+J.M.J.+

One of Those in Our Midst!

By "Matrix Refugee"

Author's Note:

I wrote this chapter with tears in my eyes. I couldn't bear to finish it. I wrote the last words in the morning Friday/Saturday, then I laid aside the pencil, and wept ("Are those happy tears?"). But back to our note…Who's Raymond Flyte? Do Frank and Bernie ever get cozy? …And does Cecie still want Joe in her life? Read on and find out.

Disclaimer:

See Chapter I. I don't own the Simon and Garfunkel song "Keep the Customers Satisfied", nor do I own Merchant Ivory, either (I just like the name).

Chapter XI

Keepin' the Customers Satisfied

Kip drove the five of them to the Red Dragon Inn, a huge, rambling Victorian building with a wide, pillared veranda out front, its windows warmly lit from within.

"I used to dream about staying here," Bernie said.

"Did you ever dream about staying here with your special someone?" Frank asked.

"I always saw myself going into the convent," Bernie said.

Cecie had kept quiet all the way over; her cocky-triumphal attitude had vanished. Joe kept his hand on her shoulder the whole time, but even she felt her flesh grow cold under his touch.

Frank carried Bernie up the veranda steps, but that unfortunately meant the others had to pitch in to help carry the Sweitzes' baggage.

The trouble didn't stop: at the front desk, Cecie discovered her room had been double-booked and someone else had taken it.

"We can give you a refund," the clerk said.

"That doesn't solve the problem: I still need somewhere to stay," Cecie argued.

"Hey, you can share our room," Kip offered.

"Nonsense, you need your privacy," a gruff, but not unpleasant voice said at the edge of their circle.

Cecie looked over her shoulder. Mr. Flyte stood behind them. Joe eyed him a little hesitantly, as if to say, 'So soon?'

"You need a room? You can share mine, Suite 102. Natterson and I are rattling around in it, and even with Joe back, we'll still have the extra space," Flyte offered.

Phila looked a little shocked. But that soon went away.

"I really shouldn't, I've caused you enough trouble," Cecie demurred.

"Nonsense. I don't get enough chances to help damsels in distress," Flyte said, grinning with crooked innocence.

"Well, thanks."

"You're welcome. I'll see you in a little while." With that, he went upstairs.

"Lucky for us he offered to share his room," Joe said to Cecie.

"I was thinking that myself." She turned to Frank. "What room are you in?"

"Suite 104; we'll be neighbors," he grinned, scooping up Bernadette again.

The two teenaged bellhops—Cecie knew they were the manager's sons—carried the bags up to their rooms. Kip and Phila had one of the cheap rooms up in the attic, so they lingered on the mezzanine floor with the others, while the older of the two bellhops went upstairs with their bags.

"I guess we'll see you in the morning," Kip said to Frank. "You be good to her, now, 'cause if I hear any complaints from her, I'll clonk you one."

"Don't worry: she'll get the very best from me," Frank said, grinning wickedly. Bernie jolted as he'd pinched her and slugged him gently.

"Go with God," Phila said.

Frank's face relaxed and took on an oddly reverent look. "Yes, we will." With that, he adjusted Bernie in his arms and went into their room. The door closed behind them.

A second later, the door popped open and Frank's bare arm emerged, the gilt lettered "Do Not Disturb" sign in his hand. He hung it on the knob, then retreated inside.

"Well, Frank and Bernie are all set," Kip said. "We'd better get upstairs." To Joe he added, "I guess we won't be seeing you till we're back in Rouge City. You take care of yourself and take care of Cecie."

"I shall do my utmost in that regard," Joe replied.

"Not too much," Phila said.

"I won't let him," Cecie said, as the Langiers went upstairs.

Joe knocked on the door of Suite 102. The door rattled and opened. Flyte, in his shirtsleeves, his collar open, looked out.

"Thirty-nine minutes and twenty seconds to spare," he said, stepping aside and letting them enter.

"Thirty-nine minutes and five seconds, rather," Joe said. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Flyte, but you watch must have slowed."

"Thus with Orgas and our watches," Flyte said.

"Mr. Flyte, you really don't have to let me stay here, I've caused you enough trouble," Cecie protested.

Flyte held up his hands. "I am notorious for being too easy on damsels in distress. I could see where that would lead, so I didn't want you to get tossed out."

