"Acapulco."

THREE TIME ZONES away, Sandra Beach stretched out in her private tub of mud, fresh lemon slices covering her eyes. "I'm staying at the Las Brisas resort as a guest of my new friend, Fahd Al-Khatani."

"You're dating an Arab?"

"He's a Saud and he's charming. We met on the cruise ship; he saw me whack my Chinese man-friend with a badminton racket and said he had to have me."

"Mother!"

"Relax. He's not kidnapping me . . ." She peeked out from behind a lemon peel, "are you kidnapping me, Fahd?"

The naked mocha-skinned man in the next mud tub over laughed. "Not yet, Sandra."

"Fahd says not yet. So darling, are you pregnant?"

"G.o.d, no. Why would I be pregnant, mother, I'm not even married."

"Who cares? It's been thirty years since I held an infant in my arms, now be a good daughter and make me some grandchildren. I'd ask Lana, but your sister's ovaries are as useless as t.i.ts on a bull. t.i.ts on a bull . . . that pretty much describes Jan."

"Jeanne. And I'm not ready for kids."

"Well, when do you think you might be ready? You're not getting any younger. Your biological clock's ticking faster than a Muslim's vest . . . no offense, Fahd."

"None taken, my sweet."

The dog barked, wagging his tail as he charged out of the kitchen to greet Jacob.

"Mom, I gotta run. Call me in a few days . . . just so I know you're not being held captive." She hung up as Jacob flopped down in one of the kitchen chairs, exhausted.

"You look tired. How was work?"

"Lousy. I hate Sat.u.r.day shifts."

"How did it go last night?"

"The gig? Not well. My material wasn't quite suited for my audience."

"You didn't get home until three in the morning."

"I got into an argument at the bar with Rush Limbaugh."

"Rush Limbaugh was there?"

"Yeah. I'm thinking of using him as my next dummy. You can pretty much say any stupid s.h.i.t and get away with it if you're Rush Limbaugh."

"What happened with Ruby Kleinhenz?"

Jacob averted her eyes. "Nothing. She hosted the event, I barely saw her. Anyway, the fence is paid for, so that's that."

"Good thing, too. Your dog attacked a neighbor tonight."

"What?"

"I took Sam out for a walk and he growled at a jogger. He would have bitten him had I not had him on a choker chain."

"Maybe the guy startled him? Maybe Sam was protecting you?"

"The man was jogging, Jacob. Your dog went after him. Just remember what I told you. Sam's on probation. If he goes after anyone else you'll have to get rid of him."

SPEED b.u.mPS.

Nancy stood at the dais, gazing around the lecture hall. From a high of several hundred attendees, her weekly W.O.M.B. "rebirth sessions" had dwindled to less than fifty. And the lukewarm energy exuded in today's session did not bode well for next week.

Desperate for answers, she decided to skip the last workshop and find out why things were going south.

"Ladies, tell me what's happening. Why is our attendance dropping? Is it mornings? Would it be easier if we held an evening session, say around eight o'clock?"

A few murmurs. And then a white woman in her fifties stood, egged on by her two companions. "For me, mornings are better. The problem I think a lot of us are having is with your advice. It works for a few days, maybe a week, and then things start to revert. My husband's great right before we go at it, but a few hours later he's back on the couch while I'm cleaning out the pantry. I can't be licking his b.a.l.l.s twenty-four/seven."

A few ladies applauded in agreement.

Another woman stood. "I'm tired of always pleasing my Y. Why can't he please me?"

"By please, I a.s.sume you mean s.e.xually?"

"h.e.l.l, yeah. Why should I be the one always trying to get him off? I'd trade a good o.r.g.a.s.m and a back rub for him s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up my laundry any day."

The other women nodded and applauded.

Nancy held up her hands, desperate to stave off the anarchy. "You can have that. You can have it all. A man who wants to please you; a partner who speaks to you with respect. Next week we begin the real training, ladies-the serious stuff that will turn your Ys into Stepford husbands and boyfriends and fiances. Best of all, if you bring a friend there's no charge for you or your guests. In fact, next week's session is absolutely free to everyone, because you're going to be so excited about what I'll be revealing and how it will change your lives that you'll gladly pay double in two weeks. A preview of what's to come will be delivered on my radio show this week, so keep listening. Sound good? Yes?"

Mild applause. A few encouraging nods.

Nancy ended the session, then hustled to the exit to say her good-byes.

Pete Soderblom was the last one in line. He smiled, wiggling his index finger in the direction of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "Beep . . . beep . . . beep."

"What's that supposed to be?"

"It's my bulls.h.i.t detector. Your ship's sinking fast, Dr. Nancy, and you haven't a clue how to fix it."

"You're wrong. This was nothing more than a speed b.u.mp. You watch-after next week it'll be standing-room-only again."

"Hope you're right because I spoke to Dr. Laura's agent this morning . . . he sounded real anxious to sign a syndication deal."

