
stop himself.

"My Cherry's a great girl," Ed said, grinning. "I also anthropomorphize
machinery. To a lot of people, that makes me a crazy old lady."

"I can't vouch for the crazy, but I know the 'old' part is way off,"
Frohike said, sucking in his stomach and thinking furiously. What would
be the best way ...

"A lot of people don't look beyond the packaging," Ed said, running her
hand along the chrome of a headlight. "Would you be interested in
getting a cup of coffee, or a drink, sometime?"

"Well. Yeah. Okay." Frohike's stomach fell back into its normal position
before he could stop it. "That would be cool."

Ed fished in her handbag, and pulled out a business card. "Hang onto
this. It's got my work, home, phone numbers, e-mail ... Why don't I pick
you up tonight at 7? We can get dinner, too."

"Cool."

 

 

"Cool ... that would be cool ... dammit. Could I be more suave?" Frohike
muttered as he walked back to the office, feeling as if his whole body
had contorted into a wince. "I am so out of practice it's pathetic."

"Get a date?" Langly yelled as Frohike locked the door. "I think
Scully's pregnancy has left him a broken man, Byers. He's been reduced
to sucking up to old ladies."

"When's the last time *you* had a date, freak?" Frohike demanded. "At
least I'm relating to women; I don't spend all my time in dark corners
with boys named Kimmy."

"Guys," Byers started.

The door buzzed. Frohike kept walking. "That'll be Jimmy. I'm going to
grab a nap. If you get the layouts done, Byers, I'll look them over when
I get up."

It was blessedly quiet in his bedroom. Frohike automatically reached for
his lava lamp and thumbed the on-switch. A low hum started, and the
soothing green light and blue blobs of 'lava' began their hypnotic
dance. The bed squeaked when he sat down to pull off his boots. Frohike
could almost remember what it sounded like in full orchestration with
the happy squeals of a woman singing soprano to his bass enjoyment.

He wasn't a kid any more, but damn, it had been way too long.

Frohike pulled the basket out from under his bed and dropped everything
except his vest, gloves and boxers onto the small pile of socks that had
been waiting to be laundered for over a week. When he woke up he'd
shower, and put on clean stuff. Maybe that dark green shirt that Scully
used to look at as if she liked it.

Scully, his hot little Scully.

Would he ever feel good about those two again, Frohike wondered as he
molded his pillow into a suitable shape. Mulder and Scully were synonyms
for loss and sadness lately. As much as he wanted to celebrate Scully's
impending motherhood, there was something overwhelmingly dark in her
face that rocked him to his soul.

Frohike shut his eyes and tried to let the hum from the lamp zone him
out. Who was going to childbirth classes with her, he wondered. Why did
those two only ask for technical help? Hadn't Scully *ever* looked for a
cuddle or shoulder to cry on? The thought that Mulder and Scully both
may have been damaged beyond repair was almost too much to bear.

He'd missed Scully more then the guys knew. With her, the game had been
the thing ... the jokes and innuendos, the ogling, the simple
appreciation of her unobtainable Scully-loveliness.

Frohike reached behind him and gave the pillow a vicious punch. Game
over, he thought sadly.

Langly's comment about old ladies had contained more truth then he could
know. The whole humiliating masquerade as Dolph Haag had given Frohike
an unexpected just-past-mid-life insight about his own neediness. He
didn't *need* to be mothered, didn't *need* the aggressive care and
concern of any woman. But he hadn't found it burdensome; in fact he'd
admitted to himself that as comfortable as he was living with the guys,
there were times when he just wanted to be with a woman.

And not necessarily in bed, Frohike thought, yawning; although that
would be a definite bonus.

Climb, ooze, drop. Climb, ooze, drop.

The hum and the colored light quieted his mind, and with a last fleeting
imaginary construction of how Ed might look stretched out beside him on
the bed, Frohike drifted off to sleep.

 

*ALLEY BEHIND LGHQ, 7 P.M.*

She was right on time.

Frohike glanced at his watch as he heard the signature
rubberband-powered-motor sound of the VW before it turned into the
alley. With a minute to spare Ed pulled up behind the van, waving at him.

Punctuality was a good thing in a woman, Frohike thought absently as Ed
opened the door, and swung out a long, slender, mostly bare leg. The
rest of her followed, and Frohike heard himself make an unattractive
gulping sound as he swallowed.