"And had she not already have arranged for lodgings, I would have plead with you to give her shelter," Joe said.

Flyte smiled indulgently. "I know you would have, so I beat you to it, son." He relaxed his face and reached for something on the table just inside the door. "But we'd better get your damages repaired before it goes any longer." He picked up a four-foot length of silvery chain that clinked metallically. Noticing the cuffs on the ends, Cecie realized what it was. Without bending down, Flyte fastened one cuff to his ankle.

"Joe, give me you foot, please?" Flyte asked.

Joe shifted his weight onto his left leg and, with a danseur's grace, raised his right leg, bent, knee pointing to the ceiling. He unfolded his limb; Flyte fastened the other cuff, this one padded, around the Mecha's ankle.

"We have everything ready, Natterson?" Flyte asked, heading for the larger bedroom, Joe following dutifully. Cecie brought up the rear.

A lean, middle-aged man in gray coveralls with a headlamp on a strap around his head had set up an assortment of tools on a folding table beside the bed, a massive four-poster which dominated the room.

"All set, Mr. Flyte," the tech said. "Hey, Joe, you can get a load off your feet."

Joe took off his jacket and neatly folded it before he laid it on the foot of the bed. He started to undo his shirt all the way, but Natterson unfastened the bottom of it.

"Not in front of the young lady," Flyte warned. "She might enjoy it too much."

"You read my mind, Cecie said.

Joe sat down on the bed; Natterson pushed him down gently and reached up to switch on the headlamp. He reached for a small computer with a sensor on a catheter, which lay on the table. With his other hand, he pressed a release switch on Joe's "breastbone", in and back.

A seam across Joe's middle cracked into visibility, then with a soft whirr, the seam opened, uncovering the components underneath. Natterson fitted the catheter into a dock on the locomotion actuator

"I couldn't help noticing the chain," Cecie said.

"I'd explain why, but not in front of Joe." Flyte darted an ironic look to her. "Did you expect me to put a restraining bolt on him?"

"No, I hoped you wouldn't."

"I'm a charter member of an organization trying to ban the use of restraining bolts, Flyte said, drawing a chair from the desk to the foot of the bed and proffering it to her. She sat down and slipped her arm across the footboard.

Joe turned his face toward her, giving her a serene smile and slid his hand across the covers to hers.

"And," Flyte said, continuing. "I will admit that I had an ulterior motive inviting you here: a lot of Mechas get very strange when we have to do repairs. Having someone he trusts nearby helps keep him calm."

"I've already held his hand when Kip took out the bolt."

"Good thing he was there: he's done a few weld jobs for me. He has the touch these creatures need." To the tech, he added, "How are we doing?"

"We lucked out: no damage," the tech said, unplugging the computer. He reached for a tube of silicon fitted into a dispenser that looked almost like a small glue gun and turning the lower half of the dermis of Joe's abdomen inside out, set about sealing the hole in Joe's navel.

"I really caused more trouble than was worth your while," Cecie said.

"No more of that," Flyte growled good-naturedly. "It was beyond your control. Besides, it couldn't have involved anyone better than you. Joe has always spoken highly of you, and he has never come to harm in your company. In some ways you've helped him develop as a being."

"I have?" She didn't doubt it.

"You have explained to him some of the quirks of human nature, you saved his brain during the Rouge City Chain Saw Massacree. I think, if he could play favorites, you'd be one of his favorite clients. When we told him you'd hired him for three weeks, his eyes took on a brighter glow than usual."

"I believe it," she said. "At times, he's so human you forget what he is. More human than human: sensitive, gentle, sweet-natured, vulnerable." She reached out with her free hand and stroked Joe's hair; his face softened and he nestled his head into her palm.

"Most people don't realize it, but a lot of Gen Fives liked Joe here need human affection. It helps them function better."

"I figured that out after the first six months I lived in Rouge City."

"I know this is an impertinent question, but whatever made a nice girl like you decide to live in a place like Rouge City?"

"I'm a writer; most of the time I copy write to support myself, but I do quite a bit of fiction writing on the side. Most of my stuff consists of morality tales of some sort, so I found a steady supply of inspiration in Rouge City."

"I can see that happening. But why not stick close to home? Westhillston seems like a fairly inspiring place."

