Stakeouts are like yesterday's lunch. When they go right, no one remembers you, or when they go wrong, well, that would be like a mound of cat droppings taking flight. It is very wrong.

When someone introduces themselves with a menacing, "Don't turn around." And sticks the business end of a laser pistol in your back, it doesn't take a genius to figure out that the ball has definitely rolled down the wrong hill and into a lake.

Avon was feeling uncooperative, which was nothing new of course, but his unlucky attacker didn't know that. He said, "I am NOT going to turn around."

"What?" Confusion can be a wonderful thing. It's like a cloud on a sunny day, asking for directions.

"Would you like me to repeat it?" asked Avon.

"But I just told YOU not to turn around."

Avon said with a sneer, "Your hearing appears to be impaired. Or your intelligence. There isn't enough empirical evidence to rule out either one. Regardless, I am NOT going to turn around, and nothing you do will change that fact."

"Oh yeah?"

"Is that a question?" If sarcasm could bite, the man would be checking for teeth marks.

"We'll see about that! Turn around!" Avon felt the laser pistol poke painfully into his back. That was all he needed. He pivoted swiftly before the man could react, angling his body so that the pistol passed harmlessly behind him as he pushed forward, causing his erstwhile attacker to crash backwards into the wall. Avon grabbed the gun from the stunned man and pointed it at him.

"As you can see, I can be very cooperative. You asked me to turn around and I did."

The man glared at him with a confusion that could turn tears into wine. "But…but…"

Avon asked, "Who sent you?"

For some reason the man reminded him of goat spit on a plate of tuna fish sandwiches. Not a very appealing combination, unless you liked that sort of thing. The man glared defiantly at him and stayed as silent as a cup of water in an establishment that only served wine, and not the good wine.

"I could ask you a second time." Avon pointed the pistol at the man's head. "But I won't."

"Wait! Wait!"

"I don't believe that was one of the options." He pressed the muzzle of the gun against the man's temple.

"I'll tell you!"

Avon pulled the gun back a bit but still kept it trained at the man's head. "Talk."

**********

Avon preferred his locked-room mysteries to not have legs. Unfortunately, his client did.

She had said that her name was Cally, no last name, which was a sure sign that he was headed for trouble. Avon said, "Explain to me why someone would want me to stay away from you?"

She gave him a smile that could have started a fire in a room full of alligators singing off-key. And she was the soprano. "I make you nervous, don't I?"

"Stop evading the question," he told her.

"I don't know."

"You don't know? Or you don't want to tell me?" he asked.

"I can't tell you."

This mystery was developing like two heads on a donkey having a communication problem. Avon wanted one of them to talk. He didn't care which one.

"I don't like being kept in the dark. "

"Please don't ask. It would be too dangerous if I told you. I just need you to find out where my sister is. Before it's too late."

Avon said, "When someone asks you to do something, it's always best to ask what else is involved. I find that it makes for far fewer unpleasant surprises in the end, for both of us."

Cally said, "That's a very cynical attitude."

"I'm a realist."

"I'm sure people call you quite a few other things."

Sometimes Avon found himself staring at his client for no reason. She was as beautiful as a diamond on a summer day and as mysterious as tea on toast. "You must be a mind reader, Cally with no last name. What are you trying to hide?"

Cally smiled. "You really must stop trying to flirt with me."

"You're mistaken. I am doing no such thing and if you think otherwise, perhaps you require services other than that of a detective."

"Oh no. I need you."

**********

Getting involved with this woman was as smart as a bag full of candies with all the blue ones taken out. Avon's instinct told him that. Unfortunately he didn't trust in instinct, only facts and the fact was that Cally had presented him with a mystery that was harder to refuse than vintage rice pudding at election time. A potent combination.

He told her, "Alright. Assuming that this Lloyd Thursday has your sister, he doesn't sound like the kind of man to give her up easily."

"Yes, I know." There was a troubled look on his client's face. "I was hoping that you could come with me to see him tonight. He's got a night club called The Dying Spoon in Grid Four."

A faint grimace touched Avon's lips, he was very familiar with The Dying Spoon. He hoped the incident with the dog and the tankard of ale had long been forgotten or he was going to get a reception colder than ice in a massage parlor for flying acrobats.

**********

Whap!

When a woman feels she’s been wronged, it’s like being in the middle of a mine field with only a cream coloured helmet on.

Avon grabbed the hand that had slapped him in a grip that could have melted ice. He said in a low warning growl, “Don’t do that again.”