She wore a bronze velvet shift, sort of a flapper look, he thought,
eyeing the slitted sides that opened up a clear line of leg to just
above mid-thigh when she walked. The color should have been outrageous
with her pink hair, but seemed to work; Frohike had only the most
nebulous idea of what passed for fashion these days, once you moved away
from basic black leather.

"You look great," she said with a huge smile. "I hope you don't mind, I
dressed up instead of down. It cheers me up."

"It cheers me up, too." That had been better, Frohike thought, then
*cool.* Maybe he'd get through the evening without making a total ass of
himself.

"Would you like to drive?"

She wanted him to say yes, Frohike realized. He had no objection. "Okay.
Where are we going?"

"You know Gregori's?"

"Sure." Good pick. The food was great, prices were moderate, and the
place had ambience up the kazoo.

"Take the long way there. I feel like going for a drive." Ed walked
around and got into the passenger's seat.

Frohike slid in behind the wheel. Oooh. Leather-wrapped wheel, and the
vinyl smelled faintly of sweet citrus cleaner. He adjusted the rearview
mirror; the glass was so clean it was practically invisible. The seats
still had spring; stretching his legs Frohike realized he didn't even
have to make an adjustment to reach the pedals. Their legs must be the
same length, he thought, trying to ignore a sudden warmth around his
upper thighs.

"You really keep her up." Frohike turned the key, and the motor caught
and rumbled behind them. "She sounds good."

Even without his gloves on, the gears moved in and out under his hands
with silky ease. For the first time he started to consider Ed's words
about restoring the van. Compared to Cherry, shifting the van was like
trying to change an old duffer's dentures on the fly.

"Can you bear to listen to Sarah Vaughn?" Ed asked, fingers hovering
about the controls of a CD player that fit seamlessly into the radio slot.

"Not a burden," Frohike said. Nice of her to ask, not many women *or*
men bothered. God. She smelled wonderful; not like perfume, he thought,
some kind of soap. Fresh. Spicy. Tasty.

It was going to be a long night.

He drove her through a residential area, and around the park near
Gregori's. They didn't talk, just listened to the jazz and looked at the
neighborhood. When they parked next to Gregori's, she opened her own
door, but came around and offered him her arm.

Her arm was warm, and Frohike could feel taut muscle under the smooth
skin; as they walked her shoulder and hip nudged against him. Frohike
imagined the soft spots that had developed in his midsection the first
time he saw Ed were emulating his lava lamp, and oozing weakness down
toward his knees. It was a wonderful sensation, in spite of the fact it
made walking difficult.

He managed to get into the restaurant without embarrassing himself. It
looked like a quiet night; they got a table right away, an intimate
booth in a corner.

"They've got these thin chewy, crispy, cheesy breadsticks," Ed said.

"I've eaten here. They're good," Frohike agreed. He ordered a beer; Ed
ordered wine. They sat and looked at each other after the waiter had gone.

"Tell me about the paper," she said. "What's your circulation? Where do
you print?"

"We print about 3000," Frohike said, inflating the last circulation
figure by the usual acceptable percentage. He found himself talking
through the breadsticks, through the salad and pasta. She was a good
listener, and since she was in the business herself knew what questions
to ask, and when to laugh. It was heady. He didn't start feeling like
he'd talked too much until their coffee came after the dishes had been
cleared away.

"Hey, sorry. I've been talking your ear off." The light made a fuzzy
spot around her hair, casting a rosy haze over their table. In spite of
the haze Frohike experienced a moment of super-sharp observation, an
almost out-of-body experience. The evening had been perfect, Ed was
great company, and Frohike's newest and most compelling ambition in life
was to get Ed out of her clothes. As the epiphany faded, a pall of gloom
displaced his euphoria. What were his chances?

"Why'd you ask me out?"

"There was a spark," she said. "That was one reason."

"There's another?" For the first time since he'd met her, Edwina Norton
looked awkward and ill-at-ease. Then she leaned forward and smiled, and
the moment passed.

"I turned fifty this year, Melvin. My business celebrated its 16th --
and final -- anniversary. I lost two good employees this year to
motherhood, another to a jail term for drug possession. Just the thought
of interviewing for three replacements, the training, the failures
before I find the right people ..." Ed shook her head. "I've been
successfully self-employed most of my life. I've made this decision to
close my business. I could retire early, but what would I do? I'm not a
lounger."

"I don't suppose you want to start a torrid affair with an investigative
journalist?" Frohike asked diffidently.