Cecie wagged her head. "You know the line about a prophet not being honored in his own hometown? In my case, most of the folks around here just don't get my edgy but sensitive style. I wrote the kind of stuff people expected when I was a teenager. But losing your dad in a car accident when you're fourteen and losing your mother to cancer when you're nineteen does something to you. The Connellys are the only family I really have left, but even then, after all this craziness, I'm not even have them left."

Flyte nodded and blinked, the first time she'd seen him do that since they had come into the room.

"So, tell me a little about this edgy but sensitive style of yours?"

"When I was in my last year of high school, I entered a local writing contest, sent in a sketch about a sniper shooting Santa Claus, and then some developers moving in and building a resort at the North Pole."

"Goodness gracious! I can see why your stuff wouldn't be welcome around here. So, you write science fiction?"

"A little. I started off with fantasy stuff, y' know, the kind of stories girls in their teens write."

"Ever publish any of those?"

"No, some of them I destroyed: I read them later and found out how hopelessly bad they were."

The tech removed the tube of silicon and resealed Joe's dermis.

"Fixed," the tech declared, switching off his lamp. "You'd better stay put for an hour while that hardens, green eyes."

Jo sighed with calm resignation as Flyte unfastened the chain from around his own ankle and refastened it around the led of the bed.

"You want anything, Miss Martin?" Flyte asked as he led her into the front room. "Something to drink?"

"Just some ice water, please," she said, sitting down on the sofa. "I don't drink: especially not around Joe."

He half-filled a scotch glass with ice cubes and filled the glass from a water carafe. He brought it to her, then mixed himself a scotch and soda.

"Probably very wise on your part: you have your principles," he said, sitting down in the armchair opposite to her.

"So, what about you?"

"What about me?" he asked over the rim of his glass.

"Everyone has a story. I've told you most of mine, what about you?"

He shrugged. "There's nothing to tell really fit to tell."

She leaned closer to him. "You forget I've lived in Rouge City for too long to really be shocked by much."

"I'm an outcast like you; I basically decided when I was young that if no one wanted to accept my eccentricities, that I'd get as far away from polite society as I could. I went west to Nova Vegas, started out as a dealer in a casino; within fifteen years, I'd worked my way up to part owner of the same casino. Then when Rouge City was being built, I cashed in on that, bought three Mechas and started an agency. Ten years later, I've got fifty Mechas, own two casinos, and I'm one of the principle stockholders of Companionates of Pennsylvania."

"But you're such a gentleman. Anyone looking at you would never know you're…y' know…."

"A procurer of Mechas?"

"Around here they'd call you a pimp or a whoremonger."

"And what would they call you?"

"A pen-pusher or a professional liar. You're like him."

"Who?"

"Joe."

"What makes you say that?"

"You got that knack of turning the conversation around so you aren't telling much about yourself."

Flyte eyed her in silence a long while. "There's something you're holding back about our boy."

She dropped her gaze to the glass in her hands she held clasped between her knees.

"If I said it to you, you wouldn't laugh, would you?" she asked.

Flyte raised his right hand, two fingers extended, the rest curled. "On my honor, which isn't of much value to most people, but it's still honor."

She breathed deeply a few times, getting the oxygen flowing around her tingling brain neurons.

"I'm in love with Joe."

He nodded his head sagely. "You aren't the first woman to tell me that, and you will probably not be the last." He looked her full in the face, conviction in his dark eyes. "But you are the first one I believe."

"I am?"

"Yes. Because I can tell you don't love him for what he can do for you: you love him. You have more objectivity that all these women who've used him. Why? Because your head isn't clouded by pleasure memories of getting it on with him. am I correct?"

"Yes, you are."

It was her turn to be silent for a long time.

"Well, I have an early train to catch, so I'm turning in. Natterson and I have the other room with the new acquisition—which we switched off for security's sake. So, it looks like you'll have to share the room with Joe, unless you'd rather take the couch. You've nothing to fear from me: I'm too old to make a pass at you; never was much good at it any way."

"I'd feel more at ease in the same room with Joe."

He looked at her as he turned from the mini bar, an oddly misty light in his eyes. "I would have had a daughter your age. Werner's Syndrome got her when she was twelve." He shook his head, his eyes clearing. "Oh, don't let an old man's ramblings drive you crazy."

"At least I turned the conversation around, again."

He pointed at her, mock scolding. "Touché, girl," he grinned and headed for the other room.

