Great, Wade thought. I'll be drinking alone tonight. "Later."

"Hey, Wade...don't worry about me, okay?"

Wade stopped and turned at the door.

"I'm not cracking up. It's just that I've got something going right now. A quest, a cleansing. Like the Sartre novel."

Not that Sartre s.h.i.t again, Wade fretted. The f.u.c.ker's been dead ten years and he's still f.u.c.king up people's lives.

Jervis gulped smoke and continued. "Don't worry about me. You and Tom are my best friends. Just trust me on this, okay?"

"Sure, Jerv. We're always around if you want to talk."

Wade went back to his own room. He didn't like any of this. It was bad enough to lose a friend to outside forces, but inside forces were worse. They were the ones that tore you apart.

He felt depressed. The whole day had been depressing, cleaning toilets, mopping floors. Being s.h.i.t on by Officer Prentiss hadn't exactly livened him up either. He was getting himself a bottle of Adams when he heard footsteps in the hall.

He ducked out and saw Tom disappear into his room.

"Hey! Hey, Tom! Are we..."

Tom's door closed. Had he been carrying something under his arm? It looked like a briefcase or something.

Wade strode down the hall, pushed open Tom's door. "You must need a hearing aid. Are we going downtown tonight or what?"

Tom wasn't in the room. Wade looked around slowly. He was sure he'd seen Tom enter, or at least he thought he was sure. He checked the bathroom, the closet. Tom wasn't here.

Wade sputtered back to his room. The hall was dark; maybe Tom had gone to the exit stairs at the end of the hall, or maybe it had been someone else, a new student coming on. Or maybe- Or maybe Lysol fumes are making me see things, he finished.

He had to find something to do tonight-there were only a few more days before cla.s.ses started. Call up an old flame, he decided. s.h.i.t, he had enough old flames to start the Chicago fire. There were lots of girls who'd drop everything this minute to go out with him. He called Melissa over on the Hill, a gal who really knew her stuff. "Melissa, baby! This is Wade. Sorry I didn't return your call the other day, but you know how it is."

"No, Wade, I don't. So tell me. How is it?"

"Well, you know, babe. I've been busy."

"Yeah, I heard. Sorry, I don't go out with toilet cleaners."

"I-I-"

Click.

Next number. Wendy. Yeah. Real hot stuff. "Wendy, baby! This is Wade. You want to go out tonight? Dinner, a few drinks, a little cruising around in the Vette?"

"Well," she said. "How about...no?"

"What do you mean no? We went out a lot last semester."

"You didn't clean toilets last semester either. What gall!"

Wade hung up. Don't get discouraged, he thought slowly.

Wade got discouraged. Quickly.

He tried six more girls and struck out six more times. n.o.body wanted to go out with guys who cleaned toilets-they'd all read the paper. In one day he'd gone from status symbol to comedy symbol.

The phone rang, a further mocking shrill. "Toilet Cleaners, Inc.," he answered. "You flub 'em, we scrub 'em."

Silence like reluctance stretched across the line. Then a dryly s.e.xy woman's voice inquired, "Is this Wade St. John?"

"Yes, it is, or what's left of him."

A long pause. Then: "This is Lydia Prentiss."

Now it was Wade's turn to pause. Hang up! Hang up! his thoughts barked. Don't talk to the b.i.t.c.h! Hang up!

But he couldn't. Somehow, he simply...couldn't.

"You're lucky you caught me," he said. "I was just about to go out for some 'joyriding through life on a silver platter.' You know, a 'spoiled rotten rich brat' like me tends to keep active. Must be all that 'family money and bulls.h.i.t' keeps a guy slick. This is quite a surprise, though. I didn't know the 'bottom of the barrel' had a listing in the phone book. What can I do for you?"

Her voice faltered in s.n.a.t.c.hes. "Mr. St. John, I'm calling to..." She sighed, almost forlornly. "I feel terrible about the things I said to you this morning."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, I really do." She actually sounded choked up. "I don't know what got into me. I had a really bad day in the first place. I got in an argument with my boss, then you walked in and I took it all out on you. I'm really sorry."

"In other words, you're...apologizing?"

"Yes," she said.

Hmm. This could be interesting. "Well, it just so happens that I'm a very forgiving kind of guy, and, yes, I accept your apology."

"Thank you," she uttered.

"But of course apologies are just rhetoric, just talk, and talk lacks meaning. Don't you agree?"

"Well-"

"And the best way for you to prove the meaning of your apology is to go out with me. Tonight. So what time do I pick you up?"

