§ § § -- April 16, 1994

Back at the luau, Leslie and all of her friends sat around a table tossing out name suggestions at Maureen, who had her daughter with her. The baby slept in a little carrier on the tabletop, oblivious to all the noise and excitement, while the women offered assorted ideas. Maureen kept shaking her head, till she finally admitted, "Geez, I'm getting dizzy from all this name-rejecting. I appreciate your help, but somehow nothing seems to fit."

"Didn't Grady find any name books at the library?" Leslie asked.

"No," Maureen said. "I never thought we'd have this much trouble naming this poor child. She's already almost a week old, for heaven's sake. Grady's been calling her Nameless for the last three days, and if we don't watch out, that'll become her name."

Her friends laughed and pretended horror. "Well," Myeko said, "is there anything you won't name her?"

"Yeah," said Maureen. "No trendy stuff. So that leaves out fad names like Madison, Taylor, Ashley, Brittany, Dakota, Sarah, Kayla…"

"Yeah, but I always liked the name Brittany," Camille protested.

"Then you and Jimmy have a daughter and name her Brittany," Maureen said with good humor. "But not my girl. Every third kid is named Taylor, I swear."

"Taylor sounds like a boy's name to me, anyway," Tabitha remarked.

"Me too," Leslie agreed. "And I never liked the name Sarah. I guess that's because I went to school with a Sarah in California who was a notorious bully."

"Why don't you pick something Romanian?" offered Lauren.

"I thought of that, but I don't think it'd go with Harding," Maureen said, sighing. "Maybe I'll give her my mother's name as a middle name, but that depends on what her first name finally turns out to be." She propped her chin on her fist and gazed glumly at the sleeping infant. "Poor baby, at this rate you might never get a name."

"If worse comes to worst," Myeko said, "you and Grady could each just write down your five favorites and drop 'em into a hat, and whatever two you choose, that's her first and middle names." Groans and laughs alike rose up at that, and they were still discussing the merits of this idea when someone stomped to a halt at their table and they all looked around in surprise. Leslie stood up when she recognized Toria Elliott.

"Is there anything I can do for you, Miss Elliott?" she asked, slipping instantly into professional mode.

"Yes, there is," Toria said tightly, clearly very angry and trying to control herself. "I'm looking for someone, and I'm sure you and Mr. Roarke know who's on this island at all times. Where can I find Aaron Weld?"

Leslie looked at her blankly. "Aaron Weld? No one by that name is here as far as I know," she said. "We don't keep a roster of the names of every guest on the island at any given moment. I do know that the reunion group is staying at the hotel, so if you check with the front desk, they should be able to tell you if Aaron Weld is registered there."

Toria frowned. "I see," she said. "Thank you, Leslie." She turned and marched away, and Leslie settled slowly back into her chair, gazing after her in perplexity. She wondered idly if Roarke had any idea what was on Toria Elliott's mind.

"Was that one of your guests?" Tabitha asked.

Leslie turned back to her friends. "Yes, and I'd say she's got a bone to pick with this Aaron Weld, whoever he might be." She cleared her throat. "So, where were we?"

‡ ‡ ‡

Kurt Jensen peered with great interest at his latest drink, a fire-engine-red decoction called a "Volatile Volcano." It definitely reminded him of old film footage he'd seen of newly-erupted lava pouring down the sides of volcanoes, and he hoped it had a corresponding kick to it. He eyed the bartender curiously. "What'd you say is in this?"

"I didn't," the bartender replied, smiling vaguely. "Enjoy, sir."

"Just what I like to hear," Jensen said and immediately gulped down a good two inches of the contents of the glass. Two seconds later, he was gasping for breath, his eyes were tearing up, and his stomach felt as though someone had just lit a match to it. "Perfect," he croaked at the bartender, who raised an eyebrow and turned away without a word.