She hesitated on the threshold of the master bedroom, looking in. Joe had moved from the bed to the chair at the foot, but he rose when Flyte entered

"I trust you kept busy during the past three weeks?" Flyte asked him.

Joe reached into a pocket under the lining of his coat, hidden in the skirts. "I picked up some business on the road up here." He drew out his hand and held out to Flyte a neatly folded bundle of Newbucks.

Flyte took the wad and counted it. "700 NB. Not bad considering you didn't have many roaming privileges." He pocketed the roll of bills. "So, aside from the Diocletian woman, where else did you pick up business?"

"Outside Albany, New York, Mr. Langier, Mr. Sweitz, Cecie and I lodged for one night in a motel. I must admit…I found several lonely hearts there."

"And you came through there without a scratch: there's a few anti-Mecha cells in that area."

"And there are none in Westhillston?"

"They're not as well organized here…. Well, you paid for your repairs and made a profit of…350 NB."

She rolled her eyes, hearing these transactions, and headed for the washroom.

She paused on the threshold of the larger of the two bedrooms. Her heart kept trying to beat harder than it should and she tried to breathe deeply to control it. She steeled her soul and entered the room; she sat down on the bed to which Joe was tethered. She didn't look at him as she took off her shoes and set the on the floor before she lay down on the bed.

"I have no control over what you two do," Flyte said, on his way out. "But remember I'm in the next room, so just keep it down so an old man can get his sleep."

Cecie lay curled on the bed, with just the light of the bedside lamp falling on her as she faced away from Joe. She heard the chain jingle and drag on the floor. She looked over her shoulder.

Joe climbed over the foot of the bed and sat there, his shackled foot hanging over the edge of the bed.

"Joe, please don't; you've caused me enough trouble."

"I heard your sigh. You know I was made to relieve the pain of wounded hearts."

"You know how to finish me off, you beast," she said, tearing up. She did not move as he laid himself down beside her. She meant to draw away, but instead she nestled back in his embrace as he slid one arm under her. She huddled her back against his chest.

He nuzzled the hairs on the back of her head, mussing it all out of place, then he started in on the fine hairs on the back of her neck, caressing the strands with his velvety lips.

"Please, Joe, I'm wasted. Stop that."

He ran his palms lingeringly down her front, from her waist to her thighs. "It is because you are wasted that I offer you this solace. And did I hear correctly what you said to Mr. Flyte?"

"What did you hear?"

"I heard you tell him that you love me." He nibbled her neck ever so gently.

"Stop that!"

"Why? You said that you love. Have you not always craved the fullness of my embrace, though you hid it well even from my eyes?"

"That's just it: you didn't hear what Flyte said about me."

"What did he say?"

"He said he believed me because I clearly love you, not what you do for me."

"I do not follow this."

"Joe, I've hardly ever seen you as a machine, even when I saw you laid out on this bed with your insides exposed. I saw you as a man, only made of different materials. You have more good sense than a lot of men with carbon-based brains, and you show a lot more tenderness than many men with hearts made of muscle." She could feel his heart beat between her shoulder blades. She reached down and clasped his hands, holding them away from her.

They lay in silence for several minutes. The faint drone of components in Joe's torso nearly lulled her to sleep.

Cecie grew aware of a new sound in the next room. She sat up quickly and strained her ears. Yes, it came from the end wall, parallel with the head of the bed.

"Cecie, what is it?" Joe asked.

"I hear something, it's in Frank and Bernie's room." She dropped her feet to the floor and knelt at the wall. She heard the chain jingle as Joe got off the bed, but she heard it grunt as it tightened a foot away from her.

She pressed her ear to the wall: Raucous titters and yelps and what definitely sounded like protesting bed springs.

She turned her face to Joe. "Sounds like Frank's getting what he wanted and Bernie's getting what she needed."

"And I am not permitted any further part in this comedy," he said, with resignation.

She stepped away, sparing herself the bawdiest noises, but some she couldn't ignore.

Bernie's voice kept rising and rising in shrill delight. "Oh, Frank…oh no…oh my…Oh, joy! …Oh, bliss!! …Oh, freedom!!!"

Joe let out a loud sigh, but Cecie turned her face away to hide—even in the dark, or he would see it—the triumphant grin that pricked the corners of her mouth.

"No matter," he said. "Let him fulfill well his role. But should there be anything lacking, I can amply provide for her."

