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A Woman with Mongrel Ch. 01

By: Egmont Grigor



MONGREL: The notion 'Get some mongrel in you' means adding something to your persona to provide a harder edge. This supposes a touch of defiance or rebelliousness will make a difference; a significant difference especially to the downtrodden. In this instance the advice to 'get some mongrel' was given to a character who's perceived as being excessively too nice for her own good. This is a detective story purportedly in the traditional genre. -- Author.

* 

The pretty card featuring some kind of flower read, "Sorry, chin up; Mrs Robertson."

Harry Q. Truscott wiped his nose with thumb and forefinger aware he didn't know a Mrs Robertson. So she must be the bitch who'd rolled him.

"What pretty pansies," said the male nurse, immediately raising the acidic thought in Harry's still cloudy mind why would a male nurse recognize pansies? Was the guy gay?

He dozed, having been told he'd been in a vehicle accident, was knocked unconscious, had his shoulder broken and a kind surgeon stayed on to attend to a bit of internal bleeding in Harry's belly, thereby making himself unpopular with Mrs Surgeon waiting to be taken to a cocktail party.

Harry was miffed that the value of his life seemed to be on about par with four drinks and a couple of chats over cocktails. Or was that seven drinks and hallway kiss with the hostess? 

At 2:00 three elderly women came into his 4-bed cubicle pushing a trolley. They clucked over him, saying it wasn't right that such a fine looking man should be without visitors. They handed him a complimentary stale confectionary bar and a book with the first dozen pages missing.

Everything went quiet when they left, so Harry closed his eyes.

"Hullo, my wounded victim. I'm so terribly sorry."

Huh?

The voice was cultured, beautifully modulated -- young and vibrant, undoubtedly a sex siren, but unfortunately that description fitted no-one he knew. She must be related to one of the other guys, probably a daughter who taught elocution.

A hand gently shook Harry's shoulder.

"Mr Truscott?"

"Yes, um, am I being discharged?"

"No, I'm afraid not -- you have a two more days and then, according to the house surgeon, conditional discharge because you live alone."

Restricted by his shoulder restraint, appropriately called a gunslinger harness for a guy who lives part of his life in gun-totting fiction, Harry turned carefully on to his back. His eyes met those of a fine looking woman in the classical tradition, beaming a soft blue-eyed smile at him through slightly parted pink-coated lips behind which lurked very white teeth.

God, she was attractive. He attempted to check if her breasts were up to scratch but was thwarted; she was wearing a shirt with front ruffles that screened the beauty of her womanly physique -- that is, if she really was packed with something of shapely substance.

Presumably this was the flower-giver, Mrs Robinson er Mrs Robertson. She held out a hand spearheaded by four beautifully manicured long fingers, with the thumb slightly tucked into her palm, but then comprehending that a man with his right arm in a brace was unable to shake hands she learned forward and kissed his cheek.

The kiss landed like a moth making a perfect touch-down under a lamp. Harry's nostrils took in a combo of scented facial cream, lipstick, hair spray and above all, top-shelf perfume that screamed "I'm a classy lady."

"You're a mirage," he said in his most impressive voice.

She just smiled. "I'm Mrs Robertson, whom you met by accident yesterday. I have admitted full liability -- my insurance company will sort everything out and my lawyer will negotiate fair settlement to cover your loss of property, loss of income and payment as a contribution towards pain and suffering."

"But I reversed out in front of you."

"That is true, but apparently not unduly fast according to one of your neighbors, the only independent witness. I was distracted as I had turned to look at my six-month-old daughter gurgling in her car-seat behind me."

"Oh God, a baby. How is she?"

"She's fine. She handled her first vehicle accident very well, thank you Mr Truscott."

"I should be held partly responsible, liable to pay you something."

"For what? Paint scrapes to my bull bars? Insurance will take care of that. Perhaps you could take me out to dinner one evening if that will ease your conscience."

"Yes, right Mrs Robertson."

"Carson will be fine."

"Harry, or if you wish Randolph."

"You have two names -- one informal, one formal?"

"My given names are Randolph Quentin Grierson, but I rebelled against being dubbed Randy, which frightened away females as I reached my teens. So I had it legally changed to Harry Quentin Truscott -- Truscott, my mother's maiden name. I write under my adopted name."

"Ohmigod, you write the detective series about Diomedes Mantell and his sidekick Jessie Chicago. I've read all eleven in the series and according to the blurb from the publisher the twelfth novel is due out just before Christmas. This is incredible -- I've sent Jessie's creator to hospital and I've just kissed him."

"You can kiss me again if that will make you feel better."

Another moth-like landing added lipstick to his cheek.

They chatted and she asked where his other visitors were.

"I don't have any family in this city and my literary agent and publisher are located abroad.

"What about Jessie?"

"Who's Jessie?"

"Jessie Chicago."

"She's not..."

"Oh, how stupid of me, of course she lives only in your imagination and on your pages. I know this sounds awful, but I'm in love with her. She's such a role model to modern women, but she is rather excessive about sex."

"Too frequently, or too many times per session?"

"Um, both I should think."

"Don't you get it all that often?"

"Harry, that's rather a direct question for someone you've just met."

"It's called reader feedback."

