When I stop in front of the two-story house near campus where Heather lives with ten or so roommates, it's cold—about thirty-five degrees—and raining steadily. The lights are on in the house, so I run up there and see her backpack on the porch. Bang on the door and pick up her pack, about thirty pounds.

Heather steps out dressed in warm layers underneath a Kevlar jacket, waterproof pants and boots. "Good morning," she says with a grin, pulling up her hood.

We exchange a kiss. "Good morning, Heather. This everything?"

"Yeah," she says, looking about. "Sure is light in the morning now that we've gone off daylight savings. Hey, anybody else going with us?" she yells over the noise of the rain on our hoods as we run down to the Chevy pickup.

"One guy," I shout back. Stuff her pack under the tonneau cover I put on yesterday before going to the slot operations party at Morty's.

She climbs in, slams the door, pushes her hood back and says, "What a beautiful '53 Chevy. Is it a half or three-quarter?"

"It's a half-ton. Four-wheel drive with dual-range differential."

"Pretty aggressive tread on those tires," she says. "Probably climbs straight up."

Grin at her. I do like a woman who notices a good set of tires. "Guy we're picking up is August Lepartin. Goes by Tan. Know him?"

"Oh yeah, I know Tan. We have a little history."

"A good kisser, isn't he?"

"He's a wonderful kisser," says Heather.

When I pull into his driveway, Tan leaps off the porch, stuffs his backpack under the cover and climbs in to sit between Heather and me. "I love this," he says. "Two of my favorite women."

We talk and laugh noisily until the steady rain turns to heavy snow part way up the mountain. We talk softly up to the parking area between Slide Mountain and Mount Rose, where it is snowing heavily. By six, we're well on our way. The snow is sticky at this elevation. Before ten, we reach the rock shelters at the top of Rose, where the wind is swirling the snow around us horizontally. All three of us work to drape a tarpaulin over one of the rock shelters and tie it down using heavy rocks. Once we have a couple candles and the butane stove lit, we're comfortable enough to remove our rain gear.

Heather, Tan and I sit at the top of a mountain in an early winter storm for an hour, relaxed and happy, eating lunch. Tan brings out a disposable camera. As he's holding it out for a group shot, I bump Heather. She falls into Tan, who drops the camera. I bump them again and Tan accidentally stomps the camera, breaking it and exposing the film. We shrug, gear up and begin walking down just after one. By two-thirty, we're back in the pickup, driving down the mountain.

We stop on the way home for a beer, and then drop off Tan. He hugs Heather then slides out and shuts the door.

As Heather waits in the warm pickup, Tan grasps his pack and pauses as I kiss him. When I step back, he asks, "Why don't you invite me to your home, Jill?"

When I shake my head and begin to turn away, he reaches for my wrist. Slam his back against the pickup cab, two fingers on his jugular and my eyes on his.

His expression is half joking, half challenge. Gazing into my eyes, he frowns as the color drains from his face. Slowly, Tan lifts his hands slightly and opens his palms—submission. Removing my fingers and stepping back, I watch him as I climb into the truck. As Heather nibbles at my neck, murmuring her desire, I glance at the mirror and see Tan still standing there, hands at his sides, watching us drive away.

Take Heather home to Sara and Jenny, where we get naked, intertwined before the open fire. Soji and Lloyd wave at me as they walk past on their way to bed. Barely see them to return their wave through the tangle of naked bodies.

Monday morning, awaken early. After Yoshi and I run through a cold rain, I take a hot shower and dress. Almost certain Dick Scope will fire me today, so I take a Colt M1911A1 and five grand in cash from the safe and stuff them into a locked box behind the seat in my Chevy pickup. Years ago, I ordered the box of quarter-inch stainless steel, welded it to the frame and installed rubber seals around the floor hole to keep moisture out of the cab. Toss my insulated coveralls, boots and a change of clothes back there too. Put a heavy-duty come-along, two toolboxes, four big tarps and a couple dozen tie-down straps with camber locks inside the Chevy's bed box. Finally, I chain and padlock my oxy-acetylene tanks in the pickup's bed. After I stow the cutting-torch nozzles and hoses into the bed box, I lock it too.

Take Heather and Jenny home and walk into Doc's at eight to find the printer delivering boxes of magazines. Within forty minutes, George and I have delivered them to all departments and offices. The individual employees and patrons will receive their personal copy by mail within a couple days. Leave a few extra copies in Personnel, Marketing and my office, stacked under a table. Take ten personal copies out to my pickup and walk down the street to eat breakfast and read the newspaper.