Avon didn’t understand why women always wanted to slap him, kiss him or tie him up and not necessarily in that order.

The woman’s name was Brigitte and she was beautiful in a common, laser probe in the wrong hands kind of way. The woman stalked off in a huff after delivering a, “Not if I have anything to do with it.” Avon knew that this was no idle threat. It was time to do what he had come here to do and do it quickly.

His client, who had been watching with amusement asked, “A friend of yours?”

“I have no friends, only clients and colleagues. And people who ask too many questions.”

Cally smiled. Avon wished she would stop doing that, it made it very difficult to concentrate on what he was doing. He shook himself and said, “Where are you supposed to meet this man?”

Cally replied, “Over there, by the band.”

They walked over and sat down after ordering a beer and a glass of wine. The band was one of those that thought noise passed through a coffee dispenser qualified as music. Avon gritted his teeth and tried not to look disgusted, with only intermittent results.

“Kerr Avon.”

A voice came from the doorway. The way the smooth, dangerous man spoke his name, Avon knew that the dog and the tankard of ale incident was coming back to haunt him.

**********

"You have a nerve coming back here." The smooth and dangerous man was Kilo Bowman. He gave fried gerbils a bad name.

Avon had hoped the puppy incident had blown over by now but evidently not. He said with a tone calculated to offend as much as possible, which wasn’t really hard for him. "I don't need a nerve to come back here. Just a strong stomach."

“I want to know what happened to my dog!” Bowman demanded angrily. His temper was the kind that could blow over a barrel of Swiss cheese.

Avon sneered, “Do you seriously expect me to tell you?”

Witness protection for dogs was the kind of racket that only a widowed maker of clown suits would get involved in. Avon knew some of the best and he was not about to divulge any of them.

Bowman took a threatening step forward and said, “I can make you tell me.”

Bullies were like animal crackers, have one too many and you begin to appreciate sliced bread.

Avon replied, “If that was meant to scare me, Bowman, then I’d take lessons. You might live longer that way. Now if you don’t mind, I’m trying to appreciate the acoustic value of coffee dispensers and you’re blocking my view.”

Bowman blubbered like a trooper on two slices of pecan pie. He didn’t know what to do with someone who refused to be intimidated. “This is not finished!” Bowman stomped off.

**********

After the angry man left, Avon's client said with amusement, "He doesn't seem to like you."

"The feeling's mutual," said Avon. His manner was colder than a cross-dressing salmon during an ice blizzard. "Your contact hasn't shown up."

Cally looked over the crowded establishment. "No. Not yet."

Avon saw the look in her eyes and said with pessimistic negativity, "But you have hope."

"Don’t you believe in hope?" This woman had the kind of voice that could entice naked newts from the drive engine of a pursuit ship.

Avon suddenly felt very naked, which might have been enjoyable under different circumstances. He coughed uncomfortably and readjusted the collar of his jacket, just to make sure. "Hope is for those who are unwilling to face reality."

“It’s the only thing I have.” The way she said it would have melted a block of cheese that had passed its expiry date.

Several hours passed. The band had mercifully concluded it’s amateur rendition of a music group on its last legs.

Avon said, “If he hasn’t come by now...”

“You’re right. It was silly of me to have hope. How does it feel to always be right?”

“It saves time.” For some irrational reason, Avon wanted to be wrong for once; it must have been for the novelty value.

From a door in the far corner, Avon could see Brigitte and several large men coming towards his table. He doubted lap-dancing was on their minds. “I think it’s time for us to leave.”

Cally turned her head to the direction he was looking at, “You do seem very popular here.” They both got up and quickly headed towards the exit.

“You have no idea.”

**********

Being hauled out of bed by black clad troopers in the middle of the night is like being asked to give a recital of poetry in a room of deaf tax collectors. One of us is bound to resent it.

Avon looked out of the transport vehicle and saw the one place he did not want to see again tonight. The Dying Spoon. Why did it have to be there?

With a shove from one of the troopers, Avon got out of the transport. There were a half-dozen official vehicles and a crowd gathered around the entrance to the nightclub. Avon could see the faint flashes of a police energy barrier, ones they used to block off crime scenes. Something had obviously happened.

A familiar voice called his name, "Avon! Over here. Let him through."

Avon glared at the trooper accompanying him before the man could shove him again. The man backed off as if struck by ten tons of gelatin. Avon went over to the man with the voice.