"Oh, then that's different. Well yes, she's getting rather a lot more than what I'm getting, as you so quaintly put it. My husband was killed in a helicopter crash just before Lydia was born."

Harry's good hand clutched the bed covers; he closed his eyes and muttered, "Damn."

In that instant Carson decided she liked this creator of the Bumbling Detective series. He looked as if he might be a bumbler himself, even without the brace stabilizing his broken shoulder. He looked uncombed, poorly shaven, in need of a haircut and his muddy brown eyes looked, um, doglike as if waiting for a bone. Character lines cut into his forehead and, um, his lips looked permanently curled upwards to support smiles. Now for the test -- would she trust him if left alone with him in a remote cabin? This was a test Carson habitually applied to men since having a couple of scares with older men as a teenager.

Absolutely -- just look at those eyes!

With compassionate gentleness, Carson unclenched Harry's fist and took that hand in her soft, warm one.

"It's all right; you weren't to know."

"I could have made the connection -- Philip Robertson, one of this country's best blue water sailors."

"You knew him?"

"Only by what I read in newspapers. I knew he was a successful businessman in the marine industry as well."

"Yes, thank you Harry; I'm in the process of selling out of his company. Oh gosh, I've just thought of something: how are you going to finish your manuscript with your right arm in this brace?"

"Produce tapes and have an agency to put them on to computer disk, I guess. I don't have voice activated software, nor am I likely to want to try it; I'm kind of an old fashion guy who values old cars, romance and respects family values."

"Hmmm. So you'd perform better sitting beside a person doing the keyboarding, pausing now and then to edit?"

"Undoubtedly."

"That gives me something to think about."

That reply puzzled Harry but then so did women.

Ten minutes later Carson was gone, her lingering fragrance proving she'd not been a post-operative hallucination.

A cheerful and robust woman by the name of Maggie, Harry's neighbor from across the street arrived with a cake, still warm. 

Then in popped Mrs McPherson from two doors down and then arrived elderly Mr and Mrs Trumpet from five doors up from Harry's home. 

Attempting to rationalize this, Harry concluded these people thought they know him well enough to rate him as worthy of visiting in hospital. 

In the tradition of hospital interference, the ward manager arrived and told the visitors they should leave after ten minutes because more visitors were waiting to see Harry.

"You're so popular Harry," said Mrs McPherson, kissing him. 

"Yes," said Maggie, looking at him rather intensely. "I don't know how I've managed to overlook you. I shall see you tomorrow. Some of these visitors will be oncers, like moths around a candle. I'll be back every day Harry," she said, leaning over and kissing him, her hand resting quite firmly on his navel, fingers moving.

Harry knew that's exactly the thing Jessie Chicago would do -- Maggie O'Sullivan was a reader of the Bumbling Detective series. How strange. Despite that literary connection until now Maggie and he had previously only exchanged names and thereafter minimal greetings whenever they passed like alley cats.

Steady on, Harry, she might look sluttish but don't brand her until you know for sure -- be a gentleman.

The pre-dinner bell went at 4:00 -- yes, that's not a typo thought Harry, bloody four o'clock in the afternoon. The ring-a-ling, ring-a-ling squeezed visitors away to allow nursing staff to prepared patients for the delivery of bad food. Actually it was better tucker than most of his home cooking.

Harry took off his glasses, ran a thumb and forefinger over his pencil moustache and settled back for a nap, thinking about Maggie's words, "like moths around a candle." That made her sound really creative. He thought that Maggie could be worth developing; she lived alone and it would save him going into parks and bars looking for a likely opportunity when he felt the need for it.

"Oh God Harry, I think you are ready to go home."

Harry opened his eyes and saw it was the attractive Nurse Yung speaking.

"Just look at this beauty, Felicity," she was saying to the spotty faced trainee Nurse Smith, who's turned deathly white and looked about to faint. It was only then Harry became aware that Nurse Yung had his erection in her hand.

"Let's put this baby away," said Nurse Yung. Harry's eyes widened -- she looked ready to kiss it! But then she was diverted by Nurse Smith slumping to the floor.

"It's true Harry -- virgins still exist in this world," grinned Nurse Yung, going to the aid of her fallen colleague.

Harry quickly tucked himself back into his pajamas and hid as much as he could of himself under the bed covers.

"I'm sorry, Mr Truscott," apologized the trainee nurse after two raps on the cheeks from Nurse Yung revived her. "I hadn't realized they could get so big."

"You call that big, you should see..."

"That's enough, Harry," Nurse Yung frowned. "We don't want to have Felicity applying for a transfer to the women's ward."

"She'll find big ones down there."

"That's enough, Harry. Jessie Chicago wouldn't allow you to talk like that in front of a young girl."

Harry was chuffed. Sexy Nurse Yung knew Jessie Chicago. Another of his fans had come out of the woodwork -- er, emerged from the sterile environment of a hospital ward.

"I'm working through to 11:00," whispered Nurse Yung. "I'll call in later this evening and relieve you of some of that tension."

Harry was about to say he was relaxed, not suffering from tension or post-accident trauma, but then looked into her eyes and saw she'd unmasked herself; it wasn't quite naked lust but definitely wasn't the look one got from a clergyman's wife either.