A little after ten, I wander across the street into the Hilton employee cafeteria, where I find Lucy sitting alone during her break, reading a romance novel. Sit at her table and look at her.

"Go away," she says.

"Stop following me," I tell her.

"That was a mistake. It won't happen again."

Watch her for a ten-count. Her words hang in the air between us but she does not look at me. Stand and walk back across the street.

Louise has her door closed but I open it, walk inside, close it again and sit down. She is sitting at her desk, facing the window and crying. A copy of the new issue is lying on her desk.

After listening to her sob quietly for a few seconds, I ask, "So, what do you think of the new issue?"

She takes a deep, ragged breath and releases it slowly, her eyes closed, trying to get control. "It . . . it's beautiful," she says, "I love it." After taking a few more breaths, she looks at me with her red, puffy eyes and asks, "Jill, did Dick ask you to pass it by him before distributing the issue?"

"Yes."

Her voice hitches, and she almost breaks down crying again but after a couple more deep breaths, she grasps tentative control. "Then why did you deliberately distribute it without letting him see it?" Her tissue is becoming too wet to be useful.

"Did he ask you that?"

She finally loses control and begins crying again, sobbing really, as she says, "Ask me? He didn't just ask, Jill. He screamed and cursed and shook his finger in my face. What are you smiling for?" she blubbers, stopping to blow her nose.

"Imagining the look on Dick's face when he said that to you."

"Well, you won't have to imagine it, Jill. He wants us in there right now to account for your actions."

Stand and say, "Why didn't you say so? Let's go."

"Give me a minute," she says. She discards her tissue, takes a fresh one and blows her nose several times. Finally, she discards that, takes another fresh tissue, stands and opens the door. We walk into Dick's office, where he is reading a single sheet of paper, his pen poised above it. Louise stops in front of his desk and turns, her hand open to me, as if to say, `I brought her in.'

"Please, sit," says Dick politely, pointing at the two chairs.

We sit as he walks to his doors and shuts them softly. He walks back to his desk, pulls on his suit jacket and buttons it as he looks at us. Picking up the single sheet of paper, he says, "I have here an entry for your personnel file, Ms. Price. Please read and sign it. By signing, you are not stating that you agree with what I wrote but only that you understand it. If you do not sign, then Louise here will witness the fact that you refused to sign and will place it in your file anyway. Any questions?"

"No."

He sets it on the desk in front of me and places a cheap, plastic pen on it. "Now that we have completed the formalities, I'd like to say that this documents two distinct incidents of insubordination on your part, Ms. Price."

"Her name is Jill," says Louise.

Glance at her and shake my head slightly.

"I know," says Dick. "Now," he says, leaning forward, his fingertips on his desk blotter, "tell me why you ignored two separate orders I gave you."

"I have plenty of time to develop and distribute the supplemental issue with your interview and photos, Dick." Pausing, I say, "As for reviewing the current issue before I distribute, it's too late to change."

"Yet you understood both conditions in this office on Thursday. Why bother agreeing if you had no intention of following them?" With a shrug, I stare into his eyes and enunciate clearly as I say, "You just said understanding is not agreement, Dick."

Louise is resting her forehead on her thumb and forefinger, shaking her head.

Dick leans forward in anticipation and asks, "You say I'm lying?"

Leaning forward slightly, enunciating clearly, I say, "You are."

"Then your employment here is terminated, effective immediately. Collect your personal items and get out." He picks up the phone and speaks softly.

Watch him as I wait.

The door opens behind me. Dick says, "Carlos, I have just fired Jill Price. Please escort her to her office to collect any personal items, make sure she does not steal or destroy anything and escort her from the premises, now."

Standing, I walk out with Carlos. "I don't have anything I need from my office."

"Okay," he says. We walk slowly down the hall. As we pass Annette's desk, she holds out the receiver and says, "Jill, for you."

Thinking it is Tan, take it and say, "I'm busy."

"Hi Jill," says Heather. "Jenny and I finish classes at three. We're gonna be horny. Wanna fuck?"

"Yeah, pick you both up at your place, three-thirty?" When she says yes, I say I'll see them then. Hand the phone to Annette and tell her thanks. Carlos and I continue on our way to the elevator and out to the parking garage. Accompanies me without a word down the elevator and out to the parking garage. Stands and watches me climb in the pickup. As I start it, he touches a finger to his eyebrow in a little salute. Give him a smile.

Drive out of the parking garage and south to Carson City. At Arrowhead Drive, I turn east and drive out to Mound House where the whorehouses and junkyards are and pull into Walter's cluttered lot. Scoot over to the passenger side, quickly strip off my office clothes and pull on socks, jeans, work boots, a tee shirt, a flannel shirt, a hooded sweatshirt and insulated coveralls. Step out of the pickup and stuff gloves and a flashlight in one back pocket. Jack a round into my Colt M1911A1, flick the safety and shove it in another pocket.