"I think her days of wanting you are passed," Cecie said, going back to the bed.

She heard another sigh and the chain dragged across the carpet. The bed creaked in one corner and settled under Joe's weight as he seated himself there.

He did not draw near to her until heard her breathing fall into the gentle rhythm of sleep, and then he crept over to her side as he had lain before.

The alarm clock peeped at six. Flyte twisted his aging but strong frame and sat up to switch off the clock, one of these old-fashioned push-button affairs. He got up, slipped on his bathrobe, got his suitcase and headed for the washroom.

He peered into the other room on the way.

Joe and the Martin girl lay nested together, the girl with her face turned slightly into the pillow. Joe looked over his shoulder at him. Both had kept covered, but the girl had her consort's hands clasped to her body, just at her ribcage.

"You take care of her, son. You have a few minutes left with her before we're off, you and I and Natterson."

"Approximately how many?"

"Fifteen precisely." Flyte left them together.

Cecie stirred. Someone hummed Grieg's "Morning" in her ear, perhaps the same someone who held her in a gently fierce embrace. She turned over on her back and opened her eyes.

Her eyes cleared and met Joe's deceptively cool gaze. He adjusted to her as she turned over onto her back, keeping one arm under her body, holding her hands with the other hand.

"Good morning, Cecie."

"Good morning," she murmured.

"We have not many minutes left. Mr. Flyte wishes to leave soon—and he will be taking me with him." He lowered his face to her chest. "We can make it quick should you desire it."

"I just want you beside me." She covered his hand with one of hers. "This has been the wildest week of my life."

He looked up. "Was it not worth every second?"

"Yes, but you made it impossible in the end

He took her statement in silence. "Is it over?"

She looked at his face. "I don't know."

"If you say you love me, why then would you consider ending the affair so soon?"

"It's not because I don't love you; it's because I don't know if it's possible to love someone like you this way, the way you need to be loved. I'm human; I'm weak. There's nothing to stop me from spreading my thighs right now and letting you have your way…except my conscience."

"Your actions are defined by your parameters," he said. She didn't argue with him. It was true, except that she, unlike he, could break free of her own overrides if she so chose. The idea tempted her…short and quick. …no, don't spoil it.

He turned up his face to her. "Yes or no?"

"No."

He retreated from her and sat up, but she held his hands firmly.

"What would you have me do?"

"Just stay here and be my friend."

"What am I to you?"

"My companion, my muse, more than my friend, less than my lover." She lifted a hand to his face and caressed his cheek. She glanced down his lean, graceful body, the sensuously trim lines of his torso tastefully visible under his garments. "How does it feel where they wounded you?"

"It disturbs me not longer."

"Good, I wouldn't want you to be suffering."

She leaned back her head and closed her eyes. "How often do you leave a client awake?"

"On an average, only one out of forty-three point five."

"That's a fairly high ratio…gosh, I could drop off right now."

"If you can no longer fight off the advances of sleep, you need not fear surrendering to them. I shall not be offended."

She obliged herself to stay awake by listening to sounds around them. She dimly heard Flyte, talking as if on a phone. "Hello, Vautrin? Yes, this is Flyte …Yes, I got our J-O 4379. Some idiots tried to put a restraining bolt on him. He's all right now. …Listen, take Alex off Joe's turf and put him over on Julien's, make things a little interesting over off Harlot Square. …Oh, and I just acquired a new unit, a female, a JN-8923, one owner, private use. I'll tell you the particulars when I get in. I'll talk at length then…Bye." He hung up the phone.

She realized something was up in the room that abutted theirs.

Loud laughter and other raucous noises arose from the other side of the end wall of the room. Joe looked over his shoulder with a disgusted crinkle to his whole face, as if he'd smelled something rotten.

"I have heard it said of me and a more ardent client 'do they ever stop?'" he said, clearly his way of saying, 'Will they pipe down in there?'

The noises subsided, but Cecie sensed it was only the calm before the storm.

"BERNADETTE!" Frank's voice cried, his voice cracking into a high alto.

Joe sighed, resigned to the situation.

Flyte emerged from the washroom, buttoning his vest. Joe rose to him; Flyte knelt, undid the end of the chain around the leg of the bed and fastened it around his own ankle.

"Are you ready?" he asked Joe.