God, whoever would have thought of nurses as being sexy? In Harry's novels they always were implicated with the villains. He wondered if Nurse Yung would use her mouth or hand -- he decided she would appear like a shadow with her right hand encased in a thin membrane glove up to her elbow and wearing a heavy thick waterproof apron.

* * *

After putting baby Lydia down for the night, Carson Robertson thought of Harry and smiled. The poor lonely chap, not much to look at, but obviously he cared for his body. She'd go and see him once more, thereby discharging her duty of expressing remorse. It he hadn't been in a crappy 1970's Japanese auto it would not have been crushed like a can by her SUV to allow her to disable Harry.

Disable him? Carson jolted upright, as if hearing the clarion call. Women on the English-speaking world who'd stumbled upon the works of this quaint writer who injected old-fashion qualities into his hero and heroine would expect her, being their representative on the spot, to do her duty and ensure Harry continued to meet his publisher's schedule.

"Jessie Chicago fans -- I hear your pleas, I shall rise to the occasion," Carson giggled, and then sipped her mineral water knowing that in her heart Jessie would be ever so grateful.

Next day a big carton of unsold copies of Harry's least popular book, The Bumbling Detective Goes Undercover in Drag arrived from the publishers' Sydney office, with a note from Customs that they had inspected the enclosed cake for contraband, and apologized for forwarding it to Harry as two bags of crumbs. The package, dispatched as First Class airfreight must have cost the publishers a fortune, thought Harry, most impressed. He hadn't known they cared.

Harry gave copies of the book to the other three patients in his cubicle, but the guy with tubes up his nose and eyes rolled into his head didn't even bother to acknowledge Harry's generosity, the Chinese man said "Me read no English -- take crap away". Fortunately, all was not lost; the third guy accepted the hand-out graciously and began reading the book immediately.

Later, anyone coming into the cubicle was invited to take an autographed copy, scrawled by Harry's left hand to look roughly like his signature.

Maggie breezed in a 1:45 with an anxious Nurse Smith protesting in her wake that visiting hours were from 2:00.

"It's all right, sweetie," said Maggie, eying Nurse Smith's plump body. "I'm a VIP -- off you go."

Maggie had with her a bag of grapes, and fed them to Harry, one by one, gazing into his eyes while she chatted. Faced with chewing unpeeled grapes, Harry was aware he was required to do nothing, which is how some women prefer to have sex. With her roughly-worn fingers against his lips as she pushed in a grape and hooked out the floating skin of its predecessor, Maggie made no physical contact with him but sex seemed to ooze from her. At times Harry's spectacles became misted.

Maggie talked about her life and loves, giving Harry an immense amount of original material for his mental archives. It was the first time he'd knowingly met the madam of a brothel, albeit a retired one.

Maggie vanished as a policewoman arrived to confirm Mrs Robertson's account of the accident and to advise that Harry's car had been what she called 'totaled' and would have to be deregistered.

"That's Maggie Owens, is it not?"

Aha, this hard-nosed policewoman didn't realize she was dealing with today's master of the detective-romance genre.

"Maggie who?" Harry asked, looking bewildered.

"The woman who was all over you when I arrived."

"A woman?"

"With breasts that big she couldn't be male?"

"Oh, a male you say. No, I haven't seen any males today apart from the house surgeon and our ward's senior nurse Evan Simpson."

"Look, don't piss around with me, you second-rate Diomedes like alike. Before she retired Maggie was a really big name, at least to us. Stay away from her, do you hear? Maggie could easily eat you for breakfast."

"Thank you, Chief Inspector. I shall consider your advice, but Maggie grows tulips, you know."

"I find that highly unlikely, but there you go. Bye."

Harry offered her a book but Sergeant Fish looked at the title and threw it back into the box. "That's the worst of the series. It lacked humor in what otherwise should have been a hilarious sequel of events. For the life of me I couldn't understand why Jessie wouldn't have sex with Diomedes unless he took off his bra and garter belt."

Yes, thought, Harry. He's received more than 1000 letters and emails from fans with identical complaints. He'd not explained the reasons for Jessie's decisions because that could only lead to professionally damaging public debate. Firstly, he didn't want to become too clever about the clothing because that could place him offside with the cross-dressing community. Then even he couldn't understand why Jessie wouldn't have sex with private detective Diomedes Mantell when usually those two were doing their best to rewrite sex manuals. Publishers and readers just don't seem to understand that sexual relationships can become so complicated, and if a woman is involved, logic can fly out the window. 

Harry had tried to inject this quirky side to Jessie but obviously as author he'd failed to authenticate that quirkiness. Too bad, at least it gave Diomedes Mantell the chance to sneak off and get sex from that nurse who wore rubber gloves plus a rubber suit with holes cut out in strategic places by her husband who was Surgeon-in-Chief at Fair-Go Hospital.

Maggie had delivered mail from Harry's mailbox. There was a letter from his literary agent, Mary Lin. Harry opened it, thinking it might be good news about royalties stacked up large enough for him to buy a replacement car.

Sorry to learn of your accident. Chin up. Here's my latest invoice and Gateway Press want your new novel a week ahead of the agreed schedule. You'll manage that of course, as you know the consequences of not meeting deadlines.

"Heartless old bitch, just like all women," muttered Harry.

Just as Harry had quietly snarled, 'Heartless old bitch', someone who had entered the cubicle said, "Oh Harry, surely not."