The air has a cold, sharp edge under low, dark clouds. Fresh snow powders the Sierra peaks to the west. The dogs, growling softly, watch me. Walter's office is warm, with country music playing softly. Can't see him by a little Franklin stove in a dark corner but I can sense his bulk in his favorite rocking chair. "Morning, Walter."

"Huh? Oh, good morning, Jill! You caught me dozing," he says, lifting his bulk from the comfortable chair to walk over and hug me. "How ya doin'?"

"Just got fired for the first time in my life."

"Fuck do you care? Got plenty of money."

"I care, Walter. I'm trying to do my job."

Blinking, Walter said, "Well then, I say whoever fired you is a chicken shit. Tell me who he is and if he ever comes here, the boys'll show him a good time. Does that help?"

Grinning, I say, "No, but thanks anyway." Slap him on the shoulder, and ask, "Got a Camaro back there?"

"Sure," he says. He pulls on a light, wool jacket and leads me out back where his men are working leisurely at various tasks. Their glances scrabble at me but they look away when my glance draws near. A light rain begins and the temperature drops five degrees. At least the wind hasn't picked up yet.

Beneath an open-front shed, Walter shows me his best classics: Ford Mustangs, a Pontiac Tempest and a GTO, a '65 Chevelle, a T-boned `67 Camaro with no SS marks and a '63 Chevy Impala with a crushed roof.

At the far end is a '63 Ford Galaxie convertible'black with red interior and four-on-the-floor. The removable hard top has streaks of rust and the left front fender, bumper and grill are smashed. Under the hood—a 427 with three deuces'is fire damage. "Jesus," I whisper, walking around to the front so I can squat and look.

"You like that convertible. Don't you?" asks Walter.

"Frame's bent," I tell him.

"Two." When I look up at him, he says, "Okay, a thousand."

Standing slowly because the cold and the rain make the bullet wounds in my leg and my back to ache, I say "With the fire and the bent frame, the Galaxie's worth maybe five hundred. For a grand, throw in a duplicate engine and tranny in good shape. I'll pull `em."

Walter looks away, his feelings hurt, which will end up costing me.

Ask, "Busted roof's all that's wrong with that '63 Chevy?"

"It's got a 327 in perfect shape," mutters Walter, still petulant.

He's hiding something about the Chevy and he's pissed about the Ford. He probably towed both from the impound yard for fifty bucks. "What about the water damage?"

"What water damage? You didn't see it up close."

"Waterweeds are hanging off the front bumper, Walter. It better not be salt water, either."

"Pulled it out of Lahontan, Price," he says, glaring at his men.

Probably meant to tell them to clean out the waterweeds but forgot. With water damage, it's worth three but he's pissed about the Galaxie. "Five, and you throw in a spare 327."

He looks at me, his mouth open. "I'll get two grand easy!"

"You'll sell the engine and tranny for three and then compact it."

As he curses under his breath, I say softly, "Put the Galaxie and the '63 Chevy in my storage unit, Walter."

"Anything else?" he growls. "You gotta have a project going at home, Jill."

"I'll take that Camaro home. Rent one of your trailers and bring it back tomorrow," I tell him. "What's in it, small block?"

"L30," he grumps. "Fifteen hundred." A thrill runs up my spine'an L30! Maybe it has an M20 as well. "A thousand, with a spare 327 and tranny."

The rain stops and a shaft of cold sunlight shines through a break in the clouds.

"That's only twenty five for three cars. I could get six. Gotta have at least five grand."

"Bullshit, Walter. You have a hundred-fifty in all three. You're clearing over two grand here."

"Four then."

"Three, and you throw in the trailer rental. Goddamn it, Walter, you're pissin' me off."

He grins. "Hah! Three it is. You're getting soft in your old age, Jill."

He's just saying that to let me know I can take as many parts as I need, within reason. Turn and walk toward his office, calling over my shoulder, "Unlock the gate so I can pull my pickup in here. The cherry picker in that shed?"

"Yep. Want the boys to help?"

Ignore that and scoot under the Camaro. My flashlight beam reveals a model M20 Saginaw 4-speed transmission. The model L30 327 cubic-inch engine looks original. The floorboards and the trunk plate are in good shape. Odometer reads eighty-eight thousand, which means it has almost two hundred. The T bone crash hit high and forward on the passenger door and front quarter panel, as if a tall truck backed into it.

