A/N - Have a jazz CD? Old jazz or new jazz? If so, I'd suggest listening to jazz while reading this chapter! Oh, the ambience! ;)

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Since Orrin West was a child, growing up in a suburb of Chicago, he'd wanted two things: 1) To work for the government in some form or another, particularly as someone who gets to use guns and intelligence daily; 2) All the jazz vinyl he could get his obsessed hands on.

This was the first Saturday he had off from work in eight months. And even then, in October, he'd had to submit an official time-off form, on account of his basic religion, Judaism, and its emphasis on the High Holy Days, Yom Kippur in fact. Though not a practicing Jew by any means, he'd never even had a mitzvah, he felt a tie to the religion. The imprint came from his mother; and her influence carried him to the Yom Kippur service for the first time in ten years. The Day of Atonement, as it was called, was absolutely nothing quite like the at-one-ment he felt standing precisely where he was.

The musty scent of ancient vinyl record sleeves, the tinny notes playing through the speakers located at random intervals in the store, the art and photographs hung upon the walls with familiar faces therein. Miles Davis was smiling down at him; a gorgeous black and white of Louis Armstrong with his prized trumpet, an effigy of which West had hanging in his flat; then Billie Holiday in her early years. They were everywhere he looked, around and around him, from a sacred space up above, black and white jazz angels. Angels who'd known music more than their own souls.

Surely this was the way God talked to him, the way he talked to God. Baruch Atah Adonai Eloheinu Melech Ha'Olam—please keep the jazz coming.

West took in a deep breath that practically shattered his ribcage. He loved being there. Loved it, loved it. Any day he didn't have to be at work, any day he wasn't out of Colorado Springs, West could be found one of two places: the Club Pierre downtown listening to live jazz on its dinky little stage, or he was there, Tootin' Highbury's, the premiere Everything Old store in all the land that side of the Mississippi.

The fluttering navy and gold-trimmed drape hanging over the doorway to the backroom caked to one side by a wrinkled hand. Out popped old Gladys Highbury herself. Her puffy red hair had turned mostly gray now, but she still had the twinkling green eyes that Orrin remembered. The first time he saw Gladys Highbury, he was at the tender, impressionable age of eleven, and had gone to a jazz review show presented by Julliard, hand in hand with his mother. Hanniah was the jazz fan. For as far back as West could remember, she was singing jazz, playing jazz on the ancient piano in the front room, teaching him bits of trivia while he learned the instincts of a jazz riff, a B-flat cord or an E-major. She was the personification of jazz within his mind. A little warped now, long after the years since they'd spoken.

He'd been delighted to find out that Tootin' Highbury's was actually owned by the famous Gladys Highbury, the chanteuse herself. It'd been her brother, Wayland Highbury, who'd been known as Tootin' Highbury. Wayland originally opened the store back in 2024. Gladys took over completely after her brother's death five years ago.

She and West were on a first-name basis now. As she appeared behind the curtain, her hands immediately went for his, her smile bright and kind.

"I knew it was you, Orrin," Gladys said, her voice thick as though cotton balls were stuck in the back of her throat. His fingers were pinched affectionately. "Knew it'd be you. Caught the scent of your aftershave soon as you walked in."

"Gladys, it's good to see you!" Obediently, like Gladys Highbury was his great aunt, he stooped a bit and kissed her soft, wizened cheek. "I know it's been forever."

"Not forever, Orrin. If it'd been forever, we'd probably both be dead and meeting in the afterlife. You've been busy," she said analytically. "I assumed the government was giving its premiere agent plenty to do."

"I'm hardly their premiere agent," West protested. He liked Gladys, and did see her as a great aunt, but he never had told her he worked for the NSA. Actually, he did tell her that once, but she blew up in a fat laugh and never believed him. Of course that was probably because he'd managed to knock over an entire bookcase of jazz titles, tripped over the store's resident cat, Bojangles, and, thanks to an incoming patron, got himself hit in the forehead with the door on his way out. No wonder she hadn't believed him when he said he worked for the National Security Agency, at least not as anything legitimate as an agent. Her response? "What are you, Orrin, their live-in clown and jazz specialist?"