"You're so sweet." Ed reached for his hand and touched his fingers. "But
I don't sleep with men I work with ... at least, not right away. And it
wouldn't be fair to Sven."

Wishing he'd had the foresight to order a shot with his coffee, Frohike
examined the bombshell she'd just dropped from several angles. He took a
breath. "We don't work together," he said. "Who's Sven?"

"Sven lives with me. He's studying to be an athletic trainer. Long
story." She picked up her coffee cup and looked at him over the rim.
"Sven isn't a permanent thing, Melvin. And if you offered me a job, I
would work with you."

Ed held up her hand as he opened his mouth. "You need me, Melvin. You're
badly underexposed."

"I offered ..."

"Shh. Let me work on commission. I'll start by selling advertising for
you. I've already got several contacts who are natural clients for the
Lone Gunman."

He couldn't help himself, he had to ask. "Like who, Ed? You have more
wacko friends who want to drop bucks advertising for missing family
members?"

"Are you good at what you do, Melvin?"

She'd straightened and pulled back her shoulders. Frohike found he
couldn't take his eyes off what looked like molten hills of bronze-gold.

"Yeah. Good," he managed. "Damn it, Ed. What exactly do you want from
me? Because the signals are confusing."

"Life is confusing," she snapped. "I am attracted to you; it's a
definite bonus. But Melvin, I'm *very* good at what I decide to do. And
I've decided to sell advertising for you." She held up five fingers and
ticked them off as she spoke. "I could go out tomorrow and sell space to
Mad Jack's Computer Repair, the local chapter of the NRA, Red Wigglers,
Daisy Hill Kennels, and a handful of security installation companies."
Ed waved her little fist at him. "And that's only the tip of the
iceberg, Melvin. As far as I can see, you haven't even *tried* to market
your publication. Don't you want to make money?"

"Money is good," Frohike said cautiously. She seemed very enthusiastic.
"I guess our mission has always been the primary focus. We aren't doing
this to make money, Ed."

"No shit."

Watching Ed finish her coffee in tight-lipped silence, Frohike
considered how Byers and Langly might react to Ed's suggestion; if it
meant they could cut their dependence on Jimmy, he didn't see how they
could refuse to give her a try. He also wondered what kind of time frame
'right away' implied.

"I'll talk to the guys, Ed. That's all I can promise."

"Good enough." She touched his hand again. "Thank you, Melvin."

He let her pay for dinner without a fuss, and drove the long way back to
the office. Ed didn't make a move to start a CD, but the quiet between
them felt comfortable. She didn't speak until they pulled into the alley.

Frohike turned the key and Cherry's engine stuttered to a halt.

"All those stories you write. They're true, aren't they." Ed looked at
their bus, holding her hands folded loosely in her lap.

"Yes. And that brings up another problem with you working for us."
Frohike had thought about it on the way home. "What we do, sometimes
it's dangerous, Ed. Fatal dangerous."

"I'm not a careless person, Melvin. The woman who gave me that ad to
place. I've known her since we were kids. She used to be as normal ...
as I am." Ed laughed a little, then sobered. "I've worked in advertising
most of my life, for god's sake. Let me tell you -- I know there's evil,
exploitative crap going on in the world. I can respect that you and your
friends are trying to keep a voice alive. Let me help."

"I said I'd talk to them." Frohike opened his door and got out. It was
dark in the alley, and ripe with the odors of gas and garbage and hot
fry grease. He heard Ed's door open. She came around to stand next to
him, smelling of garlic and red wine, and underneath of clean, warm
woman. He felt his heart jump into his throat.

"Thanks for your company, Melvin. Even if your friends won't hire me,
I'd like to see you again."

"What about Sven?" he managed to ask.

"Nice boy," Ed said. "He's headed for L.A. in a couple of months. Can I
kiss you good night?"

"I thought you were a smart dame." Frohike's instinctive step backward
was blocked by Cherry's fender. "You need to ask that question?"

She was maybe two inches taller than he was, Frohike thought as she put
an arm around his neck and leaned against him. Carefully she removed his
glasses and slipped them into one of his vest pockets. Frohike's hands
slid down the velvet, hesitated, then glided over her backside. Her lips
were as soft as her ass in this dress, he thought vacantly as her tongue
touched his bottom lip.

Time quivered, stopped.