Tom Samplehome. Central Security, Criminal Division. For a Federation man, he wasn't all bad. Tom was one of the few people Avon respected. Some might have called him a friend; if Avon had been inclined to have any.

Avon acknowledged their association, "Tom."

"I'm glad you're here."

"The question is, will I be," said Avon dryly.

**********

Tom led Avon into the night club and to a crowded area on the dance floor. As they neared and people got out of the inspector's way, Avon could see what all the commotion was about.

Kilo Bowman lay dead on the ground, an energy burn mark in the middle of his chest. Avon wasn't surprised. Men like Bowman were like rotating waste disposal units, eventually they stop.

Avon's sharp eyes took in the surroundings. There was an upturned chair and several items, presumably from the table, that had fallen near Bowman. He could see the bulge indicating a weapon under his jacket.

Tom said, "I figured you'd want to take a look at him before we they took him away. Plus I had a few questions."

Avon said cynically, "What you really mean is that you wanted me to see this so that you could study my reaction. And then ask me questions."

Tom may have been a friend, but he was first and foremost a detective. There was no look of apology from him. He was here to do a job.

Avon asked, "What happened?"

Tom tapped one of the forensics team on the shoulder and was handed a pistol in a clear evidence container. "It was a single shot to the heart with this." Tom handed the pistol to Avon. "It's a Cardley, isn't it? Out of one of the neutral research labs in Sector Five? There are no prints on it."

Avon turned the pistol around in his hands. Being an expert at weapons identification often made Avon feel like a shy walrus playing the trombone, everyone wants to see you do it. "Yes. It's a Cardley 502. Double-yield energy cartridge. They don't make them anymore. Did you check the cartridge?"

Tom replied, "Yes. There was only one energy discharge from it."

Avon said, "From the looks of it, some of it seems fairly clear. Bowman was sitting at this table, eating alone. We can tell that from the place setting and the fact that the other chairs are still pushed in. Someone approached him. Most likely someone he knew."

Tom asked, "How do you know that?"

Avon said, "Obviously you haven't examined the body yet. Bowman carries a laser pistol. You can still see the bulge in his jacket, which is open. It appears that he never tried to draw his weapon. Bowman would never allow someone he didn't know and trust to get this close to him without one of his guards around. That indicates he knew his murderer. Who found him?"

Tom answered, "He was eating alone so no one saw anything."

"Or so they say."

"Well, you know people don't like to talk to Central Security, even if we are from Criminal Division."

Avon knew that only too well. CS was as popular as mutated ants doing martial arts. "You still haven't said who found him."

"Oh that. Yes, well. It was a woman named Brigitte. Do you know her?"

Avon put his hand to his face where Brigitte had slapped him earlier. "Yes, we've met." This was going to be a long night.

**********

When a woman was out to get you, she could be like a cat doing a two-step, it didn't make any logical sense but you didn't question it, you just get the hell out of its way.

Avon said to Tom, "I imagine she said something suitably damning about me?"

Tom replied, "Oh more than that. She accused you of being the one to kill Thursday."

Avon's right lip curled in a half-scowl, "She would. And what do you think?"

Tom said, "Like you, I don’t think Thursday would let anyone near him that he didn't trust. Not without his bodyguards."

Avon's eyes narrowed, "Then why the reception? I don't appreciate being dragged out of bed in the middle of the night." That was the kind of understatement that only a talking elephant on two shots of soma would miss.

Tom's face held a perpetual melancholy. Perhaps it was because of the profession he was in or that, in order to do a job he loved, he was forced to belong to an organization whose other branches tended to make him ill. Avon had never bothered to ask. Tom said apologetically, "Unfortunately other people in the department don't think the same way. Brigitte said that you and Thursday had a run-in earlier today."

"We had words."

**********

When you’re living under a dome, when it rains, it usually means some nut has blown up the environmental control facility again. Apparently drowning people in water is considered an incentive to hating the Federation. It must be a form of logic I missed in school. Or perhaps they only teach it to the lower grades.

Not that I have any love for the Federation, they hamper any profit potential unless you happen to be one of the ruling elite. Which I am decidedly not.

When it happens in your own life though, all the nuts in two galaxies couldn’t explain why I’ve suddenly become the prime suspect in a murder and my only collaborating witness seems to have an existence less convincing than two waiters trying to split an ice cream sundae.

My client seems to have disappeared. It was too bad. I was starting to like her, in a beautiful-woman-who-hadn’t-betrayed-me-yet kind of way. Other than for a hotel name and room number that had proved bogus and all the people-who-swore-that-they-hadn’t-seen-her-but-were-obviously-damned-liars, I had nothing to go on.