"Don't-" Her cell phone reverberated with a new text: NANCY-DOG TRAINER'S NAME IS SPENCER. CALL HIM AT 551-236-6879. TELL HIM I REFERRED YOU. KISSES.-JEANNE "Ha! Speak of the devil. That was my relationship expert a.s.suring me we'll be getting together this week to organize our new training . . . I mean, strategy. You watch-by the time I'm done, Dr. Laura will be blurbing my book . . . on your station, of course."

SPENCER.

The white van labeled K-9 KINDERGARTEN wove through the neighborhood, parking curbside at the designated address. Climbing out of the vehicle was a lanky Englishman in his mid-sixties, with a salt-and-pepper colored mustache and short-cropped hair, dressed from his cap to his army boots in desert camouflage. Striding up the driveway to the front door, he paused, tilting his head like an engaged canine to hear the dog barking out back.

Good hearing, though certainly not great. Lacks training. Too deep to be a Poodle or Bearded Collie. My guess . . . German Shepherd. And a lazy one at that.

Proceeding to the front door, he knocked, then stood at ease with hands behind the small of his back.

Nancy opened the door.

"Ms. Beach? Sargent-Major Spencer Botchin, retired. Formerly of the British Canine patrol, reporting as requested. German Shepherd?"

"Thanks, but I already have one."

"Indeed. By its bark I'm guessing a male, forty-nine to fifty kilos . . . about a hundred and ten pounds."

"I'm impressed. Would you like to come in, or can you train him psychically?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Never mind. Please come in. He's had a little training already. He can sit and give you his paw."

Spencer was incredulous. "Sit and give his paw? What's next? Balancing on a high-wire while carrying an umbrella?"

"No. I just meant . . ."

"Never mind all that. Show me the dog."

Nancy led him through the house to the kitchen where Sam was leaping at the sliding gla.s.s door.

"Ah, yes . . . I see he's mastered the scratching at the back door trick."

"That's why I called you. Should I get his box of treats?"

"Treats? My dear Ms. Beach, this is a German Shepherd, an animal of extreme intelligence, bred to serve man. I don't know who the devil trained it, but if it were up to me, they'd be drawn and quartered! Come."

"Excuse me?"

"Come. With me. Quickly." Spencer led her back out the front door and down the driveway to his van. He opened the rear doors, revealing a cage holding a fearsome German Shepherd. Twenty pounds lighter and not nearly as bulky as Sam, the dog barked viciously, its snout curled back, exposing every fanged tooth.

Spencer unlocked the cage, sending Nancy backing away in fear.

"No worries, she's trained to respond that way. Tilda, come!"

Tilda jumped down from her cage and sat on all four paws by Spencer's right heel, the dog's weight on its feet, not its belly, the snarling personality completely doused.

"We call this the ready position. From here, we'll proceed with a small demonstration." Spencer walked down the sidewalk alone. Fifty feet away, he yelled, "Tilda, heel!"

Tilda sprang to her feet and hustled to Spencer's right flank.

The trainer walked toward Nancy, the dog keeping pace. When Spencer turned, the dog turned with him. When he stopped the dog stopped all without looking.

"Tilda, stay."

Tilda returned to her ready position on all fours.

Spencer left the dog and walked over to Nancy. "Tilda, come!"

Tilda raced over, then a.s.sumed the four paw ready position at Spencer's feet.

"Tilda, house!"

Tilda sprinted back to the van and jumped inside her cage.

"Wow. I mean . . . wow! I never imagined a dog could be trained like that."

"That, madam, is what discipline and proper training can achieve. No babying the animal, no bribing it with cookies or any of that childish rubbish, just hard work and praise. Ready to begin?"

"Teach me, Obi Wan."

DOG TRAINING THE AMERICAN MALE.

LESSON THREE: UTILIZING THE LEASH.

Sam dragged Nancy out of the house by his leash, the dog homing in on his would-be-b.i.t.c.h like a bee to honey.

Tilda remained in her cage, gazing at the big male with feigned interest.

Spencer took the leash from Nancy. Gripping the chain close to Sam's collar, he yanked hard, placing the dog in a seated position.

The German Shepherd whined, but didn't move.

"Now pay attention, Ms. Beach."

"Nancy."

"Very well . . . Nancy. All dogs descended from Canis lupus, the common wolf. As such, all dogs maintain an inherent pack mentality, with each dog vying to find its place within the pack. In Sam's case, your family is his pack, and he obviously believes he's the alpha dog. That must change. Our first step, therefore, will be to put him in his proper place using the walk. I see you have Sam on a choker chain."

"I was told it's the best."

"Yes. And I was told Saint Nick climbs down the chimney every Christmas to deliver toys to all the good little tots in the world-only my family lived in a fourth floor flat with bars on the windows, rendering the entire story a load of rubbish. p.r.o.ng collars are better, but this will do for starters, the proper position for a choker collar being high up on the dog's neck, like so. Now watch what I do and say. Sam, heel!"

Positioning Sam on his right, Spencer walked to the next mailbox and turned around, occasionally yanking on the chain to keep the dog close. "Good boy, there's a good boy . . . heel, Sam. Good boy."

The dog trainer walked the route three times, ending the exercise by putting Sam into a sit position.

"All right, Nancy, take command. Remember, dogs can sense weakness. You are the alpha."

"I am the alpha."