"And Yoko fills them?"

"You j.a.c.k.-.o.f.f. into a towel, I use a s.e.xy receptacle. Either way, it's just an expulsion of bodily fluids."

"Yeah, but I don't lie around and talk to the towel afterward."

"I was practicing my ventriloquism."

"With your d.i.c.k in her mouth? That's one h.e.l.l of an act. Where do you even get something like this?"

"Celebrity s.e.x Dolls. I had to special order her."

"She does have nice hooters. Three inputs?"

"It's standard."

"Is she shaved down there or is her bush big and matted like a Zulu warrior?"

"What is it you want, Vincent?"

"Bad news. Helen's mother's visiting in January and will be with us through Pa.s.sover. I've been ordered to deliver your thirty day eviction notice."

"It's a big guest house, I don't see a problem. Why do I need to leave?"

"Are you mental?"

"I happen to like Helen's mother."

"Listen, s.p.a.ce cadet . . . you, Yoko, and my mother-in-law playing Three's Company in my guest house-it ain't gonna happen. And don't you have to be at work?"

"I'm on the twelve-to-six shift. Don't you have to be at work?"

"I'm a gynecologist and my own boss. I don't punch a clock, I am the clock."

"I am the walrus, coo coo g'joob."

"You're an idiot. Clean this place up, it looks like a crime scene. And hide that stupid doll; I don't want my sons seeing it. Wade's just hitting p.u.b.erty, it could ruin him. Back in my day, all I had to get off with was dad's old National Geographics."

VINNIE.

The black 2002 Ford Explorer headed south on State Road 7, its driver handling the wheel with her left hand while her right thumb dug into her neoprene shorts, desperate to scratch the incessant itch originating from her crotch. Lana was right; I should have taken care of this long ago.

Glancing out the pa.s.senger window, Jeanne Pratt searched the odd numbered addresses, locating the South Florida Gynecology Center on the southwest corner of Palmetto Park Road, directly across from a Hooters restaurant.

Hooters and cooters . . . cute.

Jeanne parked the vehicle and climbed out, checking the leather seat for stains.

BYPa.s.sING HIS RESERVED spot, Dr. Vincent Cope parked his Lexus in back of the one-story brick building two s.p.a.ces from the trash dumpster. For several minutes, the forty-one year old father of three closed his eyes, listening to Howard Stern on his Sirius radio.

Helen was right; Jacob had become a squatter in their guest home, but what his wife refused to understand was that his kid brother had been through h.e.l.l.

Helen had put him through h.e.l.l over breakfast.

"We've been married what? Seventeen years? And in those seventeen years, Vincent, how many times have you allowed one of my relatives to use our guest house?"

"Our guest house? If you recall, it was supposed to be my office-my man cave-until you put up curtains and added a sofa bed."

"When my Aunt Milly's condo was being fumigated for roaches and she needed a place to stay for seventy-two hours, do you remember what you told her? I'll tell you what you told her-you told her the local YWCA had cots, served a great lentil soup, and if she wanted you'd be happy to arrange free water aerobic cla.s.ses."

"The woman told me she likes a good lentil soup."

"Shut up. Last year, when my mother wanted to visit during the Christmas holidays, you decided to renovate the guest house bathroom. Wade's Bar Mitzvah-new wallpaper. My sister's wedding? You had to have wood floors put in. But when your mother demands you take in your younger brother, suddenly my guest house becomes the home for wayward derelicts!"

"Helen, Jake's not a derelict, he's gifted."

"He's a mental patient!"

"True, but he's a gifted mental patient. I mean, come on, the guy was recruited by Lehman Brothers when he was nineteen. Six figure bonuses . . . the 401K-it was all tied up in stock. It's not his fault the company went bankrupt."

"We're going bankrupt supporting him!"

"Not true. Jacob's working now."

"Yeah . . . part-time. What does he do all day alone out there, other than order fast food delivery on your credit card?"

Vincent powered off the Lexus. He had opened his gynecology practice fifteen years ago when real estate was worth something and the mortgage rates were low. Then the economy had tanked and it seemed as if the insurance companies fought every patient claim. Many of his colleagues had dropped their medical malpractice insurance, getting patients to sign waiver forms; others were strictly a cash business. Vin had fought going that route, taking on extra hours to run weight-loss clinics two nights a week, but the new schedule was exhausting. Plus he coached Wade's little league baseball team, and Helen had to drive Dylan to hockey practice, and Austin had Taekwondo. By the time he got home and crawled into bed, Helen was asleep.

What kept Vincent Cope up late at night was not the two mortgages or his ever-increasing overhead, or chasing after insurance companies, it was the expenses looming ahead. Wade was fourteen, Dylan thirteen, Austin eleven. When the boys' hit the adolescent years there'd be drivers' licenses and auto insurance premiums that added up to another three to four thousand dollars a year per teen driver . . .not to mention college tuitions.

Vincent Cope laid his head back on the leather upholstery. G.o.d help me if they get into an Ivy League school . . . I wonder if I can charge Helen's mother to rent out the guest house?

Dismissing the idea, the gynecologist exited the car as a black cat scurried by and leapt into the open steel receptacle, its actions igniting a chorus of angry hisses and feline protests from within.

"Stupid cats. Quit digging through my trash that's not fish you smell!" He kicked the side of the bin then headed for the employee entrance located on the south side of the building.

His nurse pract.i.tioner, Wanda Jackson greeted him with his white lab coat and a sarcastic, "Afternoon, Dr. Cope."

"Don't exaggerate. It's only nine-twenty."

"Your first appointment was at eight."