He didn't mind. His vast knowledge of All Things Jazz made up for it. He could talk to Gladys for hours, in an exchange of insightful information. Gladys told him he ought to write a book. That was when it was Orrin's turn to laugh.

With his hands in the deep pockets of his gray pinstripe trousers, Orrin cocked his head and his smile. "I got the day off. For once. I know it's been an age, so I thought I'd stop in."

"Brilliant, Orrin, since you're just in time for lunch." She sauntered by him, paused at his side, and flicked at the brim of his hat. "Remove your chapeau when inside a lady's home, Orrin." Gladys proceeded to the entrance, a hand to her hip. The other hand flailed at her side as though quickly removing cobwebs. "Why do you always have to dress like Spencer Tracy, anyway? Or Humphrey Bogart?"

Orrin had quickly removed the felt fedora from his head, and straightened his hair, the color of lightened cinnamon. "I don't know, Gladys. I guess I like their clothes a lot better than any of the styles out now."

The 'OPEN' sign in the window was turned to 'CLOSED'. Gladys returned to him, gave him a scrutiny, from his well-trimmed hair to his red tie, gray suspenders, down to his wingtips. When she lifted her gaze back to him, she was smiling.

"I can see it now," she said, her artistic and witty mind at work. "To dress like Adam Heat would be tantamount to a very long torture sentence for you, wouldn't it?"

"Most definitely. Perhaps I'd reconsider if Adam Heat acted as well as Humphrey Bogart did in Casablanca."

Gladys chuckled, much amused by the twisted way this oddity that was Orrin West saw the world. Suddenly, the musical ambience changed: he closed his eyes, a placid smile on his lips. Gladys grabbed his arm and squeezed.

"Like I said, Orrin: I knew you were coming. I put on your favorite. An attempt to coax you from hiding, I suppose."

It was the music playing through the store that made him reverent and awing. He listened intently for another moment, with the blackness behind his lids adding to the concentration, and finally opened his eyes.

Overhead, all around, nearly omnipresent, was the delicate, smooth and downright gorgeous tone of Mildred Bailey. Mildred Bailey and her intoxicating rendition of 'Me and the Blues'. Orrin still got the chills every time he heard it. To think, if it hadn't been for his mother, he'd never have known something so beautiful as Mildred Bailey existed. The idea was hardly worth pondering. He shoved it away into the dungeon of his mind and followed Gladys into the backroom. Few who were not employees ever made it into the backroom. Orrin always felt like a guest of honor when in Gladys Highbury's presence. To be in the backroom meant that he'd just stepped into what was essentially her house. It was the office, where she did all of her work, the buying and selling of items, produced online promotions and auctions, wrote the daily schedules for all three of her part-time employees, and housed the staircase to the flat above the store.

Bouncing up the stairs ahead of them was Bojangles. He was a fat, long-haired gray and white with insipid yellow eyes and a basic hatred for all those who'd never fed him. It was a great mystery to anyone, particularly Gladys, as to why Bojangles took a special liking to Orrin. It was a secret wish of the agent's that he might someday get a cat, but it'd be impossible to keep that cat happy while away for lengthy business trips. As soon as Infiltration Unit Zeta was caught, though, Orrin supposed the very next day he'd find himself a cat. If the case ever closed. . . .

But he had the whole day off. All twenty-four hours. A whole day not to think about Zeta, the renegade robot, and his hellion teenage accomplice, Rosa—.

Shut up, Orrin. Just shut up. Okay, okay, shutting up. Am I talking to myself again? Bugger. I am. Stop, before Gladys thinks you're an idiot. Quick, say something charming and witty!

"It smells delicious in here," he finally said. Not exactly charming. Not very witty. But it did smell nice. And Gladys smiled, so he assumed he'd done all right.

They were in the kitchen, drenched in sunlight from the window over the sink and the narrow door that went to a small 5x3 patio that overlooked the city alley. The patio itself was covered in container gardens, flowers in brilliant hues that vaguely reminded Orrin of the home he'd known once. The flowers his mother used to plant while crooning Judy Garland staples, like 'The Boy Next Door' or Harold Arlen's most famous tune, 'Somewhere Over the Rainbow'.