"We were about to exchange our farewells, but," he squinted at the end wall. "We were disturbed by a sonorous interruption."

Cecie reached up with both hands. Joe took them in his. He gazed down at her, all reproach vanished, once more his tenderly ardent self.

"I just want to say, it was worth it," she said.

"Perhaps we shall have another excursion of this kind."

"I hope we do."

"Then you still desire me?"

"I still want the pleasure of your friendship, as far as you can give it."

He smiled at her in earnest. "That is all I needed to know." He leaned down to her and kissed her, in farewell, the kind of gentle caress he generally gave to a sleeping, satisfied customer before turning away. He ran one fingertip from her cheek down her jaw to her chin as he retreated.

"Goodbye, Joe; take care of yourself."

"Goodbye, Cecie; remember to look for me or ask for me by name when you return."

Joe stood up. Flyte put a hand behind his back and sent him on ahead, into the front room.

"You stay here as long as you need to," he said. "And thanks for taking care of him."

"I wish I'd done a better job of it."

"That'll do, girl."

He headed out after his Mecha and closed the door behind him. She turned over and closed her eyes.

She dozed for an hour, then she got up. She collected her things and went to Room 104. She knocked on the door.

"Hey, Frank, it's Cecie."

"Door's open," Frank's voice called out.

She pushed it open and went inside. She found Frank in his dressing gown, sprawled somewhat dazedly on the couch in the front room.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"Yeah…I haven't felt so good afterwards…in an awful long time," he said, stretching his arms above his head. "I don't think I've ever felt this good."

"Where's Bernie?'

"In the bedroom, still asleep. I had to get out to clear my head. Woooo…rraOW!" He shook his head vigorously.

"That good after she was that stubborn."

"It was great," he said, dreamily. "It was bloody worth it." He looked around. "So where's metal boy, where's the robot who looks like me?"

"He's gone."

"Skipped out on you to find a lonely heart, eh?"

"No, Mr. Flyte left with him."

Frank sat up. "And you miss him already? You'll see him again soon enough, once you get back to You Know Where."

She leaned on the arm of the other chair. "I don't know if I can go back there."

"You belong there now. They don't want you here in this hick town."

"Until three weeks ago, this hick town was my home town that I could hardly wait to leave when I grew up. Now want to stay."

He stood up and approached her. "Hey, you made up you mind to live in the most God-forsaken city on the face of the earth. You're like Kip in that respect: you belong to that city now. That's neon gas flowing in your veins. This town is just too tame to hold you."

"I suppose you're right."

At ten, Cecie and the two couples finished loading their baggage into Kip's cruiser. As they were about to pile in, Peter's Buick pulled up beside them. Peter got out with Georgette and approached them. Peter looked a little sheepish.

"I'd like to conclude by apologizing to you all for the high and mighty way I've been acting all this time," he said. "It really hit me at Mass today, at the Gospel reading."

"Oh, why?" Kip asked.

"It was the part about the woman taken in adultery. 'Let him who is without sin cast the first stone'. I realized I've been throwing boulders at all of you, including the fellow who barely knows the definition of sin. And I've judged you too harshly, too, Frank, Cecie; I didn't treat you any better. If Joe's around, I'd like to apologize to…him, too."

"Where is he?" Georgette asked.

"Mr. Flyte left with him earlier," Cecie said.

Frank shrugged with his free shoulder, his other arm around Bernie's shoulders. "Apology accepted. I've a lot worse treatment." He separated from Bernie. "There's one thing I'd like to report, but I can't say it in front of the ladies." He went up to Peter and whispered it in his ear. Peter back away, but he grinned foolishly.

"Well…I guess I can say…I'm glad she relented," Peter added, blushing.

"Hey, Frank, you can say it: nothing shocks two natives of Sin City, U.S.A.," Kip teased. "And we gotta toughen Phila up, too."

"None of your damned business, Kip," Frank snarled, grinning wickedly.

They set off, the five of them, the Langiers up front, Cecie in the back with the Sweitzes. Kip and Phila held hands part of the way, but frank and Bernie got a little more involved, not quite making out, but definitely trying to catch up on lost time.

The trip passed slowly for Cecie. Each mile they passed carried her one mile further from a town she didn't know she could still call home, and carried her closer to a city she didn't know she could call home either.