It was his fourth drink and each had been more potent than the one before it; he was pretty well smashed by now and determined to become more so. The afternoon had rapidly degenerated from something enjoyable to something out of a nightmare. After he and Jeff McKay had gotten him some presentable clothing, they'd discovered that the island police force, headquartered in Amberville, had an open position; and McKay had immediately put in his application. When his credentials were confirmed, he'd been hired on the spot, and was promptly put to work. For McKay, it was a godsend; for Jensen, it was the last good thing that had happened. By then the entire island knew who he was and that he had won a fortune, and he'd been followed everywhere he went by hangers-on, pleading for loans or outright handouts. Shopkeepers knowingly overcharged him for the presents he bought to send home to his relatives and friends. He had been propositioned, and even proposed to, by no fewer than five women, all of them old enough to be his mother. Trying to get the beggars off his back, he'd given cash to all of them, only to find that once those were gone, more took their places. When he tried to stop the outflow, they got angry and made threats, which had intimidated him to the point that he'd given them handouts just to keep the peace. He'd had to return to the main house three times so that Leslie could write him new checks; she said nothing, but he could see the pity beginning to gleam in her eyes.

He'd thought the luau would be an escape, at least until those women's boyfriends had come swaggering in to reclaim their females. Rather than risk an outright fight, he'd run away. And when he'd met Caitlyn D'Angelo, he'd managed to alienate her. Everyone he'd met today had had their hands out, thinking he could solve all their problems. What was wrong with people? He finished his Volatile Volcano in frighteningly short order and signaled the bartender for another drink. Stabbing his finger on the menu, he saw that it had landed on something entitled "Indigo Dynamo." "I'll have that," he slurred.

"Buddy, you're gonna kill yourself if you keep this up," the bartender remarked, mixing up the drink anyway. He looked impressed in spite of himself as he lifted the glass that had contained the Volatile Volcano and examined the dregs. "That's gotta be a record. Last time I served a Volatile Volcano, the guy got through less than half of it before he went off and checked himself into the hospital claiming it was making him hallucinate."

"I wish this weekend was a hallucination," Jensen grumbled. "Think if I get drunk enough, it'll turn out to be just a dream?"

"Nope," said the bartender, putting the new drink in front of him and then peering at him a little more closely. "Say…aren't you that guy who won the lottery?"

Jensen favored him with a poisonous look and tucked into the Indigo Dynamo for a good ten seconds before replying. "That's me all right, runnin' my own personal bank."

The bartender nodded knowingly, leaning over the countertop in a conspiratorial manner. "Everybody's got their hands out, huh?"

"Man, you said it," Jensen said emphatically and tossed back another generous swig of his drink. "I think the only people on this island that haven't come after me for free money are Roarke and Leslie. And that's only because Roarke doesn't need it and Leslie's the one writing my checks. Man, money turns people into jerks. Greedy, selfish, abusive jerks. They all want their piece of me, and they don't care how they get it. I was tryin' to keep 'em happy so they wouldn't flatten me, but they just never quit coming. I hadda go off and hide in my bungalow till they gave up on me. And then I went and met this really nice girl, and since everybody else wanted cash, I figured she did too. Said she didn't, but when I asked her out for breakfast, she suggested the most expensive place she could think of. So who knows? Y'can't trust anybody anymore." Once again he tilted the glass and drained a large percentage of its contents.

"Shame, isn't it?" the bartender said sympathetically. "You'd think winning the lottery would solve all your problems, but I guess it just brings on a whole new set."

"For sure, for sure," Jensen agreed, sighing. "I think after this drink, I'm going over and see Roarke and have him cancel this whole stupid fantasy." He dug a fifty out of his pocket and handed it to the bartender. "That's for you. How much were the drinks?"

"Five apiece," said the bartender, looking stunned. "Hey, you don't have to…"

Jensen shook his head and gave him another twenty-five dollars. "You're just about the only person who hasn't asked me for money," he said. "So I wanted to give you something just on account of that." He polished off the drink and got to his feet, almost stumbling. "Whoops. Guess those suckers were a little stronger than I thought."

"You need a ride back to your bungalow?" asked the bartender.

"Oh, he doesn't need any ride," said a new voice, and they both looked around to see three men dressed like 1930s movie gangsters. "We'll take him home…for a price."