The day goes dark and rain starts up again. Walk through Walter's office and pull through the gate into the yard, a rare privilege in any junkyard. Hook up the cherry picker and drive slowly between rows of wrecked cars. Take one of three 427 engines with a 4-speed manual transmission attached, and a 327 with a 4-speed Saginaw attached—rare to find two L30/M20 combinations in one junkyard.

By the time I pull the 427 and bring it up front, Walter and his boys have the Galaxie and Impala on the eight-wheeled, lowboy trailer. His diesel wrecker idles contentedly, impervious to the steady drizzle of cold rain drenching the gravel, weeds and smashed vehicle bodies. Once I drop the 427 on the trailer, I go back for the first 327. Take my time, about an hour, finding and pulling leaf springs and front-end parts for the Galaxie, including tie rods, engine mounts, a bumper, a grill and so on. Find a smashed Impala with a roof in good shape, slice off the roof with the cutting torch and drop it on the trailer using Walter's forklift.

The drive to the storage facility is only five miles. Unlock the door and shove it open. Use my cherry pickers to lift the engines and leave them hanging. Push the cars inside and roll them into one corner. The men, including Walter, cast longing looks at my expensive equipment and vehicles but no one says anything.

Back at Walter's yard, I drop the L30/M20 on his sturdy, little one-car trailer with the Camaro. Remove a passenger-side door and front quarter panel for the T-boned Camaro. Using the tarps and straps, cover and tie down the engine and parts. Cover the passenger side window to keep out rain on the drive home. Finally, I hook up the trailer and pull it out of the yard so Walter can lock the gate.

When I walk into Walter's office with the cash, I'm wet, dirty, cold, tired, hungry and my wounds are throbbing. Count out the thirty hundred-dollar bills and stack them neatly on his desk.

Walter counts the money carefully, locks it in his floor safe and then hands me a receipt and titles for all three cars. He pulls out a bottle of expensive single malt Scotch, splashes a finger each into two glasses and hands one to me. We pick up the glasses, click them together and drink it down—an old tradition.

Slapping the glass down to the desktop, I shiver as I swallow the burning liquor. After throwing my arms around Walter briefly, I walk out to the pickup. Once I've pulled onto the highway and I'm driving home with my treasure, I open the window and let out a long, loud whoop. Nothin' like a new classic car, even if it is junk!

Heather and Jenny, dressed in warm coats and flats, come running out when I brake in front of Heather's place. Once they've piled in, the girls open their coats and show me they're naked. Excitement is infectious and soon they have me laughing.

At the Baron Ranch gate, the girls and I see Tan waiting in his car. Pull into the garage and say, "You girls go inside and get comfortable. Be there in a moment." Walk to the gate and tell Tan to leave, but he refuses to go until I listen to what he has to say.

Turning, I walk to the gate and tell the guards to run him off. As I stand watching, Yoshi walks out and begins shoving Tan. Despite Tan's size and athletic ability, he's soon stumbling backwards and lands on his ass. Meanwhile one of the other guards puts Tan's car in neutral, releases the parking brake and begins pushing it down the street. Glance inside the security building to see another guard calling the police.

As his car picks up momentum, Tan scrambles after it and jumps inside. Turning the big sedan around, Tan charges the gate, accelerating.

Yoshi slaps a button and six fifteen-inch thick steel bollards snap up, the tops forty inches from the asphalt. I carefully observe the impact as Tan's Chrysler bangs into one of the bollards. The engine dies as it begins to hiss steam and drizzle anti-freeze on the asphalt. Yoshi and I inspect this first real test of the bollard mechanism. Looks like the impact shoved the grill and radiator into the cooling fan'at least. The steel post is fine—maybe a little paint transfer from the Chrysler's hood. Yoshi glances at me and nods. The other guard lowers the posts.

Meanwhile, a police cruiser approaches, lights flashing. As a guard walks over to talk with the two uniforms, Yoshi and I check on Tan, who was wearing no seat belt. His mouth is bloody—face probably hit the steering wheel'and he's holding his wrist, which appears sprained at least.

As an officer talks to Yoshi, another pushes me aside to check on Tan, so I walk to the guard shack and call Sui. After I explain what happened, Sui asks if I want to press charges. "Definitely," I tell her. "Tell one of the lawyers to write up a request for a restraining order and get a justice court to slap it on his ass. See if that cools him down."

Back inside, Heather and Jenny have stoked up a fire in the fireplace, turned on the music and spread a couple blankets on the floor. Both women are naked on the blankets. Heather is kissing Jenny, one hand on Jenny's belly. Begin tugging at my clothes as I stride to the shower.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License