Huh?

Harry looked up and saw this incredible beauty floating towards him -- floating as best she could on high heels -- carrying an infant with huge blue eyes. He was delighted as the mother was wearing a tight dark blue dress cut to reveal a plunging gap between two heavy mounds, milk-producing no doubt. Harry was ready to pant, his eyes muddied, but there was no time for frivolity -- Mrs Robertson was bringing her young 'un to see him.

Babies scared Harry, as did some mothers. But there was something special about this occasion, although he didn't know what it was. Then his brain worked -- of course, Carson hadn't been able to arrange a baby sitter.

Wearing a goofy smile, Harry put up his good arm. The little fellow or whatever you call them put out her two tiny arms and Carson -- beautiful, gorgeous sweet smelling Carson -- dotted down the baby in an ill-fitting pink dress on to Harry's chest. The horrified Harry slapped his arm around baby Robertson afraid she would roll to the floor.

"She wanted to come to me," Harry said in awe.

"Yes, she liked your smile. Her senses for two-way communication are very limited at present, but she recognizes friendly smiles. Don't crush her Harry."

"My arm raised itself on its own accord -- I had no idea you'd hand across your precious little bundle."

"Her name is Lydia, Harry. Look at her gazing at your moustache. It's the first one she's seen. I wonder if she senses that her mommy also likes your moustache -- one rarely sees thin moustaches these days, they look elegant. Do you have great romances because of your moustache Harry?"

Harry was saved the four o'clock bell, demanding that visitor's clear out.

"Say goodbye to Uncle Harry darling," said Carson, holding Lydia against her shoulder which allowed Lydia and Harry to exchange wide-eyed fixed stares.


A Woman with Mongrel Ch. 01



"I've never held a baby before."

"I thought as much," Carson said softly as someone else came to his bedside.

"Harry, this is Lydia's live-in nurse Sara."

"Hullo, Mr Truscott. Why aren't you handsome like Diomedes Mantell? I'm s-o-o-o much in love with him. Aunt Carson has stupendous admiration for Jessie Chicago and wants to be like her to help turn her life around."

Harry looked agog, expecting Carson to snap, 'That's enough Sara' but instead she just smiled at Lydia in her arms while darting glances at Sara and Harry.

"Carson is talking about you all the time; we're so excited that you are coming to live with us."

Harry looked at Carson who shrugged and fluttered her eyelids. She handed Lydia to the short and somewhat tubby Sara who looked to have unlimited energy.

"Take Lydia to the SUV, please Sara. I have no wish for her to be locked up for being in the ward after visiting hours. They weren't too keen about allowing her to come in anyway."

"Until you put your foot down," laughed Sara. "Goodbye Mr Truscott -- I know we've just met but in being used to farm animals I sense you are kind, despite some of those awful things you write about. No-one could look at Lydia like you did and not be a kind person with humility."

"That's kind of you to say that, Sara, but someone with a Big Book notes the lies we tell."

"They're not lies -- it's the truth, isn't it Aunt Carson?"

"Absolutely, I am prepared to plead your case when that Big Book is opened."

"You're kidding about that Big Book, aren't you?"

Sara's naturally pink face had turned red. Harry looked at Carson and they both nodded to Sara.

"Run along, Sara. I need to talk to Mr Truscott about our sleeping arrangements."

"Sleeping arrangements?" Sara responded, mouth remaining open.

"Um, I meant how we are going to accommodate Mr Truscott until he regains full use of his arm."

"Bye, Mr Truscott."

"Bye, Sara."

Harry was about to say goodbye to Lydia, but she was already asleep.

As Carson watched Harry watching them go, revealing a thinning spot developing in the crown of his unruly brown hair, she noticed his upright back and very square shoulders; she'd imagined career writers turned into hunchbacks from hours of working over typewriters or more latterly, keyboards. She stopped her romanticizing, realizing of course, the shoulder brace would be holding his posture.

Carson had initially thought of Harry as being self-centered -- well, he did live alone -- and would be a bit of a hard case what with booze and women of dubious backgrounds. The manner in which he periodically focused on her breasts was so typically unrefined male, not that she minded because she considered her breasts to be her second-best feature. Philip had called them 'sumptuous' and referred to them as her best feature, and they would argue happily when she contradicted him. She'd insist that her brain was her best asset and more often than not they would end that argument by both groping hungrily for brainless action.

Carson missed the sex, missed it terribly in fact, and knew that Harry would pound her into tomorrow the instant she gave him the glad eye -- although that arm brace might slow him down somewhat. Yes he almost fitted her definition of a scoundrel -- perhaps a lovable rogue might be better. After all, look how beautifully he described the sensual relationship between Diomedes Mantell and Jessie Chicago and the intelligent conversations they had when driving through mountain passes or thundering across plains in trains.

But now she was nonplussed. He appeared no longer suited for the tag lovable rogue after she's watched him with Lydia. Sara had defined it -- a kindness seemed to have leapt out of Harry; Carson had not expected that, especially not from a man completely inexperienced with babies. She'd brought Lydia in to Harry simply to see their reactions. She'd been pessimistic but Harry had blown her away, eliminating any uncertainty. 

It was time to say come into my parlor Harry.