Jensen gave them a once-over and grinned; the grin became a series of snickers that shortly graduated into roars of laughter. "Where'd you get those costumes, off the Bugsy Malone set?" he guffawed. "Geez, that's the best laugh I've had all day."

"Uh, pal, I think they're serious," the bartender said, looking slightly nervous.

"Smart fella," said the first gangster and withdrew a gun from a holster under his jacket, moving at a leisurely pace and patiently pointing it directly at Jensen's face till Jensen stopped laughing enough to take notice. His surprised reaction produced a satisfied smirk. "We couldn't help overhearing your complaints about that money, and we'd be more than happy to take it off your hands."

Jensen, though no longer laughing, was too drunk to be alarmed; he just grew indignant. "Oh yeah? You and every other freeloader on this island. Well, I got news for you, friend. I have about a hundred bucks left on me right now. Some of the rest is in the bank, and as far as the bulk of the money is concerned, it's beyond my reach."

"Y'wanna explain what you mean by that?" the gangster demanded.

Jensen shrugged. "Roarke's daughter writes me the checks."

The gangster nodded in contemplation. "Well, then, we'll take you by the main house and you can have Roarke's daughter write you another check. Tell her you need the whole amount. Then we'll take you along to the casino and you can cash it there."

"Even the casino can't cash that big a check," Jensen protested.

"Yes they can," the gangster said, waggling his gun three inches from Jensen's nose. "When they see me, they're always happy to oblige. Come on now, we're going over to the main house for that little check. You'll never miss it."

"Yeah, I will," Jensen said. "I've got about half my original win left. I made some…uh, charitable donations." The last two words were drenched in sarcasm.

The bartender gaped at him; even the gangsters were impressed enough to look at each other in astonishment. "One freakin' day, and you spent a hundred million bucks?" the gunman finally blurted in disbelief.

Jensen shrugged again and said, "Well, as they say, easy come, easy go. C'mon, Bugsy." He turned and headed for the exit, taking careful steps but still listing perceptibly to one side and occasionally tripping over his own two feet. The gangsters followed.

But it was late enough that when they arrived at the main house, the windows were dark; clearly, Roarke and Leslie had retired for the night. Jensen glanced at his companions. "I guess the bank's closed," he joked weakly.

"Well, open it," said the gunman flatly, prodding him in the shoulder. "Go knock on the door and wake somebody up."

"Or else what?" Jensen demanded, at the end of his rope. "What the hell're you planning to do to me anyway? If you off me, you won't get any money, so that's out. If I refuse to inconvenience my hosts, you can't do anything about that. Not unless you yourself are planning to break into that house and make Leslie write you a check at gunpoint. Something tells me she wouldn't appreciate that."

The gunman lost his patience. "Nobody likes a smartass," he said. "If we do decide to off you, it's no skin off our noses. Besides, we're not even the ones who're lookin' for the cash. Offin' you would actually be a pleasure, but our boss would much rather relieve you of all those problems you were talkin' about back in the bar. I'd'a thought you'd be glad about that, seein' as you didn't sound too happy about bein' rich anymore."

"Look, it's one thing to help out people who don't have much," Jensen said. "But your boss sounds like the kind of guy who already has more than his share and just gets his kicks outta takin' it from other people."

"He thinks he's Robin Hood," said the gunman, and his two cronies laughed, the first sounds they'd made the entire time. "Well, think of me as the Sheriff of Nottingham: I'm puttin' a stop to those charitable donations of yours."

"Dammit," muttered Jensen before his sodden brain made a belated connection and he remembered he'd planned to pay Roarke a visit anyway. "Okay, okay, but if I can't wake up Roarke's daughter, that's not my fault."

The gunman shrugged and settled down in his seat; Jensen got out of the station wagon in which they'd arrived and tried to run to the house, with only partial success. He staggered across the porch and had to catch himself with both hands against the door. For some reason he tried the knob; of course, it was locked. He began to pound on the door, hoping against hope that it would rouse someone inside, specifically Roarke.

