"Sir, your daughter said no sugar."

"She's my step-daughter and she's a c.u.n.t. You want your show-give me something sweet."

Give it to him. They already fired me, what else can they do? She searched through her purse, locating a miniature York Peppermint Patty. "How's this?"

Before she could lay out her terms for the exchange, the old man s.n.a.t.c.hed the candy from her hand, peeled off the wrapper, and popped the quarter-size chocolate snack into his mouth.

"So, you'll talk to your daughter about my show, right? Right, Mr. Cabot?"

The old man's face turned red.

"Sir, are you all right? Mr. Cabot?" Nancy's heart beat wildly in her chest. "Oh, geez -- please tell me you're not a diabetic."

He gasped in silence, his face turning red.

"Oh my G.o.d, you're choking!" She patted him on the back, then gave him a vicious slap between his shoulder blades.

The unchewed, partially melted dark chocolate peppermint patty flew out of Mr. Cabot's mouth -- along with the old man's hearing aid and his dentures -- everything splattering in the plastic bowl of green pea soup.

"Oh, G.o.d . . .I am so sorry. Can you breathe? Mr. Cabot?"

The old man was breathing and fiddling with the iPad, cranking up the volume.

Using his plastic spoon, Nancy attempted to fish his teeth and hearing aid out of the soup when she heard Oliva and Peter approaching from down the hall. On the verge of a nervous breakdown, she stuck her hand in the bowl, retrieving the two objects, hiding them behind her back just as the female CEO led her boy-toy back inside the conference room.

Olivia took one of her father's paper napkins and wiped lipstick from Peter's neck. "It would seem Lady Luck is on your side, Dr. Beach. We can't syndicate Dr. Laura until April fifteenth, and Peter feels it would be easier to keep you in your time slot than reshuffle the deck again in three months."

"Oh G.o.d, thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I promise my next Arbitron numbers will kick a.s.s."

"Then getting a new job in April should be that much easier for you." Olivia turned to Peter. "Darling, I'm late for my pedicure. Do me a favor and handle things with that wacko psychic and the vegan yoga instructor, then see to it that my father is dropped off at his new retirement home."

"Of course."

Olivia Cabot slung her purse over her shoulder and left.

Nancy quickly followed her out.

Peter Soderblom used the conference table intercom. "Lynnie, you can send the gypsy in." He turned to Mr. Cabot. "This shouldn't take long . . . Oh, geez."

Old man Cabot's dentures were hanging upside-down in his mouth, his left ear oozing gobs of green pea soup and a chocolate mint.

PATEL.

It was after eleven by the time Jacob arrived at work, having spent the morning cleaning up doggy diarrhea.

His supervisor, Sanjay Patel intercepted him on his way to his desk. "My uncle wishes to see you in his office right away."

Great. Can this day get any worse? Leaving his thirty-two ounce soda and chocolate doughnut on his desk, he followed a short corridor past the supply room to a closed door bearing a bra.s.s name plate: PATEL.

Amir Patel was the senior manager of i-Guru USA. Jacob had met the man only once, when he interviewed for the job. He had never been invited into his supervisor's office.

He knocked, then entered.

The rectangular office was more Buddhist monastery than office, its walls covered by purple velvet drapes, its white marble floor cl.u.s.tered with enormous colorful pillows. The only office furnishings were a curved gla.s.s desk and wicker chair which occupied the near right corner of the room. The desk was barren, save for a laptop and an emerald-shaded bra.s.s banker's lamp.

"Remove your shoes, please." Amir Patel was seated with his back to Jacob on an Indian rug, facing the front wall curtain. Incense burned from a gla.s.s holder by his feet.

Jacob shrugged. Kicking off his sandals, he approached the short, balding brown-skinned Hindu, his moist bare feet squeaking on the marble floor.

The middle-aged Indian was dressed in a black tennis warm-up. "Sit and pray with me, Jacob."

"What are we praying for?"

"Enlightenment."

Jacob flopped into a seated position. "Sorry I was late. Domestic problem. See, I brought home this dog and-"

"Apologize with your silence." Patel pressed a small remote control by his left foot, causing the front velvet curtains to part-revealing an altar and the five foot high statue of a Buddha-bellied, four-armed human possessing the head of an elephant.

Jacob took one look at the Hindu deity and expelled a blood-curdling scream.

"What is it? What is wrong?"

"Shut the curtain!"

Patel hit the switch.

Jacob rolled onto his back, hyperventilating.

"Are you in need of medical attention?"

"I . . . don't . . . like . . . elephants."

"Ganesha is not an elephant. He is one of the five prime Hindu deities."

"Dude, I'm not praying to Babar the Elephant or any other pachyderm."

"Who do you pray to?"

"Geez, I don't know. G.o.d, I suppose. I'm not very religious."

"One can be spiritual without being religious. Spirituality is the act of connecting with the Creator. We do this through prayer. Prayer itself is the perfect belief in a higher power."

"I'm not into praying."

"Perhaps this is why you are so consumed with fear."