"Harry, I want you to come and live with us until you can manage perfectly once more with your right arm. I've spoken to the house surgeon who's cleared it with the medical registrar -- you can come with me within the hour if I can confirm this is what you wish. Otherwise you face going to a post-operative care center and then undergoing rehabilitation training before being discharged."

"Rehabilitation what?"

"Training, to ensure you can move about, cook, wash your bottom properly, shave, access public transport safely and know how to cope with a home helper who will be supplied by the hospital."

"I've only a gamey shoulder, Carson, I'm not a double amputee and my fucking brain remains intact."

"Don't be upset, Harry. This hospital is a responsible authority with procedures to follow. It has to be all done by the book."

"What's your alternative?"

"You come home with me and live as you wish."

"No rules?"

On the verge of saying no, Carson reconsidered, stroking her beautiful jaw line. "Just three: One, you don't make undue noise when Lydia is asleep; two you must be very kind to Sara who is a farm girl, my niece actually and three, you understand you don't get to sleep with me."

Harry grabbed his emergency bell and when Nurse Smith raced in he shouted, "Felicity, get my clothes -- I'm out of here."

There were papers to sign and Harry's clothes and commandeered items including a Silver Medallion presented by The International Detective Writers' Federation were handed back to him.

Harry's departure was quite moving, with the ward manager describing him as a model patient, Evan the male nurse confiding he'd fallen in love with Detective Diomedes causing the nurses to double up with laughter.

"Thank you Harry, you have been so educational for me," said student Nurse Felicity Smith, shaking his hand.

Everyone but Nurse Yung and Harry looked bewildered when Nurse Yung said seductively, "Always keep the gun loaded, Harry."

Ohmigod, thought Carson, watching Nurse Yung step away after kissing Harry, forming her mouth into a big 'O', That nurse has been giving Harry oral sex; Carson almost felt she'd have to sit down.

"Nurse Yung, your patient care extended beyond the call of duty -- you nurse in the tradition of Florence Nightingale."

I very much doubt that, you dirty old man, thought Carson, but had to smile. He'd simply taken advantage of available resources.

A day earlier Carson had discussed with Sara her intention of asking Harry to come to stay for a while and was pleased that her niece thought that was "Okay". She'd bit her bottom lip, having expected Sara to be more enthusiastic but perhaps Sara concerned that this male might come between then.

"I'll tell you what, Sara. I'm taking Lydia with me when I visit him tomorrow to test her reaction to him. She's probably too young to produce an indicative response. But look, you come as well, just come in at 3:55 and take Lydia from me. Just chat with this Harry for a couple of minutes -- you ought to gain at least a shallow impression in that time. But if you definitely don't like him give me the eye and I'll not invite him to stay with us."

"Why do you want him here?"

"Remorse, I suppose. I did turn his car into scrap and put him into hospital and temporarily have stunted his writing career."

"Yep, that's fine Aunt Carson. I'll do it, it's no big deal."

Well, obviously Sara had quite taken to Harry -- partly because he was charmed by Lydia, spoke to Sara as if she were an adult and projected himself as an interesting person. Sara was on to Harry's fourth book and revealed to Carson that Harry had already made her fall for the charismatic detective despite his vulnerabilities. It also fascinated that Diomedes and the awesome Jessie seemed to make even sharing a sandwich over a cup of coffee seem like sex. 

That analysis surprised Carson, as Sara tended to think and express herself in the simplified manner of rural people and yet had just spoken as presenting a resume in a Stage One English paper at university. She hadn't even heard Sara present a concept like character vulnerability or use a word like charismatic, though perhaps that was a little unfair as Sara may well be quite fluent in conversing in complicated language.

Carson's elder sister Bronwyn had brought Sara to live with Carson within hours of the news of the fatal accident, explaining that the eighteen-year-old was marking time for a year before going to university; she needed time-out to acquire some maturity.

"I know of no other more mature person than you, dear sister," Bronwyn had said to the widow dressed in black.

It had occurred to Carson, meeting the brash and probably quite unscrupulous Mr Truscott for the first time and learning he was a very successful second-rate author, that some of his attitudes and utterances might rub off on to Sara, making her aware that good solid country values were not necessary alive and well in the city.

"You'll not to allow him to touch you Sara."

"Good God no," said the teenager, turning crimson. "He's an old man, probably a dirty old man when it comes to sex, judging at the way he writes about it."

Carson had gone to the bookcase and flicked open the back inside leaf of the dust cover of Harry's eleventh novel.

Well, well -- a BA majoring in English Lit. but dropped out of teacher training. Drove trucks on inner-city deliveries for a time, worked as an assistant to a professional photographer supplementing his income working as a relief barman, became assistant manger of a night club, entered and won a short story contest and etc, etc. She found his age -- 44. That made him eight years older than she was, so in what category in the aging tree would Sara place her? Maturing aunt perhaps?

Carson knew her motives for taking in a male stranger would be ignored by her friends and family. He mother would be aghast, especially when finding out who his was ('Oh, he writes grubby detective stories, does he?'). Well, after a couple of weeks it would be buried, and she would either be on the outer socially or her girl friends would be clamoring to host for dinner this man who could describe parts of the female anatomy in such detail as to leave them speechless and then go into uncontrollable giggles in hearing his descriptions of how a woman being held in the arms of a male reacts under genital stimulation.