At Albany, Frank and Bernie went to find Frank's friend Hal McKeever's apartment; Hal was away, but he'd given the Sweitzes permission to borrow it until they had a place of their own. Cecie and the Langiers put up at a motel—the Blue Angel, no less.

"Hey, where's the cute Mecha you had with you last time you came through?" asked the frumpy bleached blonde in the office.

"Oh, his owner brought him back home," Cecie said.

"Damn, the fiberhead had the cutest a-- too, for a fiberhead."

Next morning brought blue skies. They set out early in the day; by nightfall, they passed through Camden and across the Delaware over Exit 69. Phila pointed out the very spot where the brakes had failed on her cruiser.

"And thanks to those brakes failing, we met," Kip said.

To Phila, the city gates, in the shape of a giant woman's head draped in rose and blue neon seemed to be shouting a triumphant welcome. Cecie didn't know what to think: her journey was over.

She stayed to supper with the Langiers. Ellen and Mat had stuck around, looking after Irene, who was full of life.

"Your young friend came to call last night," she told Cecie. "He'd just got back with his employer: he tells me Peter Connelly got him into a tight place—literally."

"I guess I didn't take care of him like you told me to," Cecie said, sheepishly.

"No, it wasn't you, it was that Connelly and that Diocletian. Makes you wonder if the small towns aren't just as dangerous as Rouge City, if not moreso."

"Mo-ther!" Kip chided, grinning.

"No, Irene's right: Rouge City wears its corruption on its sleeve," Cecie concurred.

Late that evening, Cecie brought her bags up the long, neon-lit escalator to the Upper Deck. Just a few more gliding steps…She stepped back several times to prolong the last minutes before she emerged.

For an instant, when she stepped clear of the shaft, when she looked up, the light from the neon and the hologram advertising displays nearly blinded her, despite the fact that she wore her mirrorshades and the relentless cacophony of jazz and rock pulsing from the clubs around her deafened her. She almost turned and headed for the down escalator.

She blinked and all was right with her world.

That's neon gas flowing in your veins

Remember to look for me or ask for me by name…

Over the din of the backbeat and the racket of the crowds, she could hear a girl folksinger somewhere, singing an old Paul Simon song:

"Gee, but it's great to be back home,

Home is where I want to be,

I've been so long from home, my friend,

And if you came along I know you couldn't disagree.

It's the same old story

Ev'rywhere I go,

I get slandered, libeled,

I hear words I never heard in the Bible.

And I'm one step ahead of the shoeshine,

Two steps away from the county line,

Just tryin' to keep my customers satisfied, satisfied!"

Cecie dropped her bags and fell to the ground, kissing the polymer pavement, rubbing her face against its gritty surface. The crowds around her barely took note of her gesture.

She got up, her resolve reborn.

"Hey, Joe, whaddya know: I'm HOME!" she screamed, joyous.

Cecie had a mountain of work waiting for her when she got back to her rooms in the Graceley. She holed up for a three weeks, working on it, jotting in her journal, working on Sarah's medieval knight in the modern age story. When she finished it, she emailed a copy of it to Sarah, who sent back a gushing but sincere review of it.

She hardly even glimpsed Joe during that time. She spotted Raymond Flyte in the back of Our Lady of the Immaculate Heart Chapel at Mass on more than one Sunday in a row. It didn't surprise her that he abstained from Communion, but she noticed that he prayed with more reverence than she saw from a lot of people at St. Edith's in Westhillston.

Finally, in the middle of October, a month after her return, her workload let up and she went out one night to celebrate.

She met Raymond Flyte outside the Merchant Ivory club, just off Harlot Square.

"You've been hiding on us, girl," he said, only half-serious.

"I've been busy," she admitted. "I had a bunch of jobs come at once."

"I know that feeling: I've been training Jane for street work. I had to place her at the other side of the City: she and our boy have been trying to pursue each other behind my back, although I've caught them in the attempt only once, when they were waiting for inspection one morning. So I've considered selling her to a friend of mine in Haddonfield, the other side of the river."

"Anything to get her away from him," Cecie said. "I don't want to think about him and her together."

"I don't want to either: there's bound to be trouble down the road."

"Trouble how?"

"Oh, he might decide Orga women aren't good enough for him. His series has been known for idiosyncratic behavior, has to do with the kind of personality chips they put in 'em, so his behavior might modify but not for the best if Jane is around him much more."