It was the slowest, deepest kiss Melvin Frohike had ever participated
in. Her deliberately moving mouth twanged every nerve connected to every
vital portion of anatomy he had. The need to breath was jettisoned, the
desire to crawl deep into Ed using any available entry point had become
the alpha and omega of existence. When her mouth disappeared, and his
lungs shuddered into action again, Frohike felt like he'd been
tobogganed over the edge of Hoover Dam.

"Damn." Ed backed away, holding onto the door frame. "Melvin. Good kisser."

"When I can walk again, you can drive off," he said, dryly. "Would you
mind very much if I sent some friends over to pick up Sven and ship him
to California?"

"Call me tomorrow." Ed got into the driver's seat. "Either way, call me."


Jimmy let him in.

"Man, Frohike, I wanted to meet her. Langly said you'd bring her back
with you."

"Langly is an idiot." He'd taken his time getting down to the door, but
the aftereffects of Ed's kiss were still with him. "Is he here?"

"Nope. But Byers is working."

Jimmy followed Frohike toward the computers. "Did you hurt your foot?"

"Yeah, yeah. I hurt my foot. You got any idea where the J&B is, Jimmy?"

"Well, sure. I found it when I was filing last week. What kind of an
idiot would put J&B in a filing cabinet?" Jimmy rolled his eyes.

"Grab a couple of glasses and the bottle. I need a drink ... for the
pain in my foot."

"Frohike?" Byers looked up from the layouts of their next issue. "Are
you okay?"

"We had a great time. I like her a lot. She has a boyfriend," Frohike
said rapidly, ignoring Jimmy when he slapped his forehead and moaned
'oh, man!' as he deposited the glasses and bottle near Frohike's elbow.
"I'd like to talk to Byers alone for a minute, Jimmy. Okay?"

"Sure. I get it. Friend support stuff." Jimmy beamed at them. "I love
the bond you guys have with each other. I'll just go work on the filing."

"Yeah. You do that." Frohike poured the liquor into the glasses,
shrugging as he saw the worry on Byers' face. "Screw the bond we have,"
he said, tipping his glass and taking a large swallow.

"Personally, I'd rather not." Byers laughed as he took a small sip from
the other glass. "What's up, Frohike?"

"You don't want to know." Frohike refilled his glass and tilted his
chair back against the work station. "Were you aware that nearly $49
billion was spent last year on newspaper advertising?"

Byers' eyes widened. "That's a lot of money."

"Yes it is." Frohike nodded. "I've got an idea that will radically
change the looks of your pie-charts, and put a halt to the drain on
Jimmy's life savings. Want to hear it?"


 
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Thanks for the lava lamp, E!

	

Something crashed near the file cabinets. "No big!" Jimmy yelled. "Just
a couple of camera cases."

"You've been known to have good ideas," Byers winced. "I know we vetoed
pinups. What else is there?"

A memory from Vegas flashed through Frohike's mind. Standing on the
strip, consoling Byers over the loss of his chickadee, a comment had
been made about the three of them growing old together. He shuddered.

"There's always something more, Byers. You ever think that we should be
pursuing the truth of our own lives with the same fervor we pursue
conspiracies?"

Byers' expressive eyes reflected deep sadness. "You know I miss her,
Frohike. We don't talk about it. There's something special about Ms.
Norton, isn't there."

"There is. I think we need to add a sales rep to our staff."

"And you've already interviewed someone for the position?" Byers said,
slowly.

"You could say that." Frohike finished his drink and stood up. "We can
talk about it tomorrow, when Langly's here."

"All right," Byers said. "You done for the night?"

"Probably." Frohike looked back over his shoulder. "If I can't sleep
I'll finish the layouts."

"But right now you need a cold shower." Byers pulled at his mustache,
trying to hide his smirk.

"Shut up or I'll ask Jimmy to clean your suits."

You didn't always get the last word, Frohike thought as he rummaged for
a clean towel. You didn't always get your wish. You didn't always get
the last raspberry Bismarck. But sometimes -- even after fifty-odd years
of experience -- you were the recipient of an experience that rocked
your world and made you feel like a horny teenager. Horny teenagers
understood that routine, responsibility and even friendship were hollow
things if you didn't get laid occasionally.

Sometimes adults forgot that early wisdom. As Frohike headed for the
shower he promised himself he would write it down and post it near the
computers in the workroom tomorrow. They could all use the reminder.


*SECOND SEGMENT LONEGUNMEN, SOP