Later that evening, their airport shuttle finally came to a stop in front of a two-story house with a triple-wide garage, Bill couldn't believe the view the neighborhood had of the pier and boardwalk downhill, and of the city to inland. A realtor was waiting there with keys to the house and some papers for Sal and Nancy to sign. The house was beautiful; it had a triple-wide garage (their vehicles and some other things were already waiting in it) and two large bedrooms with full bath. There was a room that could be used as an office, a huge kitchen that had a soft-drink dispenser in it, and a large den / dining / livingroom that could accommodate a billiard table, some social furniture, and a good size television and still have room enough for a place setting. The house was full of boxes, but the beds were already set up. All they had to do was pick out some clean sheets and blankets to make them. The day had been long indeed for Bill, and for the DeLucas, in more ways than one. So they all headed off to bed, and fell soundly asleep.
Bill awoke early and looking out the window of his room into the backyard was pleasantly surprised to find a pool. Hurriedly he picked out a pair of swimtrunks from his suitcase, dashed downstairs, climbed the springboard, and jumped in.

"WAHOO!!"

(kasplash!)

"Thought you'd like it," said Sal.

Bill swam to the rail, a great big silly smile plastered from one side of his face to the other. "You made a good choice, Dad. You and Mom are the greatest."

"Listen, son, uhm, I gotta take care of some stuff over at my new office, and there ain't a thing in the kitchen. Mom has to do some grocery shopping, so... why don'tcha bike down and check out the boardwalk and grab yourself something to eat. I've left you some money on your bed."

"Alright Dad. You have a good day."

"You too Bill. Take care."

Bill found a place on the pier that emitted a "good cooking" smell. He came in and studied the menu. The two men who ran the joint had been talking with each other about something, then the one in the cook's shirt and the boonie hat greeted him. "Good morning. What can we do ya for?"

"Uh, I think I'll have the scrambled eggs with... Portuguese sausage and steamed rice. With a large orange juice and a small milk."

"One excellent kind choice, lil cuz," the other acknowledged, a shorter dark-complexioned man in a blue shirt. "It'll take just a little bit."

Bill sat at the counter and relaxed, watching some of the local news on an overhead TV. He reached over to a wire rack containing a pile of newsprint brochures. "Reggie's Zine," the logo proclaimed... "Serving Ocean Shores and the universe." Intrigued, he flipped over to the contents and masthead...

Reggie Rocket: Publisher, Editor, Director of Journalism
Sam Dullard: Technical Services
Twister Rodriguez: Special Media Projects
Otto Rocket: Director of Testing
Breezy Copeley: Foreign Correspondent

Bill took a moment to read a couple of articles and check out some pics. Amazing for free stuff, he reckoned. His food was ready. He'd gotten a third drink, a large glass of ice water, in addition to what he'd ordered. Hungry, he tore into his breakfast and chomped one of the sausage slices. About ten seconds later, Bill took a sip of water. "Wow! Das-a-one-a-spicy sausage!" he laughed, in the Italian accent he used when surprised.

"Linguica is best enjoyed a little bit at a time, lil cuz," the blue shirted man returned the laugh.

It was indeed an acquired taste, as Bill learned, and one that he found he liked. When he was finished eating, he paid the bill and thanked them. "To quote the Governor of your beautiful state," Bill quipped, donning a pair of sunglasses, "I'll be back."

The two guys behind the counter doubled over in laughter as Bill donned his helmet and rode off.

Bill idly rode onward along the promenade, his attention drawn by techno music from a loud boom box. A crowd of about seventy people had gathered around three picnic tables placed end to end at a precise interval, where a teenage boy was expertly bouncing on his bicycle performing tricks on top of the tables. This guy wore a blue helmet and a faded Soviet hockey jersey. The crowd applauded loudly as he performed a ninety-degree twist in mid-air with a narrow margin for error. Just then Bill heard somebody's cell phone ringing.

Da da dat da, da da dat da, da da dot dat daah!

The performer froze and extracted the phone from a pants pocket. Frowning, he jumped down from his bike and turned down the sound so he could take the call.

"Please. Don't tell me, Piston..." he answered, exposing a missing tooth in his upper jaw.
...
"You...WHAT?!?!" he snapped.
...
"Don't... EVEN!!!!" he roared.
...
"Here's the way it is, esse: Our hockey game starts at eleven o'clock. With, OR, withoutcha. Capeesh?"
...
"Whatever!!" He snapped the phone shut, terminating the call. "Faaark!!" he screamed at the sky, evidently quite upset about something. The audience dispersed and went about their business, mumbling to themselves.

"So you're down a man, huh?" said Bill to the performer. "I ain't got nothin to do til lunch time. Maybe I can help you guys out."

"You play streethockey?" the guy asked, removing his helmet and squirting his head down with a water bottle.

"Icehockey," Bill corrected, as the guy sized him up. "Our team was state champions in Colorado."

~Maybe he could help us at that,~ the guy in the faded Soviet jersey thought. ~He's big for his age, he's strong, and he's smart. Better than nothing.~ "Okay!" he replied. "Go rent yourself a pair of blades and mess around in MadTown for a while, and meet me in that parking lot over there at ten-thirty. I'll have one of my friends bring an extra stick for you. Never caught your name by the way."

"Bill DeLuca." Bill extended a hand.

"Lars Rodriguez." Lars noticed Bill's enlarging eyes, and interpreted them as wondering why a Rodriguez would have a name like Lars. He gripped Bill's extended hand. "Yeah, I know your next question. It's a long, sad story..."