Now her pause raced for an exit. "I don't think that would be a very good idea."

"Oh, I see," Wade said. "You're just apologizing to clear your conscience."

"It's not that. It's-"

"I know. You'd sooner drink your own urine than go out with me. Who writes your stuff, by the way? Rickles?"

"No, please. I..."

"That's all right, I accept your apology anyway. Good night."

Wade calmly hung up. He dropped his empty Adams bottle into the trash compactor and got himself another. When the phone rang again, he answered, "Joe's Used Silver Platters. May I help you?"

"I'll go out with you," Lydia Prentiss said.

"Smart girl. Where do you live?"

"I'll just meet you someplace."

"All right. The Exham Inn? Nine o'clock?"

"That's fine," she said. "I'll see you then."

Confidence returned. He busied to get ready. Who knew? Perhaps the day wouldn't be a complete catastrophe after all.

The dark office tingled in the Supremate's influence. Tom liked that. He liked the dark and its dim silver edge.

Hope this is the right stuff. Botching his first a.s.signment was no way to begin an eternal relationship. Eternal. The word seemed to glow. I give you strength, the Supremate had promised. Wisdom. Eternal life.

Besser hadn't been pleased with Tom's methods. "Sloppy," he complained. "We can't afford that, not this early." He grumbled further, flipping through the folders. "Be more careful in the future. At this stage, an influx of police would cause problems."

Tom didn't understand. "Who cares about the police? The Supremate has made us immortal."

"You, yes. But not Winnie and me."

Tom gave that one some thought. It didn't add up.

"You're one to talk, Dudley, about being careful." Winnifred Saltenstall sat back in a chair. She looked bored. Her hand moved idly beneath her dress. Is that all she ever does? Tom wondered.

Besser's hog jowls tensed. "What do you mean by that?"

Winnie laughed. "Look at the mess you left at the agro site. Talk about sloppy. You left footprints, bloodstains. You didn't even pick up the empty bullets. I heard my husband talking to White about it. He's got that new police officer working on it. She used to be an evidence technician."

"White's just pacifying the dean," Besser argued. "He's a brownnose; the police have nothing, and even if they did, White would bury it. He knows a campus murder would jeopardize his job."

"You better hope so, Dudley-"

Tom smiled at their silly bickering.

"-and would you please send that thing away," she was saying.

It took Tom a moment to catch on. She means me, doesn't she? Send that thing away. Me.

"Don't be unkind, Winnie. Tom's part of the family now."

"I'm sorry, but it's unnerving," she fussed. "Tell it to go."

Tom didn't like being called an it or a thing. He looked at her very blankly. He wondered. He just wondered.

Besser was pretending not to be on the spot, the fat, no b.a.l.l.s wimp. Tom knew who wore the real pants in that relationship. Besser just said: "Winnie and I, and the sisters, of course, have to get Penelope ready. Things didn't work out, the poor girl. It couldn't be helped, so there's no reason to feel bad about it."

I could care less, Tom thought.

"Meet us back here in an hour," Besser instructed.

"Yes, sir, an hour. No problem."

"Oh, and Tom?"

"Yes, sir?"

Besser's bald spot gleamed. "Bring a shovel."

CHAPTER 14.

She's not going to show, Wade felt convinced. The Mitch.e.l.l's Brewery clock over the mantel showed 9:15. He should've known.

He sat sipping an Adams at the upstairs rail. Several girls sauntered in. They looked at him and immediately burst into laughter. "Hey, Wade!" one called out. "How's the new job-"

"-cleaning toilets!" added a second.

"-for minimum wage!" finished a third.

"Laugh it up," he muttered. He didn't even care anymore; there was no more face left to save. His depression rose to new peaks.

When Lydia Prentiss walked in, Wade didn't even notice her-that is, he noticed the full tilt blonde who stood scanning the bar, he just didn't realize it was her. She stood skintight in stone washed black jeans and scarlet high heels, and a bright yellow tube top which her b.r.e.a.s.t.s filled to its physical limit. Then she spotted him and walked up.

"h.e.l.lo, Mr. St. John."

"Woe ah!" Wade said.

"Sorry I'm late. I don't have a car so I took a cab."

"Hemmina, hemmina, uh," Wade said. "Let's get a booth. It's more private."

"Okay."

On the way to the rear booths, Wade stepped on his shoelace, tripped, and fell. Heads turned, some chuckles rose up. Suddenly Wade was the town fool.