My God, it's hot in this room, she'd thought, going out on to the deck that was catching a sea breeze while waiting till it was time to leave for the hospital to pick up her house guest. She said to the breeze, "This would rank among the dozen most daring things I've done in my life, poor timid little me. I really do need to let fly a bit; it's what writers call the need to discover one's true self. How am I going to do that, huh? Harry will help -- oh yeah."

The telephone went -- it was Peter Doig, her lawyer, inviting her to a meeting at the company at 2:00 on Thursday. The partners were ready to make her an offer. 

A feeling of relief swept through Carson -- just a few quick decisions, taking advice of course, and it would be all over Rover.

Harry was aware women are good for a few things but until this moment personally had not had this experience; he watched Carson sweep through into the room, big smile in place and with determination hinted in her expression. He was being rescued, by a woman. His mom must have rescued him repeatedly when he was a boy, that's the thing mothers do. That's why Jessie Chicago knew how to rescue Diomedes when he had his back to the wall, but this was different. This was a real life rescue, the first he could recall by a woman other than his mother. Once his mother failed him, or so he'd thought when through brimming eyes he watched his mom walk away, leaving him at Hell on Earth which had the alternative name of boarding school.

Carson had kissed him on the cheek, an arm around his good shoulder. Harry's muddy eyes turned tarnished bronze with joy; never had he felt so safe yet so vulnerable. He'd open his heart to his rescuer.

Carson watched intently as the charge nurse showed her how to remove the shoulder immobilizer to allow Harry to take a shower and demonstrated how Harry must brace that unrestrained arm against his chest.

Carson was conscious that Harry was looking at her intently, not at her breasts, but at her face. She remained slightly flushed throughout the demonstration and the flush deepened momentarily when learning she'd not have to wash his private parts during showering, that Harry had learned to do that himself. She was conscious of her disappointment and understanding her disappointed; it had been so long.

Within minutes of being in the SUV, Harry was confident with Carson's driving; in fact she was probably more adept at the wheel than he was, unless he was writing as his altered-ego, that is, being Diomedes Mantell driving the supercharged V12 two-seater, with Jessie at his side.

Harry's arm was held in gunslinger's position because he'd also suffered damage to the elbow, now containing a steel plate that would make the security scanners at international airports go crazy. Idly he wondered if Carson would object to having sex with him with this contraption on. Although she'd said no sex, he knew she didn't really mean that; she'd break down, there would be tears and it would be all on. Grrrrrrrrrr! Damn, he was uncomfortable with his underpants cutting into him.

Harry squirmed.

"Are you okay?"

"Um, my butt is a bit tender from lying a bit askew with this frame on."

"Oh yes, I can quite understand that," she said, turning briefly to smile at him, showing near perfect teeth. "These seats can become a little uncomfortable; they tend to push up my briefs uncomfortably, so on longer distances I just dispense with them."

They chatted on about the weather. 

During a lull in conversation Harry tried to push the thought back, but was unsuccessful: he wondered if this classified as a longer distance trip; probably not. Without thinking he looked at her knees, noticing the black leather skirt had worked itself up rather a long way.

Carson looked at him, then back at the road.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Harry?"

She'd be disgusted to learn what he was thinking; he had to fake it.

"Uh-hum, you're wondering how Jessie Chicago would cope in this situation, seated with a man beside her who she'd warned off."

"God, you're incredible Harry. That's what I was thinking, exactly. What do I do now, Harry?"

"You have two options, Carson. Stop the car behind a barn on the high plateau in Spain and hook your leg over me, or alternatively, do what any woman over the age of forty would do -- lift your cheeks and tug down your errant skirt."

"Oh Harry -- you know that Jessie is only thirty-two, so she wouldn't hitch down her hem, don't you? But we're not in Spain, so I'll just leave it where it is; I don't mind you glancing at my exposed legs, Harry, but try not to stare."

They drove along quietly, Harry thrilled to be released from that hospital environment and to see the sea again; he loved the sea. But a thought was worrying him; he'd better bring it up now.

"Don't do it, Carson."

"Pardon me?"

"Don't try to be like her?"

Carson looked perplexed. "Like who, Harry?"

"Don't try to become Jessie Chicago."

An orgasm trickled through Carson; she closed her eyes momentarily and crossed the centre line of the highway.

"Carson!' shouted Harry, unable to easily reach the wheel in time, being slowed by his shoulder restraint and seat belt. 

Fortunately the nearest approaching vehicle -- a small car like Harry's -- was still one hundred and fifty yards away. Carson, panting slightly, regained control, her mouth open and the point of her tongue projecting beyond her lips.

Harry waited for her to say something profound.

"Ooooooh."

This simply will not do! "Pull over to the first place we can park safely," he ordered. 

She said okay and thirty seconds later slowed, put the vehicle into crawler gear and climbed a slope which leveled off, giving them a great view of the ocean.

"Well, this is one way to park safely," grinned Harry.

"Harry -- something's wrong. During the last two nights I've had these wild dreams -- fights, fast cars, gun shots and men slobbering to get all over me; they've been after sex, Harry, and if it hadn't been for the heroic arrival of Jessie Chicago just in time to prevent me being brutalized I would have been in a terrible mess."

