"Like what? Dancers? Maybe a raffle? Bring and buy-what?" Tony's face is turning red in his anger.

"Look, I only brought this up because Miss Lombard was pretty irritated at the way the Club was being run." Cher is keen to make her point.

"Are you questioning my chairmanship?"

"Of course not, Mr. Curtis."

"Sounds to me like you are. Sounds like you're blaming me for driving people away."

"Don't get so defensive."

"Hey, someone attacks, I defend-okay?"

"I just think we need an injection of something or other . . . a little light relief."

I notice Betty listening intently to the debate starting to rage around her. She looks ravishingly wholesome tonight, and after what Chuck said at the last meeting, I think I can see what he meant about her liking me. She keeps looking over at me-almost leering, in fact.

"I could always get up and tell a few jokes." Burt will jump at any and every opportunity to grandstand, and I for one am glad to see Tony ignore him completely as he casts his eyes over each one of us in turn.

"Anyone else ever hear Carole saying he was unhappy?" he asks.

"I could tell just from looking at him. The stink-breathed sc.u.m bucket." Tallulah lights a cigarette, licks her fingers, and douses the matchstick flame with them.

Tony is determined to get an answer to his question. "Did he or didn't he like the Club?"

I take a breath and slowly raise my hand. All eyes are suddenly upon me, and it makes me nervous. "Uh . . . I spoke to him, uh . . . at the last meeting, in fact. And I hate to say this, Tony, but he was pretty p.i.s.sed at the way things were being handled."

"Oh, he was, was he? And just what was offal face sobbing about, Mr. Secretary?"

Tony looms over me, and I have to think fast. "He just said he was thinking about quitting and maybe moving on. Plus he hated his media name."

"I didn't pin the 'Brain Binger' on him."

"No, but I think it kinda added to his . . . well, his overall annoyance. I think he was hoping for something more upmarket." The atmosphere at the Club has turned pretty unsavory now.

"He knows the score. You want a good nickname, you sign it on the victim. Everyone knows that."

"I'm glad he's gone. His breath stank worse than a rotting polecat." Tallulah makes a screwed-up disgusted face. "And that's doing a big disservice to polecats."

Tony sits back and chews on someone's barbecue rib, sucking the sauce from the bone so loudly that a bunch of guys across the room look over. They look like a quiz team in hopeful search of a quiz-nerdish and toothy. I notice Betty looking over at one nerd in particular, and for a moment she looks like a lioness sizing up her prey.

"Okay, so Carole's taken a hike. Big deal. Personally I'm glad to see the back of him." Tony wipes his hands along his thighs. "We don't need trash like that."

My heart rate begins to slow, and I can look forward to relaxing and enjoying the meeting once more.

"What about the others, though?"

I immediately go cold inside, and my heartbeat hits two hundred.

You can always count on Richard Burton to put his big fat foot in it. Rich the b.i.t.c.h, I call him secretly, on account of the fact that he possesses what look suspiciously like a pair of b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and this played on my mind so much that I just had to voice the very genuine concern that he is the world's first serial-killing hermaphrodite. Richard became very defensive about this-almost too defensive, in my opinion-but I'm afraid that no amount of bleating about gland trouble can make me believe otherwise.

"What about them?" I say this a little too abruptly and quickly cover myself. "Hey . . . like Tony says-who needs them?" I follow this with a little sn.i.g.g.e.r. "Who needs trash?"

"Why don't they come no more?" Richard is a small-town hick from the sticks, slow talking, slow thinking, and totally irritating. "I was real fond of Errol Flynn. He had some good things to say."

Sure he did. Like how he butchered nine men on account of their likeness to a guy who once sold him bleached meat.

I lean forward. "I don't like to tell tales, but I once heard Errol complain about the membership fee." This is a blatant lie; it was actually me who spent a lot of time moaning about it to anyone who would listen-and to be perfectly honest, I had a good point.

"Jesus!" Tony breathes out a big breath, shakes his head. "Jesus f.u.c.king H!"

The quiz nerds look over at Tony's raised voice, and when I turn back again I see that both William Holden and Burt Lancaster are now eyeing them up as potential victims. I feel like I'm watching a nature program about big jungle cats.

Cher takes a moment, gets the words right in her head before speaking them. "Maybe we need to think bigger."

Tony instantly knows where this is heading. "We've said all we're gonna say on that subject."

"Just hear me out, Mr. Curtis."

Tony claps his hands over his ears and hums to himself so he doesn't have to listen. His fingers leave barbecue sauce prints all over the side of his head. Cher is determined to ride this one out and raises her voice.

"I vote we send a message to him."

The other members all look at Cher, and none of them like what she is saying. We have had this debate over and over, and it seems that Cher won't rest until she wins it.

"We've asked everyone else. It's only fair that we ask him. Come on, we've put this off for three years now."

"Who are you talking about?" Betty's soft voice breaks through, and I look at her as she scans the members hopefully for an answer. No one seems prepared to say anything.

Tony stops humming, takes his hands away from his ears, and scoops up a pile of peas from James's plate. He crams them into his mouth, spilling more than a few of them, and everyone waits for his next utterance. Finally he gives a great big reluctant sigh.

"Tell her, Burt."

This really bugs me. Can't Tony see he's just playing up to Burt's constant need to take center stage? I dive in before Burt can open his mouth. "We're talking about the Kentucky Killer, Betty."

"Oh my. . . ." Betty's hand goes instinctively to her mouth as her eyes bulge in their sockets.