"Mrs. Kleinhenz . . . What'd you tell her?"

"Same thing I told all the patients you blew off-that you had emergency surgery. I rescheduled Mrs. Wishnov and Mrs. Goldfarb for this afternoon during your lunch break."

"Wanda, I need my lunch break."

"Well, too bad."

"Wanda, I'm a forty-year-old man and your employer; if I say I need my lunch break then I need my lunch break."

"And I'm a forty-three-year-old divorced black woman with two kids and bunions and I say have a protein bar and an orange juice and watch your d.a.m.n Internet p.o.r.n later."

"All right . . . just keep your voice down. So how are little Trixie and Dixie?"

"Trevor's a junior in high school and Danielle just got the lead in her sixth grade musical."

"I'm sure you're very proud."

"Oh, yeah. Now I get to lay out sixty bucks a week for private singing lessons, and ya'll know my ex ain't gonna help. You and me seriously need to discuss my raise."

"Sure thing. Let's do it today during lunch." Vincent patted her on the shoulder and headed to the nurse's station. "Okay ladies, the m.u.f.fin king is here, where's my first patient?"

Nurse Kim and Nurse Dawn look at one another, covering up their giggles.

"What?"

"Room Two. A new patient. Chart's on the door."

"Oh . . . kay." Vin walked down the hall to the exam room, casually checking his pants' zipper.

Removing the chart from the bin outside the door, he scanned the information. Jeanne Pratt, age thirty-two. Yeast infection. He knocked and entered. "Ms. Pratt, I'm Dr. Cope . . . holy Lou Ferrigno-"

The naked bodybuilder with the deep tan and florescent-pink toe nails was sitting up on the exam table, the dressing gown draped over his . . . her chest.

"Sorry, doc. The exam gown didn't fit over my deltoids."

"That's because they're made for . . . I mean, no worries, as long as you're not cold. Would you excuse me for just one moment?"

Vin ducked out the door and into the corridor where his two nurses were eavesdropping. "Is this a joke? Did Dr. Berkowitz set this up?"

Nurse Kim shook her head. "So? Does she have the doughnut or the hole?"

"A hole, obviously, or she'd be seeing Berkowitz. Send Wanda in. And quit congregating."

Vin reentered the exam room. "Sorry. Since this is your first visit, I asked one of my nurses to join us-it's standard procedure. So? What kind of work do you do?"

"When I'm not competing, I run a moving company with two other female bodybuilders. Pratt, Morrison and Shear . . . PMS Movers."

"Cute. Do you have a card? I may need to hire you to move someone in about a month."

"Business or domestic?"

"Domestic. My kid brother. He's been living in my guest house."

"I hear you. My girlfriend's younger sister moved in with us over a year ago . . .what a pain in the a.s.s. Hey, maybe we should fix them up?"

The door opened and Wanda entered. "Eww. Smells like somethin' up and died in here. Mother Mary, will you look at you."

"Nurse Wanda, this is Ms. Pratt. Ms. Pratt is a female bodybuilder."

"Guess ya'll needed to have gone to medical school to figure that one out. Hey, Ms. Pratt, go on and flex-let's see what you look like angry."

"Wanda!" Vincent glared from across the room. "My apologies, Ms. Pratt. Nurse Wanda was raised by wolves; we're still breaking her in domestically."

"I don't mind. And call me Jeanne."

Wanda wrapped both hands around the naked woman's flexed right arm. "Feels like a baseball in there. I bet Dr. Cope wishes he had guns like yours."

Vin looked up from working a pair of rubber gloves over his fingers. "For your information, Wanda, I used to have arms like that. I had a choice-keep lifting or maintain the dexterity necessary to perform life-saving surgery."

"Right. Cause ya'll need skinny arms to lance hemorrhoids." Wanda adjusted the exam table's stirrups, allowing the patient to rest her bare feet in the supports, the metal housing creaking beneath the weight of her muscular spread legs. "Jeanne, can I hire ya'll to beat the s.h.i.t outta my ex-husband?"

"Hey, Whoopie Goldberg, enough." Dr. Cope adjusted his mask and leaned in. "Been fermenting a while, I see. Why is it that women who work out think they can remain in their sweaty clothes for hours at a time without risking infection."

"Guilty as charged."

"I don't want to use a speculum; the fungus has caused some inflammation around the l.a.b.i.a."

"It itches bad."

Wanda snuck a peek. "Yeech. Looks like bologna and mayo."

"I'm going to write you a prescription for pills and an ointment you'll use three times a day. If you have time, I'd also recommend a Gynnie Gusher."

"What's that?"

"It's a special bidet I invented. It allows for a deep v.a.g.i.n.al cleansing using a scented medicated flush. My patients swear by them. The gusher comes in wintergreen, peppermint, midnight cool, and baby's breath."

Wanda nodded. "With all the cheese whiz down there, I'd go with the peppermint."

"Set it up. Hey doc, what about that blind date with your brother?"

Wanda stifled a laugh. "Ya'll want to set Jacob up with Jeanne? She'll crush his head like a walnut."

"Not Jeanne. Her girlfriend's sister. Do you have a picture of her?"

"Wanda, hand me my f.a.n.n.y pack." Jeanne fished through the leather bag. Pulling out her iPhone, she quickly scrolled through a dozen photos. "Here she is. Nancy Beach. She hosts a radio show in West Palm."

Wanda inspected the image of the pet.i.te blonde woman in the Santa hat. "She's cute."

Vinnie took a look. "She is cute. Too bad she's not Asian."

"What?"

"Huh?"