Harry stroked his moustache; exactly like Diomedes Mantell did which made Carson tremble

"The trouble is you've been reading too much pulp fiction," he grinned. 

"Harry, don't joke -- these dreams are so uncanny, they are almost true. But you know what, Harry? After the baddies are either knocked out and shot dead by your smoking .38 or strung up on their neck ties, you appear and kiss me. You push me back, utter some corny line and I see Diomedes Chamber's face has become your face, Harry. This is scary, Harry."

Harry grinned. Obviously Carson was hungry for it, and this was her way of telling him. God, wasn't she so sweet. He moved to pull a cigarette from behind his ear and Carson noticed the slight gesture.

"You don't smoke, Harry. But Diomedes Mantell does." What's going on here, Harry? Tell me or I'll scream or have another involuntary orgasm, perhaps both."

That made Harry less certain; she did seem genuinely worried, but women were used to confusing men. He decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. "Look, everything's fine, sweetie. Come out and sit on my good side so I can get my arm around you. Good girls shouldn't cry like this -- wipe those tears and get on to that park bench."

"We don't have a hip flask of whisky."

"Cut it Carson; you're only making it worse for yourself trying to pretend Jessie's inside you.

Harry fished his handkerchief from his left pocket and put it over the seagull droppings on the seat to protect Carson's black leather skirt.

"Thank you Harry."

"Carson, when I write I pretend I'm Diomedes Mantell. But I know how to differentiate between reality and fiction. I don't have his physical agility of his ability to...er..."

"The night they spent in Monte Carlo -- seven times and then they arrived back at the hotel after the bull fight in Mexico, five times plus two sixty-nines. Those are the records so far."

"Er, quite. That's simply not me, Carson. Your problem is you are allowing Jessie to invade your thoughts and personality too quickly -- it's in danger of running out of control. Jessie Chicago doesn't have babies, Carson. Period. Think about that -- Jessie has been shot twice and knifed once..."

Carson interrupted Harry.

"Shoulder shot on the Grand Canal, Venice, knifed on the subway in Tokyo and shot in the stomach in Montevideo, one of the most desperate times in her life; she almost died, Harry, if Diomedes hadn't kidnapped that retired brilliant gastrointestinal surgeon in Buenos Aires, it would have been all over. Then he took her to Paris for skin grafts so she can now wear a flimsy bikini again."

"Yes, Carson. But think about what would have happened to the baby had she'd been pregnant at the time of that abdominal shooting -- if not directly hit the fetus would almost certainly been traumatized. Even as bad, especially for you, think about a bullet fired side-on piercing each milk-producing breast and severing an artery, and the wounded, sad, sad Diomedes coming home and saying to an infant, say six months old: "Sorry, kiddo; mummy's not going to make it tonight or any other night, ever."

The tears came, in a great flood.

Harry held Carson and when the sobbing stopped she attempted to kiss him. He drew away, adhering to the code practiced by private detective, Diomedes Mantell as this woman was vulnerable, in a distressed state.




A Woman with Mongrel Ch. 01



"You want me to continue being ordinary housewife Carson Robertson. God, what an unromantic name."

Harry attempted to hum the tune of Mrs Robinson and Carson, catching on immediately, said, "You would have to pick that example."

"Come on, wipe those leaking peepers of yours and let's go. You have something Jessie Chicago doesn't have: Lydia will be wondering where you are."

"Yes, right. Oh, I feel such a fool."

"Hey, hey Carson," smiled Harry. "Don't be so tough on yourself."

As they drove on he suggested if Carson wanted to loosen up a bit and become sexier, she should go ahead. "You said yourself Jessie Chicago is a good role model for younger women. Think about what she does, how she reacts and how she dresses, but don't go overboard. If you begin dreaming about her possessing you as soon as you wake up, get up so that you don't fall back and begin dreaming the next chapter of your encounter. That way you will soon squeeze out her influence. Jessie has simply caught your imagination, so deal with it by being cruel -- don't allow her to evade your persona."

"Wow, what a speech. You are so kind. Here we are."

Harry hadn't expected the high-profile Mr Philip Robertson deceased to have lived in a humble home, so was not disappointed.

"Wow, what a home."

The white-plastered all concrete sprawling three-level structure with orange tile roof was on a ridge of exclusive homes -- the city and port estuary spread out to the east and south; they were three houses back from the beach in the other direction.

Harry wondered why they hadn't invested in absolute beachfront, and Carson seemed to read his mind.

"Live right on the beach you get your windows and aluminum frames sand-blasted, beach-goers gawk at you and the noise of the surf during storms keeps everyone awake till they slip into exhausted sleep. Being back three houses is best."

"Right"

Sara came out to meet them, wearing a little piece of material than perhaps could be called shorts and a halter covering her heavy hangers.

"You look mod and great," Harry smiled.

"But I bulge in the wrong places.

Harry squinted at Sara and she looked nervous. "Would you do a wee thing for me, once a day?"

"If I can arrange it around baby caring duties."

"Come to the gym with me once a day for ninety minutes -- I'll pay the monthly sub."

"You think I'm too fat?" Sara said, poking out her bottom lip a little.

"I think a quality trainer -- and I'll pick one out for you -- can help you reshape your body and tighten the curves. You put in the hard yards and you'll be astonished at the difference -- but it takes sweat and guts to continue."