What I needed was a little bit of luck and a whole lot of peanut butter.

**********

Avon had a decision to make. Either look for Thursday's killer and avoid being sent to a place that made being dunked in a vat of cat vomit seem like a blueberry muffin or find out what happened to his client. Of course, given his luck with women, the likelihood was that Cally was either dead or about to come calling with a squad of death troopers and they would not be asking him what he had for lunch. Or they would, but not in the most friendly way.

Before he could decide, the door to his office slid open. Avon could always identify the shifty ones. They came in like a one-legged goat and their eyes found it easier to play one handed solitaire then to look at you directly.

The man came in and approached Avon's desk. He held a cane in one hand, wore white gloves, moved with the deliberateness of moldy cheese doing the tango and smelled like wet gardenias, a sure sign of evil intentions.

The man introduced himself, "My name is Wednesday, Victor Wednesday."

Avon was starting to feel like a man who had too many days in his week.

**********

It didn't matter if the man was shiftier than women's underwear, as long as he was a client and could pay, Avon was interested. He wasn't running a chess club and orange marmalade didn't buy itself. "Please sit down Mr. Wednesday. What can I do for you?"

Wednesday sat down and took his white gloves off one at a time. "I'm sorry to hear about the death of Lloyd Thursday."

Avon's voice was as icy as a naked Siamese cat doing a fan dance. "I'm not."

"What I mean is, I'm sorry that you've been caught up in it."

Avon eyed him suspiciously, "What do you know about that?"

Wednesday rolled the cane between long, thin fingers. He was still avoiding eye contact and he also seemed to have a problem with answering direct questions. "Is it true that there's a connection between Thursday's death and the disappearance of your client?"

Wednesday had Avon's full attention now. "Who are you?"

"I told you, my name is Victor Wednesday."

Avon snarled with cold menace. "What have you done with my client?"

For the first time since entering Avon's office, Wednesday looked at him directly, and still avoiding his question said, "I don't ask the question out of idle curiosity. You see I am trying to recover an ornament that has been, shall we say, mislaid."

Avon doubted Wednesday's definition of 'mislaid' would be found in any language archive. The case was starting to smell and it wasn't even Friday. "What's this got to do with Thursday or my client?"

**********

When Victor Wednesday smiled, no one trusted him. It would be like a super computer suddenly deciding that it didn’t want to become a brain surgeon because of a shortage of penguins.

“Oh it has everything to do with them,” said the shifty man. He suddenly twisted the handle of his cane and it came loose in his hands. For a moment, Avon thought it had broken, except that normal people didn’t tend to point broken accessories at you with deadly seriousness.

Avon asked with amusement, “I imagine that’s a weapon of some sort and if I reach for my weapon, I’ll suddenly develop marks that weren’t there before?”

“Correct. Now I suggest that you don’t move, Mr. Avon and keep your hands on the top of your desk where I can see them.” Wednesday got up from his seat, and keeping one eye on him, he proceeded to search Avon’s office.

Avon said, “If you told me what you were looking for, we can both save each other some time.” Wednesday ignored him and continued searching.

Avon’s workspace was always scrupulously tidy. Wednesday was starting to make it look like a tornado had invited itself for afternoon tea and forgotten the sugar.

**********

Irritating Avon was as wise as having your teeth put in backwards and under mysterious circumstances. Avon couldn't decide whether he was more irritated than amused or if the groundhogs were playing strip-poker in the dark again.

Victor Wednesday was blinder than an oscillating weevil doing back flips for not noticing the danger signs as he continued searching Avon’s office and kept up a dialogue that ran faster than two helpings of beef under a pink umbrella. “The ornament I am looking for is the black figure of a bird. I am prepared to pay, on behalf of its rightful owner, a sum of 250,000 credits for its recovery. I am prepared to promise that, what is the phrase? ‘No questions will be asked.’”

When someone said ‘No questions will be asked’ it was a sure indicator that it was time to spook the armadillo and not hold back the gravy.

Avon asked, “Is that what you’re looking for?”

Wednesday said, “It doesn’t hurt to look.”

The sarcasm in Avon’s voice could have made broccoli fade. “And save your employer 250,000 credits in the process?”

Wednesday smiled like a deep space probe that couldn’t find the restroom, “As I said, it never hurts to look. Now will you please stand up, Mr. Avon and come to the centre of the room.”

