"And I pray to my lord and savior that you s.h.i.t out your lower intestines."

"Hey Truman, I'm a gonna come over there and'a bare a.s.s'a your pillow."

Cabot cracked up laughing. "I love this guy."

"Truman, who's the woman?"

"Her name's Carmella and she stole my heart."

"Jesus, not another clone of mom."

"And what if she is? I miss your mother. G.o.d took her from me too soon."

"How long have you two been seeing one another?"

"We haven't dated yet. I had to get circ.u.mcised first."

"Truman, you are not marrying this woman. I forbid it."

"Try and stop me."

"I'll do one better-as CEO of Cabot Enterprises I'll cut off your money before I allow you to will it to this gold-digger."

"Ah, horses.h.i.t. As long as I'm alive I still own fifty-one percent of the corporation."

"Unless I have a doctor declare you incompetent. Getting circ.u.mcised at your age without telling anyone sure qualifies."

"She's a Jew. They liked the fat trimmed!"

Luigi let loose with another bowel movement. "Hey, Truman, that one was'a for your Jew goomah."

"You son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h!" Truman Cabot leaped out of bed, yanking out his I.V. line as he pushed his way through the curtained part.i.tion and attacked his roommate, knocking him off the port-o-potty.

NANCY EXITED THE hospital elevator. Seeing Cabot's physician speaking to a police officer, she joined him at the third floor nurses station. "Dr. Maharaj, how's Mr. Cabot doing?"

The Indian surgeon turned. "He's gone."

"What?" Nancy's heart skipped a beat. "When? How?"

"About two hours ago. I tried to reach you."

"I was in the middle of a live radio show. You told me the procedure was safe!"

"It is."

"Then how did he die? Did you hit a vein?"

"No, no-he's not dead. I meant he already left the hospital."

"Oh G.o.d, thank you. Wait . . . who drove him home?"

"His step-daughter."

The tension headache announced itself behind Nancy's right eyeball. "Was she in a good mood when she left?"

"Actually, she was quite furious. She left without signing the discharge forms."

"Oh, s.h.i.t."

"Yes. How did you know?"

"How did I know what?"

"That her dress was covered in diarrhea."

"Why was she covered in diarrhea?"

"Mr. Cabot got into a fight with another patient. The nurse said it reminded her of two angry monkeys at the zoo tossing feces at one another. Here, you need to give this to your friend." He handed her several pages of papers.

"What's this?"

"A prescription for pain, along with his post-surgical instructions. It's important he wait at least a week before taking any more v.i.a.g.r.a or he'll tear loose his st.i.tches. Ms. Beach, where are you going?"

Nancy ignored the Indian physician, rushing to catch the elevator.

IT WAS FOUR o'clock by the time Truman Cabot stepped out of his apartment. Freshly-showered, he was dressed in loose-fitting creme-colored dress pants and a black golf shirt.

The bandage around his p.e.n.i.s had been removed, his trimmed "unit" feeling airy and only a touch sore. It didn't matter; this evening was just a tease-to let his G.o.ddess know that he had transformed himself for her . . . that he had staked his claim in her future.

He pressed the b.u.t.ton to summon the elevator, checking his watch. Having taken the v.i.a.g.r.a fifteen minutes earlier, he calculated the arrival time of his antic.i.p.ated four hour "woody," wondering if his lack of foreskin would increase its perceived length.

CARMELLA COPE WAS enjoying the cool late afternoon 73-degree temperatures outside with her "entourage." The four women were dressed in their standard recreational attire (tennis skirts, sweaters, hats, and sungla.s.ses), competing in a heated game of two-on-two horseshoes.

Sylvia Krawitz underhand-tossed her horseshoe to the opposite pit, knocking loose Carmella Cope's leaner, rendering it dead. "Take that, C.C."

"Kiss my a.s.s, you old b.i.t.c.h."

