Honey Santana printed out the article. Gleefully she waved it at Fry as soon as he walked in the door after visiting Perry Skinner.

“Check this out!” she said.

“Don’t you even want to hear his answer?” Fry asked.

“Your ex-father? I already know his answer.”

Fry handed her the cash. “He wants to talk about the plane tickets.”

“Fine, I’ll call him tomorrow.”

“No, Mom, in person.”

Honey frowned. “What crawled up his butt and died?”

Fry sat down at the table and skimmed the newspaper article. After finishing, he glanced up and said, “I thought his name was Eisenhower.”

“Nope. He lied,” Honey said, “per the usual.”

“Sure it’s the same guy?”

“Sweetie, how could it not be?” She took the printout and taped it to the refrigerator. “Listen, I’ve got another small favor to ask. I need you to go on the computer and do your magic.”

Fry said, “No chance. I’m done for the day.”

“Please? It won’t take long.”

The boy headed down the hallway, Honey trailing behind. “He’s got an unlisted number, can you believe that?”

“Easily,” Fry said.

“But thank God for that stupid lawsuit,” his mother went on, “because it means there’s a court file somewhere in Texas with Mr. Boyd Shreave’s address and home phone number in it. If you can find it on-line, then I can…”

Fry fell into bed and shut his eyes. “You can what? Call up this a-hole and give him a piece of your mind?”

“Yeah. Exactly,” Honey Santana said.

“And that’s all you’re gonna do? Promise?”

“Well, I might have a little fun with him. Nothing he doesn’t deserve.”

Fry sighed. “I knew it.”

“Jesus, I’m not gonna do anything dangerous or against the law.”

Fry opened his eyes and gave her a hard stare. “Mom, I’m not going to Texas with you.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“Oh, come on. Even if you con Dad into givin’ you the plane tickets, I’m not going.”

Honey laughed lightly. “Well, I’m not flying to Texas, either. Fry, that’s the nuttiest thing I ever heard-you honestly think I’d jump on a jetliner to go chasing after this slug? Just ’cause he called me a dried-up old whatever.”

“Then who are the tickets for?” her son demanded.

Honey got up and cranked open a window. “I’m starving. You want a snack?”

Fry groaned and yanked the sheet across his face. “I told Dad you were doing okay. Please don’t make a liar out of me.”

“Hush,” said his mother. “How about some popcorn?”

To distance himself from an overhead air-conditioning vent, the haunted-looking Sacco had moved into the cubicle left empty by Boyd Shreave. When Eugenie Fonda passed him a playful note, Sacco swatted it away as if it were a scorpion. His skittishness hinted at a bruised and volatile soul, which naturally piqued Eugenie’s curiosity. Even the man’s telephone voice sounded spent and frayed, although he still managed to churn plenty of leads. After Eugenie slipped him a second note, casual and innocuous, Sacco scrawled a one-word response-“GAY!”-and sailed it back to her desk. By the end of the shift she found herself missing Boyd, dull lump that he was.

When she got home at half past midnight, he was waiting at her front door.

With more flowers.

“Oh Lord,” said Eugenie Fonda.

“Okay if I come in?”

“You look terrible, sugar.”

“Bad day,” said Shreave, following her inside.

They began to make love on the sofa, Eugenie bouncing with her customary determination upon his lap. Within moments she found herself detached, literally, Boyd having waned to limpness.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

Eugenie climbed off and pulled on her panties. “Tell me what’s wrong,” she said.

“It’s Lily. She’s acting really weird.”

“You think she knows?”

“How could she? We’ve been so careful,” Shreave said.

“Right. Like that day in the sub shop.” Eugenie clicked her teeth.

She went to get a vase for the flowers, Shreave calling after her, “I’m telling you, Genie, she doesn’t know about us. There’s no way.”

What a voice, she thought. Sometimes when Boyd was talking, she’d close her eyes and imagine for a moment that he looked like Tim McGraw. That’s how good he sounded.

By the time she returned to the living room, he’d removed his shoes and socks and was sucking loudly on a lime Jolly Rancher candy that he’d taken from a silver bowl on the end table.

Eugenie Fonda put down the vase and got two beers from the refrigerator. “So,” she said, stationing herself beside him on the sofa, “what’d your wife do that was so weird?”

Shreave spit the sticky chunk of candy into an ashtray and attacked the beer. Eugenie waited.

“Just a strange vibe,” he said finally. “Things she said. The way she was looking at me.”

Eugenie nodded. “She wanted to have sex, right?”

“How’d you know?” Shreave was amazed.

“Boyd, we need to talk.”

“I didn’t bone her, Genie, I swear to God!”

Eugenie smiled. “Sugar, she’s your wife. An occasional orgasm is part of the deal.”

Shreave reddened and lunged for his beer once again, dark crescents blooming under his arms.

“Boyd, I can’t do this anymore,” Eugenie told him. “And please don’t say you’re going to ask Lily for a divorce, because you aren’t. And even if you did-”

“I haven’t told her I got fired. That means we can be together every night!”

“How, Boyd? What about my job?”

He set down the beer bottle and damply clasped her right hand. “Suppose you quit Relentless and started working days somewhere else. It’ll be great-I could have dinner ready when you get home and stay here till midnight, Monday through Friday. Lily won’t suspect a thing. She’ll think I’m at the call center.”

Eugenie Fonda withdrew her hand and dried it on his shirttail.

“Boyd, listen up,” she said. “I really don’t want to be your full-time fuck buddy. Call me a dreamer, but I still think I could wind up with a normal guy in a normal relationship, once I stop sleeping with married men.”

Shreave sat back, ashen.

“Now don’t you dare start to bawl,” Eugenie said.

Shreave’s head drooped. “I can’t believe this. First I lose my job, and now you want to break up with me. Maybe tomorrow I’ll find out I’ve got cancer.”

Eugenie led him toward the door, saying how sorry she was and what a blast they’d had together and how it was time for both of them to figure out what they truly wanted from life.

“But I know what I want,” Shreave said. “You.”

“Good-bye, sweetie.” She bent down to kiss him, but then he didn’t leave.

“Boyd, I said good-bye.”

He remained rooted and defiant in her doorway. “I’m not going anywhere till you tell me the real reason you’re dumpin’ me.”

Seriously, Eugenie Fonda said to herself, do I need this?

“It’s the least you can do,” Shreave said.

In addition to the best damn hummers you ever had in your life, Eugenie thought.

“Genie, I want the truth.”

“Fine,” she said. With some guys, cold and cruel was the way to go.

“Boyd, you’re boring. You’re gonna put me into a coma, you’re so fucking boring. I’m sorry, but you asked for it.”

He looked up at her with a twisting and skeptical smile. “Boring? Nice try. What’s his name?”

Eugenie Fonda took hold of Boyd’s shoulders. “There is no him. Now, adios, cowboy,” she said.

He shook free. “No, wait-how’m I boring?” His strong, silky voice had shrunk to a tubercular rasp.

“No, sugar, the question is: How are you not boring?” Eugenie Fonda felt a disquieting nibble of guilt, so she hastily unloaded both barrels. “When’s the last time you did anything interesting? Anything at all?”

“With you?”

“With me. To me. Anything that wasn’t totally predictable,” she rolled on.

“But-”

“But nuthin. I don’t care to spend the rest of my days servicing a couch potato. When’s the last time you were even out in the sunshine, for God’s sake? Michael Jackson’s got a better tan.”