"Ball four, take your base."

Boos from the home stands rent the humid afternoon air as Wade Cope walked the bases loaded.

"Time!" Vinnie stood, pulled his sweaty underwear from the crack of his a.s.s and left the dugout, trotting out to the pitcher's mound where his son was waiting. "Getting hot out here. How's the arm holding up, kiddo?"

"Dad, please don't take me out. Marie McGuire's watching and it's embarra.s.sing."

"Cheerleader Marie? No s.h.i.t?" Vin searched the stands.

"Dad, don't look."

"Okay, but be honest-are you focused on the catcher's mitt or the girl?"

"The mitt, I swear. I can't help it, my fastball's wild today."

"That's because you're rushing your pitches. Listen to me carefully . . . are you listening? Before you throw each pitch, I want you to take a slow deep breath, count to five, and imagine the ball pounding the catcher's glove. Can you do that for me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good man." Vincent Cope patted his son on the rump, and then walked back to the dugout-only to be greeted by a catcall from Ernie Whitman's father, Bruce, a Palm Beach County trial lawyer.

"Hey, Doc, we all know he's your kid, but he's killing us. How about replacing junior before this game gets out of hand."

"You gave your wife genital herpes, Whitman, but she hasn't replaced you. Now sit your a.s.s down and support the team." Jacka.s.s . . .

Whitman's already sunburned face turned red. A few parents smiled, a few voiced their outrage.

Vincent Cope could give a s.h.i.t. He'd been coaching Little League games since T-Ball and all he ever asked in return was for the boys' parents to alternate bringing drinks and snacks to every game and to keep things positive.

Whitman's got some set of b.a.l.l.s attacking my kid. Maybe I'll use syrup of ipecac instead of peppermint in his wife's next Gynnie Gusher . . . see how much he likes going down on her then.

Vin entered the dugout bench, greeted by his brother's knuckle punch. "Well played. Your coaching style reminds me of Ghandi."

"Let the j.e.r.k.-.o.f.f. sue me. And you can bet the house Wade strikes out the next batter. So what's up with you and Nancy?"

"Honestly, Vin, I'm seeing a side of her I never saw before . . . and I like it."

"Like what? Wait . . . you mean s.e.x?"

The bench players turned.

"Eyes, gentlemen."

"Strike one!"

"Atta boy, Wade." Vin lowered his voice. "Talk to me, pal, and don't hold back any sordid details."

"All of a sudden she's really into s.e.x; we've done something kinky almost every night for the past two weeks."

"Kinky? Like what? Bondage? Whips and chains?"

"Yes, chains. Last night after I finished the laundry, we took Sam for a walk-and she hooked me up to a leash. It was kind of weird at first, but it really made me h.o.r.n.y."

"Strike two!"

"Nice kiddo." Vin turned back to Jacob. "Go back. Did you just say you walked the dog after you did the laundry? Why the h.e.l.l are you doing the laundry?"

"It's no big deal. I help out and-"

"-and she gives you s.e.x. That little vixen . . . she's out to break your spirit as a free-thinking man."

"You're crazy."

"Strike three!"

"Good job, Wade. One more, baby, do it again." Vin grabbed his brother by the arm. "Crazy? She's playing you like a violin. Haven't you ever read Sun Tzu? The Art of War?"

"Was he a s.e.x therapist?"

"Sun Tzu was a warrior. Twenty five hundred years ago he wrote the ultimate guide to ensure victory in the battlefield. All warfare is based on deception. Hold out bait to entice the enemy. Feign disorder and crush him. Wake up, pal. Nancy has your b.a.l.l.s in the palm of her hand and she's squeezing the man-juice right out of you."

"I don't believe it."

"That's because you don't want to believe it. Like it or not, you're being conditioned. All this s.e.x-it'll start tapering off, only you'll still be doing the laundry every week. You're like the lazy frog relaxing in a pot of cool water simmering on a stove. Everything seems wonderful to you now, only the water will gradually get warmer and warmer until it's boiling your skin off while you're happily cooking with a stupid grin on your face. What else does she have you doing? Wait . . . let me guess. Taking out the trash? Doing the dishes?"