Avon got up slowly and did as requested as Wednesday searched the desk. “There is a drawer here that is locked.”

“I suppose you want me to open it?”

Wednesday said, “I must insist.” The gun that was pointed at Avon became even more pointed.

**********

“Very well. It’s a genetic imprint lock. I’m the only one who can open it." Avon was being unusually cooperative with someone who was trying to force him to do something; which should have been a big warning. This was as dangerous as trying to back up a leaking gorilla.

Wednesday considered this idea and said, “Move slowly and keep your hands where I can see them.”

Avon came back behind his desk and managed to sound as dense as a bucketful of inflatable tofu when he asked, “Which drawer?” When there was only one drawer.

Wednesday bent slightly and pointed to the drawer, this of course was a mistake that no amount of natural stupidity could ever recover from. Avon immediately struck down and hit Wednesday across the wrist and took his weapon.

Wednesday's mouth opened wider then a mouse having a severe attack of indigestion.

Avon said, “Back up.”

Wednesday recovered quickly and said, “My offer is genuine. I am prepared to pay for the safe return of the bird.”

Avon said, “I don’t have it.”

This put a perplexed look on Wednesday’s face. “Then…why did you risk injury to yourself to prevent me from searching?”

“Why should I stand here and let people point a gun in my face? Now tell me who sent you.”

“You’ll forgive my not answering that question.”

“Only if you don’t mind missing a few vital parts of your anatomy. Where would you like me to start?” Avon leveled the gun.

**********

"I would prefer that you do not start at all," said the shifty Mr. Wednesday. Even though his manner remained polite, he was sweating energy converters.

“Then I suggest that you give me a good reason not to.” Avon’s manner was harder than a prancing kangaroo trying to find the meaning of life and only coming up with thirty two pails of cream cheese. And he still had his weapon pointed at places best left to the imagination.

Wednesday said with a smile that was slyer than painted toe nails on a sanitation engineer, “Would a retainer of 25,000 credits be a good enough reason? That is what my anonymous employer is willing to pay for your services in finding the ornament in question.”

Avon pointed out, “You were prepared to pay me 250,000 for the return of the bird.”

“But you said that you don’t have it.”

“If I find it, then I will have it.”

“Ahhh. You wish the finder’s fee?”

“As long as it’s 250,000.” Avon decided that it was far less profitable just being the hired help. He wasn’t sure why he added, “And I want to know what happened to Cally.”

Of course, it was all a part of the mystery and that was what he lived for. At least that’s what sounded reasonable to him.

**********

Victor Wednesday had sworn that he didn’t know where Cally was. The only useful piece of information he could, or would provide was that she was also interested in the ornament. But believing in the shifty-eyed Wednesday would be like flatulence from a goldfish, you either accept everything he said at face value or you bite the donkey and de-bone the petulant zebra.

It did simplify one thing. Cally’s disappearance, the death of Lloyd Thursday and Avon’s new ‘client’ were all tied up in this mystery. And if you thought that was simple then there are some tap-dancing gorillas that would like to meet your acquaintance. Of course, Avon never loved things unless they weren’t simple and all of his gorillas were currently out fishing.

**********

It was a long and unproductive day. The kind that caused people to want to eat pickled waste receptacles. Avon did not like those kinds of days. They wasted his time and he had one less day to clear his name.

The key was Cally but she was proving harder to find than a change of socks after a gourmet lunch.

Avon was more than tired when he returned to his residence that night. The frustration flowed from him like a waterfall that couldn't find the off-switch. He stepped through the doorway, planning a hot shower, a protein pack meal that substituted for food these days and with the anticipation of diving into a bed that was emptier than a time-distort engine on a blind date.

Avon swore as the door slid closed and plunged him into darkness. Obviously, the environment sensors were out to lunch and hadn't bothered to come back yet. His hands felt for the side table and the drawer that contained the necessary temporary solution to his predicament. A hand-torch. He turned it on and nearly dropped it as he heard a voice from the shadows.

"Hello, Avon."

Avon whirled and drew his pistol in one movement.

**********

Mysteries are like two-pound elephant brushes, they’re only enjoyable if you use them correctly. Keeping his pistol trained on his previously missing client, Avon asked, “What are you doing here?”

Cally asked, “Is this how you treat all of your clients?”

“Only ones that lie to me.”

“I have never lied to you,” said Cally.

