"C'mon, Bob, there must be something you can do, Kirshner isn't even connected to the show!" Micky voiced the same head-shaking disbelief as the others. Mike predictably smoldered in silence.

"I'm sorry, and I mean I'm really sorry," Bob told them. "It stinks. But it's a done deal. I talked it out with her and Bonnie knows how it all happened and agrees it sucks, but she's not fighting it. It would be more trouble than it's worth." Mike, who was leaning against the makeup table, muttered something under his breath.

"You got something to say," Bob told him, "just say it out loud." He'd had about enough of this lousy day and the last thing he was interested in was another round with the Artiste Deluxe.

"I said, Bob," Mike delivered with his patented sneer, "no surprise she's not fighting it. She knows where the power is here. Why the hell would she fight it when it'd just come back on us so you could teach her a lesson by showing us who's boss?"

Davy was rolling his eyes and Peter mumbled, "Not now, man." But it was too late.

"Listen to me, you self important punk," Bob growled as she stepped up inches from Mike's face, "The reason Bonnie didn't fight it is she's smart enough to know the difference between a trade-off and a sellout, and she sure as shit didn't learn that from you." Suddenly Mike wasn't leaning against the table anymore, and Micky was poised to hold him back.

"That's okay, boys, he's hot to punch another wall, aren't you Mike?" Bob was nearly shouting. Mike was in a full rage, but standing still, so Bob leaned forward and dropped his voice. "If you're as smart as you think you are, you'll stay the hell out of this. Bonnie doesn't need your self-righteous advice, and I sure as shit am tired of it." He paused for a second, taking in the stunned looks worn by Davy, Peter, and Micky. "So are we clear? Any questions?"

They variously shrugged and looked at one another, cutting glances at Mike to be sure he wasn't going to jump Bob at the last second.

"Good. In case you're wondering, Kirshner will not be riding in the limo with us next Sunday. In fact I'd rather drag him behind it." Bob stopped and ran his hands over his face and through his hair, a gesture remarkably similar to Mike when he, too, was ready to crack. "Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going home to get extremely drunk."

"But it's only two-thirty," Peter observed a little timidly.

Bob looked at his watch. "So it is. I'd better stop on the way and get more Scotch." He slammed out of the room.

"Bli-mey," Davy breathed, then whistled. "Never seen old Bob lose it like that before."

"Guess having to give in to Bubble Gum Boy pushed him over the edge," Micky suggested.

"I dunno," Peter said, "He seems kinda freaked over Bonnie getting shut out."

Mike was still glowering. "Not freaked out enough to do anything about it."

"Look, he was right about trade offs," Micky told him. "I've been doing this show biz crap for most of my life, and sometimes you just gotta wade through the bullshit to get to nirvana, y'know? So maybe it's better if you cool out, Mike."

Mike was not inclined to comply. "You must be high, I'm gonna cool out after the way he talked to me?"

"Micky's right, take it from someone else serving a life sentence in the land of make-believe," Davy advised and started toward the door, giving Mike a shove as he passed. "You know he's taken worse from you, mate. Why don't you find Bonnie and take a drive or something. She can't be feeling very bright about now." Peter and Micky nodded and followed him out, headed off in their own directions.

Bonnie's office was locked, so Mike went to the parking lot and found her sitting on the hood of the Malibu, his latest acquisition. When she dodged his very sympathetic kiss he gave her an odd look. "What?"

"I'm not falling for it this time, I know you too well. I don't wanna talk about it and I don't wanna listen about it. So put the soapbox away and let's just go home."

They were halfway there when Mike couldn't hold back any longer. "I just can't believe you didn't raise hell over this."

She stared out the window. "You also can't believe 'Winchester Cathedral' made number one last year. Let it go."

"But..."

"I said let it go."

So he did. For about another ten minutes until they got in the door.

"Look," Mike began as he tossed his keys and wallet on the table. "How could you let him do that to you and not say anything?"

Bonnie dropped her bag with a thump and pivoted to face him. "Y'know for a musician you don't listen so well. And I said plenty, it's just not what you would've said."

"You got that right." He sat on the sofa with a thump, and she followed to stand over him, gesturing angrily.

"Well what's wrong with that? Jesus, Nesmith, when it comes to working with Bob I have never said what you would have said! And before you ask why, I'll tell you, because my job is different, that's why. You guys are all about making it perfect, you know, the timing, the jokes, the music, the groove, all of it you try to get as perfect as it is in your heads. But you're the only one who acts like life hangs in the balance when it isn't! Fine, I got no problem with high standards. But I can't believe that after all this time, you still don't get it."

He sat up as she walked away. "Get what? The 'difference between a trade-off and a sellout'? That's what Bob called it."

"He's right."

"He also said you sure as shit didn't learn that from me." He was up and pacing now.

"Right again." When his expression tightened, she went on, "Like I said, you're all about perfect. Well dammit, Nesmith, what I do is different! I'm in the business of show business, and that'll never be about perfect. It's about good enough, and close enough, and trading off. As in, getting rid of Kirshner was more important than protecting anyone's ego, even if it meant protecting his." She gestured again, wild with frustration. "What we do, Bob and me and legal and P.R. and yeah, even a few of the lesser PTB, we give you room to worry about 'perfect'. And when that room gets a little ugly, you need to do us all a favor, just close your eyes and think of perfect, okay?"

"Great, all I want to do is make things better and..."

Bonnie shut her eyes for a minute. oh shit, here we go... I cannot do this right now

"Well you can't, okay? What is it they say in Texas? 'You don't have a dog in this fight.' You need to stay out of it, and I mean all the way out! It's my fight, and I settled it my way,and it sucks but that's the way it is and you can't make things better." Now it was Bonnie who was pacing as Nesmith followed, and she felt like a fox trying to escape the hounds.

"But I want to..." he started again, and she wheeled on him in a fury.

"Goddammit, do I need to say it in Spanish? You can't! No se puede! You can't make this better for me, you can only make it worse!" Bonnie stormed to the front hallway, muttering, "I gotta get outta here on my own for a while." She grabbed a set of keys off the increasingly crowded rack near the front door. "I'm takin' the Pontiac," she snapped, and slammed the door so hard the remaining keys rang like wind chimes.