"Yeah . . . Tonight I'm supposed to help her faux paint the powder room."

"That heartless b.i.t.c.h. We've got to do something now, Jacob, or by next week you'll be watching Martha Stewart and subscribing to the Home Shopping Network."

FAUX PAINT.

Nancy, dressed in a see-thru negligee, slipped on a pair of oven mitts and removed a brisket from the oven. Using a serving fork, she placed the steaming-hot roast beef on a cutting board on the counter to cool-the dog hovering close, watching her every move.

Her cell phone rang. She tossed aside the oven mitts and answered. "Dr. Beach, can I help you?"

"Nancy, Pete Soderblom. That was some crowd you attracted this morning."

"It's only the beginning. By next week we'll need a bigger room."

"Let's hope so. I'm actually calling to tell you your show picked up two new sponsors this afternoon. Keep this up and come July first we may actually renew your contract."

Nancy's eyes teared up. "That would be wonderful. Thank you."

She disconnected the call, pumping her fists. You did it! You showed those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. You-Nancy Beach, are the keeper of your own fate; you've emanc.i.p.ated yourself from the bonds of your past.

The dog suddenly became alert, wagging its tail.

Jacob entered his home, greeted by Sam. "Hey boy. Nance, I'm home." Casually strolling by the open powder room, he opened the sink cabinet and tossed the newspaper inside.

He found Nancy in the den, lying on the sofa in a s.e.xy negligee-a pint of paint dangling from her fingers.

"Welcome home, Pica.s.so. This paint's water base. After we finish the bathroom, I thought we'd paint each other."

"That sounds pretty wild, only I can't do it tonight. Mrs. Kleinhenz called; she's got two tickets to tonight's Heat playoff game and wanted to know if I wanted them . . . duh!"

"Oh. Well, sure . . . I'd love to see the game."

"Sorry, babe. I kind of already asked Vince." He checked his dive watch. "Did you want to have a quickie?"

"No, I wanted to faux paint the bathroom."

"Maybe tomorrow . . . oh, wait-tomorrow night is Ruby's event. Tell you what, why don't you just paint the bathroom without me. I gotta change." Cutting through the kitchen, he entered the master bedroom- -Nancy right behind him. "Jacob, I'm not mad, but I am a little perturbed by this."

Jacob pulled off his tee-shirt, then took a whiff beneath each arm pit. "Gonna need some deodorant. Sorry, what's perturbing you?"

"You mean besides what you just did? Blowing me off, for one thing. And since when did Mrs. Kleinhenz become Ruby?"

"I don't know. What's the difference? It's just a name."

"Is she coming on to you?"

"Come on, I'm like half her age." Jacob rubbed a deodorant stick along each armpit. "Are you asking me this because you wanted to have s.e.x? I'll be home by midnight, we can do it then."

"You think I'm having s.e.x with you after you cancelled the paint job?"

"Paint job?" He squeezed a glob of toothpaste from the tube directly into his mouth, and then brushed. "Are ru raying ra roni reron roo-"

"Just finish brushing . . . G.o.d." Placing her hands before her face, she pressed her nose and head out of her separating fingers.

Jacob rinsed out his mouth, spitting white residue across the basin. "l said, are you saying the only reason you've been initiating these wild s.e.xual fantasies is so I'd be your Stepford boyfriend?"

"Of course not."

The dog barked-a car horn honking in the driveway.

"That's Vin, gotta go." He kissed her quickly and exited the bathroom, leaving the cap off the toothpaste.

Nancy growled at her reflection in the mirror. Stay calm. Remember, behavior modification takes time. She put on her bathrobe and returned to the kitchen to eat dinner alone-only to find the slab of roasted meat gone.

"Sam, you son of a b.i.t.c.h, where the h.e.l.l are you?" She found the dog eating the remains of the brisket on the leather sofa. "Bad dog! Get out of my house!"