“Then you must have a very loose interpretation of telling the truth.” The cynicism dripping from Avon's voice could have made a hippopotamus count backwards. “You hired me to find your sister when your real purpose was to find a bird-shaped ornament, which by the way, as if you didn’t know, is also being sought after by people who prefer to remain anonymous enough to stick a gun in my face. Not to mention which, you provided a false contact address and you disappeared, conveniently after Floyd Thursday was murdered and I became the prime suspect. Jump in if you feel I've left anything out.”

“That does sound bad.” If irony had a name, it would probably have been Cally spelt backwards.

**********

Avon didn’t trust anyone, least of all a beautiful woman who lied to him. And ones who refused to admit the lie were even worse than cream on the back of a petrified badger.

Cally said, “I know how it looks, but I swear that I have never told you a lie.”

“Just not the whole truth,” said Avon sarcastically, his gun still trained on her.

“I will explain if you can point that gun somewhere else first.”

“I find that guns pointed at people who lie to me, improve my chances of survival considerably.”

There was sadness in Cally’s eyes as she regarded him. “I mean you no harm.”

Avon’s voice was hard with suspicion. “That remains to be seen.”

Avon’s mind was telling him to wash his hands of this woman. She was more trouble than fried worms at a beauty pageant.

“I suppose I deserve that. Alright, I will tell you what you want to know. I was not lying when I told you that I was looking for my sister. I am. Her name is Zelda. She is the one looking for the ornament of the black bird. Zelda got involved with some unsavoury characters and she was afraid for her life. She contacted me asking for help but when I came to meet her, she never showed up.”

Saying that disappearing people seemed to be a common feature of this case was like saying that giant clowns grew on trees. Despite his suspicions, Avon was caught up in her story. “That was when you decided to look for help?”

“Yes.” Cally’s eyes were like saucers of milk spinning counterclockwise. There was either something very mesmerizing about this woman or he had committed a serious lack of oral hygiene this morning. He shook himself and asked, “Why me?”

**********

Cally regarded him carefully. “Avon, don’t you remember me?”

A tendril thread of memory tickled the back of Avon’s mind but was gone before he could grasp it. “Should I?”

She said sadly, “They did too good a job.”

“What are you talking about? Are you saying that we’ve met before?”

“I don’t know what I should be saying.”

Avon’s cynicism placed a distance between them that two caterpillars with an untreatable skin condition could not cross. “Are you trying to sound mysterious again or is this the case of another misplaced truth?”

Cally wondered whether she should tell him the truth about their former association or whether it was better to let sleeping anteaters jump up and do the vertical albatross. “There’s nothing convenient about it, at least not for me. But perhaps it is for you. You used to trust me once.” She gave a semi-pregnant pause, “We both used to trust each other.”

“I trust no one.” said Avon.

“Not even yourself.”

Avon was starting to get a headache or a chocolate-fudge sundae, the verdict was still out.

**********

With eyes that were sadder than an accountant discovering there was no more cream in her underwear drawer, Cally said, “Perhaps you’re right. I must have been mistaken.”

Instinct told Avon that she was lying. Another instinct told him not to pursue it. “Yes, you must have been.”

Without warning, Cally crossed the distance between them and kissed him. Avon was shocked into stillness. Her lips, gentle and insistent…and familiar. A flash of an image, a single moment full of sounds and smells and sensations...of Cally...but not Cally...but still Cally...a kiss...a touching of minds...a realization of...something...

A door, like a steel trapped closed across Avon’s mind. The image was gone, leaving him nothing but a realization that he was being kissed by a beautiful woman. Avon never refused the attentions of a woman, that would be like trying to eat a protein pack through an antelope. Of course, they inevitably ended up slapping him at some point, but that was for much later. He put his arms around her and returned her kiss.

Cally pushed him away, “No.” She looked at him strangely.

**********

Silence had descended on the room like a pregnant water buffalo trying to speak Latin, but that didn't mean that nothing was being communicated. The way Cally was looking at him was speaking volumes, unfortunately Avon had left his toothpick in his other jacket.

There was hope in her eyes when Cally asked, "Avon, do you…remember?"

"I have no idea what you're referring to," said Avon. "Are you in the habit of leading men on?"

"I just thought…"

Avon's eyes narrowed, there was something else going on here. "If you thought there was more to the kiss, then you're mistaken."

The door behind Avon slid open. The door that was supposed to be locked.

Avon whirled to face the intruder with his gun still pointed but pain exploded in his head and he went down. Before he lost consciousness, he remembered the look on Cally's face before he turned around, the look of surprise and horror, and her mouth forming a word he never had the opportunity to hear.