"That's a little harsh," Jacob said, sitting up. "So I'm a little uneasy around elephants-big deal. Amputees rattle me-can't help that. The hydrophobia comes from nearly drowning in a sprinkler when I was eleven."

"Is that everything?"

"Yes. Actually, no. I was beat-up in seventh grade by Gertrude Mulder, which explains the Dutchphobia, but again that one could have led to a fear of women which, thank G.o.d, I don't have. Batman was afraid of bats, so we have that in common. And I happen to think my fear of constipation helps me to maintain a balanced diet, so that's a good thing."

"Your logic is baffling. Your diet would kill half of Jakarta."

"I used to suffer from Lachanophobia which stemmed from my mother threatening to home school me if I didn't finish my veggies. That pa.s.sed when I was sixteen."

"Are you on drugs?"

"I was on Thorazine after the whole deal at Lehman Brothers, but I stopped using it after it led to a fear of leprosy."

"Enough!" Patel grabbed Jacob by his wrist. "None of these fears are real, they are symptoms. This morning I prayed to Ganesha, asking him if I should replace you. Ganesha helped me to recognize the true cause of your fears."

"Who's Ganesha?"

Patel motioned to the curtain.

"You asked a statue of Babar the Elephant if you should fire me?"

"Ganesha is the Lord of success and destroyer of evils and obstacles, things you are clearly lacking in your life."

"What'd the elephant say?"

"Please stop calling Ganesha an elephant!" Patel drew a soothing breath. "Anger is the cause of your fear. Anger causes heat. Heat rises to the head. Tell me about your upbringing. What were your parents like?"

"My father died when I was young."

"And your mother?"

"She lived."

Patel stood, standing before him. "Jacob, do you know why so many American companies outsource their I.T. departments to India?"

"Because it's cheaper?"

"Yes. But it is also because Indian culture promotes tranquility while American culture thrives on being reactive. In order to succeed, a computer tech must know how to deal with irate, irrational customers. When it comes to a.n.a.lyzing and fixing computers there is no one better than yourself. When it comes to dealing with people you are a hothead. Therefore, you will either learn to control your anger or you will find another job. Am I clear?"

"Yes, sir."

JACOB'S CELL PHONE rang the moment he left his boss's office. "Nancy?"

"Did you have the floor cleaned?"

"It's clean."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I cleaned it."

"What about the dog?"

"I left him in the garage with the door cracked open."

"So you've decided to keep it?"

"I'm putting an ad in the paper to give him away."

"Have it your way."

"What does that mean? h.e.l.lo? Nancy?" Jacob hung up.

b.i.t.c.h SESSION.

Monday's broadcast crawled into its third and final hour. Nancy remained at the microphone-a captain sinking her own ship.

She had spent her first hour discussing the recent a.s.sault in Deerfield Beach, but with few details and no practical experience of her own, the topic had dead-ended rather quickly. In hour-two she had opened the phone lines to discuss any topic on the listeners' minds, but there were only three callers one being Lynnie, who was pushing for a blind date show with her gardener as the top prize.

Heading into the last hour, she decided to come clean with her audience.

"So that's the story, guys. Dr. Beach is officially beached unless I can get my ratings up. I'm willing to talk about anything, so give us a call at 561-222-WOWF, or you can text star-WOWF on your mobile phone. Trish, do we have any callers on the line?"

Trish was in the control room, reading the Help Wanted ads. She shook her head then returned to the newspaper.

Nancy groaned. "Hour number three, and still no callers. Is there anybody out there with a pulse? I realize it's Monday . . .want to know how my Monday started? It started when my live-in boyfriend's two thousand pound German Shepherd tore apart my brand-new throw-pillow, chewed the heel off of my new Tory Birch flats, and diarrhea'd all over my hallway. Want to join the b.i.t.c.h hour, call me at 561-222-WOWF, or you can text star-WOWF on your mobile phone. Woof, woof, woof."

Trish knocked at the gla.s.s part.i.tion.

"Will wonders never cease, we actually have a caller. This is Dr. Beach, what's your b.i.t.c.h?"

"Hi, Dr. Beach. I'm a first-time caller. Actually, I've never listened to your show before. I happened to be flipping thru the dial when I heard you say something about a German Shepherd. We breed Shepherds. They're wonderful dogs."

"Yes, well I don't plan to keep ours very long. In fact, when I get home tonight I'm telling my boyfriend he needs to choose which b.i.t.c.h he wants to live with."

Trish held up another sign.

"Line two from Boca. Speak."

"Hi, Dr. Beach. It sounds to me like the problem's your boyfriend, not the dog."

"Very astute, Boca. Actually, it's not my dog, it's his dog and they have a lot in common. Neither one of them listens, they're both slobs, and they both smell like wet carpet. Line three from Wellington, you're on the air with Dr. b.i.t.c.h, er . . . Beach."

"You're not a dog lover, are you?"

"Not true. I like small foofie dogs. Big dogs p.o.o.p big t.u.r.ds and chew up the furniture. Then again, so does my boyfriend."

"Well, you have to train them."