I smile secretly at Burt's teacherly look of annoyance. That'll teach him.

Did I say teach him? The gags just keep on coming.

"The Kentucky Killer. Oh my. . . ." Betty breathes in deeply.

And rightly so.

Because the Kentucky Killer is absolutely the number one skiller of all time. A living legend. The serial killer they all want to be. World-famous and with more kills than the entire Club combined. He is a total G.o.d when it comes to the slaughter of innocents, and his presence would really put the Club on the serial-killing map.

"Oh my," Betty repeats.

Later I feign an attack of food poisoning, which is easy for anyone to believe when they've had the dubious pleasure of dining here. That way, I leave the bar and grill before everyone else, and when no one is looking I climb into the trunk of William's car, finding, to my delight, that it isn't half as cramped as I thought it would be-but that it also smells like a cat's been living in there.

It is past midnight, and a full moon tries to break through the ominous-looking clouds overhead. The only sunrise William is going to see again is when I pour a gallon of gas down his throat and then set fire to it. William has done something similar to nine people and three guide dogs. The press have dubbed him the "Supernova Slayer," and the television psychiatrist became very animated about religious connections and the fire that purifies the soul. I just think William is a pyromaniac with a terrific tan. His two published reference books are really the same book written in different styles. The first is a thinly disguised denial of G.o.d posing as a study into the life-giving power of the sun. The second is also a disguised denial of G.o.d but contains cave drawings of big-chinned apemen bowing to the sun. According to William, the sun is G.o.d and G.o.d is the sun. His third factually based work was never published. Probably on grounds of self-plagiarism.

I peer out of the hole I secretly drilled a few days ago in his trunk and watch as William appears in the doorway to the bar and grill. He stands with Richard and Cher, and they are saying their good-byes.

My plan-which I didn't bother writing up-seemed to appease Agent Wade, and his whole demeanor brightened when I told him how brilliant and inspired it was. He wanted to know more, but I told him to wait and see; I could tell he was like a kid waiting for Christmas, but no amount of begging to know what the plan was made me tell him.

"Mr. Holden, Mr. Burton, I'll see you when I see you." I watch Cher give them both a Hollywood-style kiss on either cheek.

I note that she has never done this to me, but I for one really don't like that sort of empty affectation, and I think she knows this.

Cher walks off, high heels clicking on the damp sidewalk.

"Bye, Cher."

"Yeah, you be sure and drive careful, hon."

Will and Richard stop long enough to watch Cher get into and start up her sleek, low-slung sedan. They wave as Cher drives past, giving them a friendly beep. After that they start heading toward Will's car.

"I brought that video with me." Will pats his pockets, looking for his keys. "That Sixty Minutes Sixty Minutes show I taped a while back." show I taped a while back."

"Aw, gee, that's terrific of you, Will."

"I had to get it cleaned up after some punk jimmied the rear door of my car and p.i.s.sed in it."

"They did? That's disgusting."

"I swear this world is going to the dogs."

Will still can't seem to find his keys as he checks through his pockets again. "You don't get a big mention in the video, but it's interesting what that TV psychiatrist guy has to say about you."

"Any photos of me, or closed-circuit footage?"

"None. You've been very careful."

"Still can't forgive myself for missing it. I had a blood craze on that night. Always seems to come over me when there's something good on TV."

They stop right by the trunk, and I go very still. I wonder if they can see my eye staring out of the hole and hope that the moonlight doesn't catch my pupil and reflect off it.

"I popped it in the trunk in case the p.i.s.sy punk came back for a c.r.a.p."

I freeze instantly. I had been wondering what that sharp edge digging into my ankle was. I feel a swell of panic and can't seem to catch my breath.

William finds his keys. "Two weeks I've been trying to get rid of the stench."

The keys come out of Will's pocket, and I swear I now have rigor mortis because my whole body has clenched up so tight that my heart doesn't seem to be able to manage even a single beat.

Quarterback builder, quarterback builder . . .

How the h.e.l.l am I going to explain this?

Quarterback builder, quarterback builder . . .

The key slides in.

Richard sniffs loudly, then recoils. "That sure is a putrid punk. . . ."

I rack my brains for a good reason to be in Will's trunk.

Quarterback builder, quarterback builder . . .

The clouds open and raindrops start pounding on the trunk. They're deafening me, and I clamp my hands over my ears. How am I meant to think with that racket going on?

Will sighs to himself. "Now the G.o.dd.a.m.n sky is p.i.s.sing on us."

Quarterback builder, quarterback builder . . .

I've got it! I was locked in here by some putrid punks having a hoot. Yes! Four big and strong putrid punks dumped me in here, p.i.s.sed on me, and . . .

. . . I'm a dead man.

Dead as dead gets.

And it's all down to that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Agent Wade hustling me into this.

b.a.s.t.a.r.d!

The lock springs and the trunk is about to swing open when I suddenly hear someone joining Richard and William.

"Excuse me, gentlemen, but does one of you own that Ford over there?"

I know that voice-I'm certain of it.

"The midnight blue one."

It's Agent Wade.

"What's it to you?"

"It's just that it's on fire."

"What!? Jesus s.h.i.t!"

Right now I think I love Agent Wade.

"f.u.c.k!"

Richard lumbers off immediately, b.r.e.a.s.t.s no doubt slapping him in the face as he races over. I can't see what is going on, but I do hear the sound of Will retrieving a car fire extinguisher from under his driver's seat and then running over to Richard's Ford and spraying it.