Sylvia tempered her laugh as she spotted Truman Cabot crossing the putting green, making a bee-line for them. "Don't look now, but here comes Richie Rich. Did you hear why he checked into the hospital?"

"I heard."

"He looks like he means business."

"Follow my lead, Sil. Let's screw with the h.o.r.n.y old fart's mind."

"Afternoon, ladies."

Carmella offered a Cheshire cat smile. "Well, if it isn't little Lord Fauntleroy. I hear you were in the hospital getting castrated."

"Yes . . . wait, no. The b.a.l.l.s are still there. I was circ.u.mcised. I did it for you, Carmella."

"How thoughtful. Wasn't that thoughtful, Sylvia?"

"Very thoughtful. Naturally, you had it done by a mohel."

"Of course. Wait, what's a mohel?"

"A mohel is a Jewish man specifically trained to remove the male foreskin."

"I, uh . . . am sure, he was Jewish. Absolutely."

"What's his last name?"

"Mah . . . stein. Abraham Mahstein. That Jew enough for you?"

"Sylvia, your late husband was a mohel. Isn't a mohel required to suck on the wound until it stops bleeding?"

"According to Talmudic law."

"No man sucked on my wound!"

"How do you know?" Carmella asked. "Didn't they put you to sleep?"

"Yes, but it wasn't a religious procedure. The surgeon st.i.tched the wound."

Carmella shrugged. "If you didn't get snipped by a mohel, it doesn't count, does it Sylvia?"

"Not in our book. Of course, it's not too late. If you could find a Jewish man willing to perform the ceremony . . ."

Cabot looked pale. "But the wound's almost healed."

Carmella shook her head. "According to Jewish law, it's not officially healed until the st.i.tches are removed. Thank G.o.d it's not too late, eh Sil?"

"Thank G.o.d," Sylvia said, turning her head while biting her lip to keep from laughing.

"Just what are you ladies suggesting? That I allow a man to . . . to suck on my Johnson?"

"Of course not," Carmella said. "It has to be a Jewish man. Sil, who could we get to suck Truman's Johnson?"

"What about Sol?"

"Wouldn't work. Truman's Catholic. Sol keeps Kosher."

"Is Bruce Jewish?"

"Why, yes he is. And he's experienced."

"The f.a.g from New York?" Cabot felt ill. "No . . . no way, I couldn't-"

Sylvia winked at him. "Not even for a hot date with C. C. Rider?"

Carmella shot her friend a look to kill.

Cabot's eyes widened. "Friday night on my yacht. It's my birthday."

Sylvia nudged her friend. "Come on, C.C., one date for Truman's circ.u.mcision cleansing."

"How will we know if he actually went through with it?"

"Truman can take a video."

"Oh, no. No videos!"

"All right. How about Carm and I watch the ceremony?"

"Two of you, huh? Been a while since I did a . . . uhhh!" Truman Cabot doubled over in pain as a burning, stabbing sensation lanced at his enlarging p.e.n.i.s.

"Is that a yes?"

"Ahhh! Ahh!"

"What's wrong with him?"

"Hurts . . . bad!"

Sylvia pointed. "Look, Carm. He's pitching tent."

Carmella inspected the kneeling man's crotch closer. "Is that blood? Hey Truman, I think your d.i.c.k's bleeding."

Sylvia shook her head. "This is what happens when you don't use a mohel."

The ladies' two teammates approached from the opposite horseshoe pit, the fallen senior attracting a small crowd.

"Jesus G.o.d, my d.i.c.k's on fire!"

"What did he say?" squawked Esther Rabinowitz.

"He said his schmeckle's on fire." her husband, Sol yelled back.

"He's on fire? Quickly, everyone-get him into the pool!"

Seven senior citizens (two with walkers) grabbed Truman Cabot by his arms and legs, half-carrying, half-dragging the screaming millionaire across two shuffleboard courts before tossing him into the shallow end of the pool.