About five minutes passed before the elegant lamp within an iron frame suspended from the porch ceiling came on, making him squint in the nearly-moonless night. Seconds later the door opened, silhouetting Roarke. "Good evening, Mr. Jensen," he said, perfectly poised, apparently not the slightest bit put out at being rousted out of bed. In fact, he was fully dressed, right down to his white suit jacket, shiny shoes and even his gold pocket watch on its chain. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"Yes, Mr. Roarke, there sure is," Jensen said, glancing nervously behind him into the darkness, which he couldn't see into due to the porch light. "You can cancel my fantasy."

Roarke's quizzical expression grew regretful. "I am sorry, Mr. Jensen, but that's not possible," he said.

Jensen gawked at him without comprehension. "Huh? Whaddaya mean it's not possible? If you can grant my fantasy, then you can stop it, can't you?"

"Unfortunately, no," said Roarke. "Once a fantasy has begun, I no longer have any control over it, and it certainly cannot be stopped. Are you having difficulties?"

Jensen snorted. "Now that's gotta be the understatement of the decade. Three of those 'difficulties' are sitting in a car in the lane behind me, waiting for me to produce a check for the rest of my lottery winnings. And if I don't cough it up, they're gonna put a bullet or two in my head, and probably drop what's left of me off some cliff."

Roarke gazed at him in mild surprise. "Indeed! And am I to assume that this is your purpose in coming here? You do realize that the banks aren't open."

"He said the casino'd cash it," Jensen said. "Mr. Roarke, if you can't cancel my fantasy, then I'd think the least you could do is call the cops on these jokers."

"On what grounds, precisely?" Roarke asked, his expression gradually hardening. "Mr. Jensen, I know only what you have just told me; and—forgive me, but it's plain that you've been drinking. Furthermore, I see no car in the lane."

"But they're—" Jensen spun on one heel and pointed, only to find that Roarke was right. "They were right there! They brought me over here! Mr. Roarke, I'm not kidding…"

Roarke eyed him for a long moment before relenting slightly; Jensen could see the skepticism in his dark eyes, though his expression was carefully controlled. "If you feel that you're in danger, Mr. Jensen, I can arrange for transportation back to your bungalow."

"That'd be great, Mr. Roarke," Jensen said, too relieved to try to argue his point any further. He followed Roarke into the house and flopped into a chair. "I really should've paid more attention when you mentioned those hazards this morning."

Roarke only glanced at him, picking up the phone and making a short call. He then turned to Jensen. "I've arranged for a police jeep to take you to your bungalow."

"Thanks again, Mr. Roarke, I really appreciate that," Jensen said meekly. "I apologize for waking you up, too. It's just that those guys were gonna…" He broke off, seeing Roarke's expression, and sighed. "Never mind."

Roarke settled onto the desktop and regarded him quietly for a moment or two, and Jensen shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny. Finally he asked plaintively, "Why'd everything have to fall apart like this? All I wanted was to enjoy being rich for a weekend. Instead, just about everybody on the island has his hand out, waiting for me to grease his palm, and now I've got these Al Capone types trying to extort me. This fantasy's really been a bust and a half."

"I'm sorry to hear that," said Roarke neutrally.

"That's what you get when you try to do something nice for someone, I guess," Jensen muttered. "Bought some kids the dolls they wanted. Sent a couple families to the amusement park. Helped out a guy who was down on his luck. Bought some groceries for a family in the fishing village. Treated some folks to lunch. Donated a nice sum to a kid raising cash for a cure for cancer. Gave a guy money for prescription medicine for his sick kid. Lent my support to the…" He mumbled on and on for the next ten minutes while Roarke listened in silent amazement, till there came a knock on the door.

"Come in," Roarke called.

None other than Jeff McKay entered the foyer and Jensen popped to his feet. "Hey, Jeff, man, it's good to see ya! Thanks again, Mr. Roarke."

"Come on, Kurt, time for you to get some sleep," McKay said and nodded at Roarke. "Anything else I can do for you, sir?"

"That will be all, officer, thank you," Roarke said. McKay nodded and ushered Jensen out the door ahead of him. Roarke waited till it had closed behind them before he shook his head in sheer disbelief, turned out the lamp and made his way upstairs.