Gladys gestured to the old fashioned stove. Upon it were two round desserts. "I made pies this morning before the store opened. I assume you'll be taking one home with you."

"Ah, Gladys, you're so good to me. Wager you like me better than your own son."

"My heathen son?" Gladys cackled in her throat. "Him! Big city executive. Pah! Where'd all his millions get him? Four wives and a whole lot of alimony." She pointed a crooked finger at him. "Let that be a lesson to you, Orrin. Don't marry! If you have to marry, at least marry when you're about to die. Got it?"

"Tragically apt advice," he responded, suppressing the urge to chuckle. Gladys had only been married once, to Orrin's knowledge, and it'd lasted roughly a decade. Phenomenal length, compared to some. He sniffed over the pies, feeling Bojangles wrapping possessively around his ankles. Gladys watched on, as this had become some kind of game between them, Orrin sniffing the pies to find out the flavors. He inhaled again, then winced his hazel eyes to Gladys.

"I'm thinking—mixed berry?"

Gladys acknowledged this. Orrin turned to the second pie. He knew what it was immediately. Both his hands cupped over his heart and he sighed dreamily.

"Cherry vanilla crumb!"

"I'm surprised you couldn't smell it walking through the door, Orrin. You'll be taking that one home with you, will you?"

"If that's all right." He'd never tasted anything quite like a cherry vanilla crumb pie before he'd met Gladys Highbury. By definition, it was just a pie with cherry filling in it, all and all nothing special, at least not until Gladys added her homemade vanilla crumble. Then—and only then—did it become the one food in the world that Orrin would eat every day.

He took a seat at the dinette, Bojangles still at his ankles. "Get anything new in, Gladys? Anything you know I'd like?"

"I got a Tops Hi-Fi vinyl you may like."

"Oh?" He watched the back of Gladys as she dragged condiments from the fridge. Along with the bread and meats on the countertop, he assumed lunch was some kind of sandwich. All right by him. He was famished. "What's the vinyl?"

"It's a compilation of songs from the 1920's. Standards, for the most part, but there are a couple of jivey arrangements. We'll go down after lunch and have a listen. It sounds best on the old Victrola in the corner. Do you want spicy mustard?"

"Yes, please. How much did you pay for it? The vinyl?"

"Only twenty-eight."

"What?" West screamed out, shocked. "Twenty-eight creds? You're joking! Oh, please tell me you're joking!"

"I'm not," Gladys was so not even joking that she didn't even look over her shoulder at him. She went about making sandwiches as calmly as you please. "I got a call a couple weeks back from a sweet young thing that told me her uncle had just passed and that he'd had all these records. She said I could have the whole lot for three hundred. When I went up to Cheyenne to look at them, I flatly explained to the sweet young thing that if she was going to sell them to me for three hundred, I'd spend the rest of my days feeling like a swindler. I told her the whole lot was worth at least five thousand. But she didn't want to be bothered selling them off individually. I gave her thirty-five hundred and we called it a day. Here's your sandwich."

A plate was slipped in front of him. On it was one of the most overstuffed sandwiches he'd ever seen. He'd tasted Gladys's famous sandwiches before. Loads of times, in fact. And every time he did, he'd pause a moment and be thankful he knew this woman, this victualer, this listener of jazz, this retired chanteuse, this saint who even remembered he didn't eat ham.

"So," Gladys began, mouth partly full of bread and veggies, "have yourself a girlfriend yet?"

She always asked this. He'd never seen her surprised at the answer. "No. I'm married to my work. And the ghost of Mildred Bailey. You know that. Didn't you just tell me not to get married?"

"Just checking to see if you were paying attention. But there's a difference, Orrin, between being married and having a girl to take dancing. So far, the only thing in this world that seems to take an interest in you is Bojangles. And he ain't the dancing type." She patted his hand in either sympathy or humor. West couldn't be sure. She had another bite and some crisps before asking her next question. "Been 'round to the Club Pierre recently?"