Nancy opened the sliding gla.s.s door, chasing the dog outside.

BLACK-TIE ELEPHANTS.

Located on seven acres of exclusive beachfront property in Lantana, Florida, the Ritz Carlton-Palm Beach is a five-star luxury hotel with the kind of amenities that catered to the upper cla.s.s.

Jacob cruised north on A1A, the Atlantic Ocean on his right as he followed the scenic two-lane roadway to the hotel entrance. He had hoped Nancy would have joined him on this his first officially paid gig, but after last night's fiasco, she had banished him to the silent treatment.

She did look s.e.xy in that negligee. Maybe you shouldn't have listened to Vin?

Stop! You need to focus on the gig. Your future clients are in tonight's audience. Do a great job, pa.s.s out your business cards, and who knows what can come from this.

It was nearly eight p.m. by the time he arrived at the entrance to the resort. The last golden rays of sunset have bled into the crimson hue of evening, the trunks of the hotel's palm trees illuminated with landscape lighting as the Volkswagen van wheezed its way around a circular entrance to the valet parking.

The valet-a Hispanic man in his forties-knocked frantically on Jacob's window. "Deliveries are on zee north side entrance."

"I'm not a delivery, I'm the entertainment."

"Jess, well we don't got any clown parking spots, so jews need to move this hunk of jit, okay?"

"Not okay. I'm a guest of Mrs. Kleinhenz-she told me to valet so I'm valeting. And be careful wth jit, jit's a cla.s.sic." Jacob turned off the engine-only the engine continued to run until it choked itself into a burst of carbon monoxide and died. He handed the valet his lucky rabbit's foot keychain, grabbed the suitcase holding the Bush dummy, and strode toward the hotel lobby in his rented tuxedo and matching black canvas Converse sneakers.

The concierge directed him to Salon A.

Chandeliers and dimmed lights, white tablecloths and waitresses circulating with tantalizing trays of hors d'oeuvres. Several hundred guests mingled in packs, the women in designer dresses, the men in their penguin suits.

Jacob accepted an offering from a waitress and filled a paper napkin with half a dozen pigs-in-a-blanket. Everywhere there's lots of piggies . . . living piggy lives. You can see them out for dinner with their piggy wives . . . clutching forks and knives to eat their bacon. Never thought I'd be back mixing it with the hoi polloi. Bet more than a few of these blue-bloods had Lehman Brothers accounts. Wonder if any of them own a comedy club?

"Jacob! Over here!" Ruby Kleinhenz was sandwiched between an older couple, waving. The fund-raiser's hostess was hanging out of a black satin dress, the neckline plunging clear down to her exposed navel, the fabric defying the laws of gravity in order to keep from revealing more than thirty percent of her tan cantaloupe-sized b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

John Lennon was right. Women should be obscene and not heard.

"Jacob Cope, these are my friends, Richard and Lois Babc.o.c.k-"

The blood rushed from his face.

"-the Babc.o.c.ks own Babc.o.c.k Industries; they're one of our biggest donors."

Badc.o.c.k? Richard . . . as in d.i.c.k Babc.o.c.k? Holy s.h.i.t, don't speak.

The silver-haired gentleman with the dark pencil-thin mustache offered his hand. "Nice to meet you . . . Jacob, was it?"

Jacob shoved the pig-in-a-blanket in his mouth and shook Mr. Babc.o.c.k's hand. "Res. Rice roo reat roo, too."

"And what line of work are you in?"

Jacob swallowed the glob of food in his mouth. "Entertainment. Comedy, actually."

Ruby looped her arm around his elbow. "Jacob's my after-dinner entertainment."

Smiling nervously, Jacob held up the suitcase. "Ventriloquist. So, Richard, what does Badc.o.c.k-" he cleared his throat, feeling Lois's eyes on him, "-Babc.o.c.k Industries make?"

"We're into hi-tech instruments."

"Like synthesizers?"

Mr. Babc.o.c.k chuckled. "More like the kind of instrument you'd find on an Apache helicopter."