"Not good for you. Or him for that matter. Is that why I haven't seen him on the streets that much?"

"No." Flyte tilted his head toward the etched frosted glass doors of the club. "You'll find him in there." He went away with a thin, mysterious smile on his face.

In accord with the studio that owned the worldwide chain (only twenty in sixteen countries), Merchant Ivory was a much more upscale establishment than most of the clubs in Rouge City, and accordingly, it was much more sedate, yet no less demi-mondaine.

The tables had cream-colored tablecloths, the seats of the gilded chairs were covered in wine-colored brocade, and the dappled green carpet underfoot felt soft as moss.

She told the silver-haired maitre d' that she was meeting someone and she preferred to seek him out herself, thank you.

She scanned the face of every Mecha waiter who passed through, carrying trays or decanters or what not. A graceful Viennese waltz melody wafted softly through the halls, played by a small salon orchestra.

The expensively clad diners eyed her warily, this angular creature in the black trenchcoat over a gray blouse and a black simuleather skirt with a side split up to the knee showing her calf-high boots with silver buckles up the sides. She ignored their gazes, but betrayed a mischievous disdain.

She went into the bar, a cozy semi-Edwardian nook with reproductions of Gainsborough landscapes hanging on the wall between the electric wall sconces dimmed to a level suggesting gas light. A few people sat at the bar. One knot of women at the far end seemed engrossed in a lively conversation with the bar tender.

Cecie sat down at the near end, taking in the polished green Connemara marble counter top, with the rows of wine bottles and clean glasses arranged to one side.

She heard movement. The bartender approached her. She could see only his neat, naturally tanned hands, folded on the edge of the counter top.

She recognized the platinum ring set with a single square onyx on his right little finger.

"Will you have your seltzer mimosa fifty-fifty or twenty-five/seventy-five?" he asked in a light tenor voice with a decided south London accent.

She looked up into a familiar pair of green eyes, which smiled at her as if to say, 'I know you could not stay away forever'.

He looked great—but then again, Joe always looked great.

"Actually," she said, hoisting herself up onto the counter, sitting on it and leaning across to him, "I was more interested in ninety-five percent of the bartender." She put her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his. He quiesced gently, sliding his hands around her waist. She shifted position slightly, inadvertently knocking a glass off the counter and sending it crashing to floor. They hardly noticed.

They broke away. He narrowed his eyes at her. "And so you came back…on account of me?"

"You read my mind, you black peacock. Kiss me."

"As you wish." And he laid his lips over hers, despite the stares of the customers nearby.

The End…or is it?

Afterword:

This was almost more fun to write than "Runnin' Loose…", and I hope this lives up to its predecessor. I meant this to be a kind of morality tale, not really a tale with a moral, but a tale about morals and people (of flesh and of silicon alike): moral, immoral, and amoral. Coupled to this was a premise straight out of Kirkegaard: which is worse: to love the wrong person in the wrong circumstances the wrong way but with the right intention, or to fail to love the right person in the right circumstances the wrong way for all the wrong reasons? Who is more at fault: Cecie, who loves as a person someone who subjectively isn't human? Peter, who mistakes control for love, and bulldogs his family into rigidity? Diocletian, who puts his work ahead of his family and nearly loses his grip on what really counts? Allison, who only wants a cure for what ails her? Joe, who doesn't know anything better than his specific function, but who gives of himself without reserve?

Finishing this was a nightmare, since I didn't want to stop hangin' out with these characters. But as always, there is the promise of a sequel, currently going by the working title "The Shadows Beyond the Neon", a horror/mystery/comedy set in Rouge City during a rolling blackout, featuring Kip, Phila, Frank, Bernie, Cecie, Mr. Flyte, the twice-mentioned but as yet unseen Hal McKeever (very thinly based on Harlan Maguire, Jude Law's character in Road to Perdition)…and of course a certain green-eyed love machine named Joe.

Literary Easter Eggs:

One arm under her body…--Compare this with the "Song of Songs": "His left hand under my head, his right hand caresses me" (Doaui-Rheims translation)

"BERNADETTE!"—Life imitated art! I was listening to the Golden Oldies station on the radio as I drafted this scene, and they played the song "Bernadette", my all time favorite by the Four Tops. So I just had to put in this reference (To the part where, after a pause of about three seconds, the lead singer hollers "BERNADETTE!" on pitch.).