"No, no," he shook his head. The Club Pierre was one of his favorite spots in Colorado Springs. Strike that. It was his favorite spot in all the world. Well, maybe aside from Tootin' Highbury's, with Gladys's pies and sandwiches. "I did talk to Trusty Bismarck, though."

"Ha!" erupted Gladys. "Trusty Bismarck! How's he doing? Where'd you run into him?"

"I saw him at the Corner Market down the block from my flat. We live in the same neighborhood. Anyway, he said the Club had undergone some kind of renovation. Is it true?"

"It's true."

West's face fell flat and his sandwich dropped back to the plate. He leaned languidly into the seat. "But—why?"

"Don't go thinking the kittens have drowned yet, Orrin," chided Gladys with a mysteriously youthful smirk. "It's nothing awful. The Club Pierre's still open, still the same place you love, but it'll now have comfier seating and a bigger stage."

Orrin's mouth twitched to better ruminate on these changes. After the reflection, he lifted a shoulder and tilted forward again. "I guess it was hard for Alice Faye and her Rising Sign Trio to fit onto a six-by-six stage, huh?"

"Especially with Alice getting bigger and bigger," Gladys remarked, cruelly tonguing off what everyone knew of Alice Faye, a gorgeous singer but with an ever-increasing waistline. "If her buzzies inflate another inch, she's liable to explode all over the stage."

Orrin broke out laughing, most unfortunate since his mouth was full of sandwich. He managed to swallow, had a sip of peach iced tea, and was calmed. "I'll try to stop over there tonight. Trusty Bismarck said he'd be there."

"Imagine most of the crowd will be there. I'll see if I can come along. What time you thinking about going?"

"Round six, I think. Enough time to catch the evening set. Who's playing tonight, you know?"

Gladys had no idea. "Haven't been there in a few weeks myself. You can ring up Demeter Pudding and ask her."

Demeter Pudding was the nickname of Demeter Houston, one of Club Pierre's managers, wife of the owner, cousin of the investor. Club Pierre was run by a whole family whose dramas would no doubt make a fine evening soap opera. Most of the routine patrons tuned into the drama peripherally as it was. West was just about to ask if Demeter's brother, Austin Houston (his honest to God genuine name), was yet out of the sanatorium when the mobile clipped to his belt sounded, its ring tone the reprise of Glenn Miller's 'In The Mood'.

He groaned upon noticing the name on the screen. The line clicked on, there was a second of garbling as the satellites went secure, and then West was saying a grumpy "It's my day off! Don't be calling me!"

"I know you don't want to be disturbed, West," said Agent Spencer, the Level Nine communications operative. "But I just got off the phone with Agent Hattie, and she said—"

"To bugger off?" interrupted West.

"Er, no," Agent Spencer murmured and cleared his throat. "She told me you need a little bit of training."

"Training? I don't suppose she means obedience training."

"You're not too far off the mark, West. She wants me to teach you some flight training this afternoon. Have you got plans?"

"Not exactly." It wasn't something he could lie about, either. West never had earned his badge in lying, and Marceau Spencer would never believe the solitary, slightly weird Agent West would have legitimate plans on a legitimate day off. "What time am I supposed to be there?"

"Fifteen hundred. We'll be using the Fort Carson Flight Evaluation hangar."

West was familiar with the place. Fort Carson was an active military base literally just down the road from the incognito NSA building. "I'll meet you there. Civvies or suit?"

"Flight suit, actually."

"Right. I'll have to dig it out from my wardrobe. It may smell of mothballs. What'll we be flying?"

"The RT-299. You should know it. You've crashed at least two of them."

"I can't get used to those quantum engines, that's all."

"We'll start with flight simulation, for an hour or so, and then go up. Understood?"

"Understood."

"And cheer up, West. You and I, see, we're gonna get paid overtime for this."

Somehow that didn't improve West's mood when he disconnected the mobile. The sandwich didn't seem half as appetizing now. Neither did the pie. Sulking, his shoulders rounded and he stuck the heel of his palm into the hollow beneath his cheekbone. "Blah. So much for having days off."