A/N: This fic is based entirely on the Peter Yates film. I haven't even seen the tv series, despite my obsessive pursuit of all things JEH (I'm going to refrain from calculating the percentage of my fics that are JEH-based). Rated M for later chaps. Feedback always welcome!

oooOOOooo

May, 1980 (one year later).

It was usually Mike who got Moocher in trouble. Moocher was accustomed to this fact, had come to grips with it long since. It had been the pattern since grade school. He recognized all Mike's quirks and triggers, could identify the signs that a storm was brewing, had even developed contingency plans. He knew how to break glass in case of fire.

Unfortunately, it would not be Mike, but Cyril who got him into it this time.

They were sitting on the red metal-lattice benches at the Dairy Queen that was halfway to Terre Haute. Cyril had been the one with the craving for a Blizzard, which sparked a sudden yen in each of the friends for a particular DQ treat, so it was really Cyril's fault that they had driven almost an hour, using gas that they could not afford, to buy fast food they might have gotten at the diner around the corner from the house they rented. And it was Cyril who mentioned the chance encounter that would get Moocher into serious trouble.

"You guys remember that little fire-crotch substitute teacher?" the lanky Cutter asked, mouth full of his longed-for Blizzard. "Really young?"

"Yeah, Miss Tagliaferro," Moocher said around his second chili dog, pronouncing the name the southern way, the way she had explained to them when they were students: Tolliver.

Mike tucked his unlit cigarette behind his ear and squirted out more ketchup for his onion rings. "Moocher only remembers her because she was shorter than him," he commented.

"No way, man," retorted the diminutive Cutter, grinning. "I remember her because she never wore a bra."

"Remember that time she subbed for Mr. Carpenter in American History?" Cyril drawled, leaning back on the bench to stretch out his long legs under the table. "That room got so damn cold. Kept those headlights on all the time, know what I mean?" He slapped Mike's arm fraternally.

"Oh, yeah..." Dave thoughtfully let the melting soft-serve drip out of his spoon into the paper bowl. "She subbed in Latin a couple of times."

The former basketball player rolled his eyes. "Anyway, Miss T. comes into the store yesterday with this cute blonde. Legs up to her neck. Turns out it's her cousin. She's a co-ed over at the U."

"Qui? Mademoiselle Tagliaferro?"

"No, Dave. The cousin. Her name's Ally. She's studying finance." Cyril raised his eyebrows meaningfully at his blond friend. "And one day she is going to bear my children."

"Does she know that?" Mike snorted.

"Not yet," Cyril admitted grandly, "but she'll be one step closer to motherhood on Friday. She invited us to a thing at her place."

"'Us'?" Moocher echoed.

"'A thing'?" Mike repeated scornfully, exchanging a look with his auburn-haired friend.

"Miss T. totally remembered all of us. She knew exactly who I meant when I asked if I could bring you guys."

"Une fete! Formidable!" Dave declared, throwing his plastic spoon into the empty bowl, where it rattled softly, then tipped out onto the table.

"A party? With college kids?" Moocher clarified. His eyes flicked toward Mike. The ex-quarterback was staring at his last onion ring.

"Come on!" There was a slight whine in Cyril's voice He looked at each of his friends in turn, but even Dave regarded him doubtfully. "We'll show them that Cutters know how to party. I'll bring my guitar!"

Mike grabbed his onion ring and pitched it at Cyril. "How do you say, 'No goddamn way' in French?" he asked Dave.