"Like Jessie Chicago has?"

"Yes."

"Could they give me her figure?"

"No."

"Well, you're cruel but honest. I'll talk to Aunt Carson," said Sara, as they walked through the heavy wood double doors to face a stunning ocean view.

"My God, a view like this should be illegal," sighed Harry.

"Take Sara at whatever time you wish to go in the morning, Harry. She will drive you. Our gym is only five minutes away."

"Good, she'll really benefit and it will boost her confidence in herself and give me a better body to gaze at while I think about my next novel."

"You dirty old man," giggled Sara. She then frowned. "Oh, mum phoned while you were out. I told her about the meeting on Thursday and she told me to tell you not to let the bastards screw you."

"Oh, you've got some sexual activity lined up for tomorrow," Harry grinned, and saw his hostess was not amused.

"This is business, big business, Harry. I'm sure you won't be interested."

"Try me."

"I'll get a bottle of wine and three glasses if I'm allowed to sit in on this."

"Thank you, Sara. Yes, sit with us."

Over the next two hours Carson spoke about her life with Philip, a part inventor and part business entrepreneur. A fanatical keelboat sailor he worked on developing systems for making yachts easier to sail in terms of electronic instrumentation, fittings and sail furling systems. Initially he improved on what was available in the marketplace then started developing his own systems. Philip built up a company by over the years taking in four other mates as working shareholders; as each of them left he bought them out until becoming sole owner.

In need of capital he attracted a US blue water sailing corporation as half partner, and that continued until last year when the corporation pulled out to raise capital to go into a much larger venture. Philip went back to his original four partners and three of them accepted the offer to work for the company again, each buying a 25% shareholding that allowed Philip to buy out the Americans.

"Earlier this year Philip developed a very cheap hand-held device that could automatically download every thirty seconds all of the yacht's computer feed-out on instrument readings right down to tensions on sheets -- which are the ropes that control tension on sails. He was flying to an airport in the States with a contract for $9 million American dollars to produce a large shipment of these devices when the chopper went down, killing everyone instantly."

"So that was the end of that; I'm sorry."

"No -- the contract remains valid. All that needs to be done is to set up the production unit. His three partners want to buy me out and get cracking."

Harry looked thoughtful because he could see Carson's frown.

"But they want to cheat you?"

Carson shot him a gratified look. I have my suspicions."

"Do you have papers I can glance at?"

"Yes, help yourself." 

Carson went out, returning with a thick folder.

"Amuse yourself Harry. Sara, come help me with dinner; bring that half bottle for us and open a new one for Harry, please darling."

"Oh Sara?"

"Yep."

"When will Lydia wake up?"

"Around 7:00 as we begin to eat. We've trained her to join us."

"Excellent."

After a lovely dinner and they all had a play with Lydia, she went back to bed and Sara disappeared to watch some puerile Reality TV Show.

"Well, all rubbish to you, no doubt," Carson said handing Harry his coffee and looking at the business folder.

"Not at all, very interesting. I take it the meeting to conclude the sale agreement is tomorrow afternoon?"

"Yes."

"This lawyer advising you, Peter Doig, and the accountant, Fred Quirk -- they are the company's lawyer and auditor?"

"Yes, they were Philip' professional advisers ever since they left university together. Are you saying to me, don't trust them?"

"They have a vested interested in keeping on earning fees from the company which will continue after your exit."

"Yes, I'm aware of that."

"That automatically makes them suspect, as they are also two of your three partners. They want the best deal, not for you but for themselves."

"You've been reading too many detective novels."

"Ha-ha. It's how the system works, Carson. Now listen very carefully. This certified valuation of the company's shares shows a valuation date that was after your husband's death. How much does that valuation differ to the last valuation prior to his death?"

"Thirty-two point something percent down."

"Hmmm."

"What? There was a slump in sales the moment Philip' death was publicized by the media."

"Yes but look have sales climbed back since then, with the company assuring clients about business viability, guaranteeing continuity of supply and servicing of product and adherence to guarantees?"

"Yes, they are almost back to normal."

"Right, so at that meeting tomorrow you sit there and request a valuation update of the company. There's another thing -- they have included all the set-up costs for producing the products under the $9million contract, but that expenditure does not occur until after your planned exit. Tell them to remove those costs from the liabilities for the purpose of the new valuation as you won't be around to pick up the profits arising from that short-term investment for production over the next three years."

"Oh God, Harry. I can't do that. We are all friends and have socialized as families for years."

"Will you consider another suggestion?"

"Yes, of course," said Carson, looking worried and vulnerable.

"This is not a matter of friendships, it's a matter of dog eats dog over money, so you need to get it right to avoid getting ripped off. Now here's what I suggest you do..."

After Harry had finished Carson rose and said she'd check on Lydia.

"I could kiss you, Harry. You have been so helpful, so re-assuring."

"Don't do that, Carson. Women who kiss me at night usually can't say no."

"All right Harry. After you come back from the gym in the morning we will set up for you writing; I'm a touch-typist and am used to editing on-screen at intervals. I am going to be your unpaid assistant."

"I can easily afford to pay you."

"But Harry -- look at the car you were driving and look at the house you live in."

"But I live there because it is central and because I grew up with my car; it was my parents' house, my parents' car."

"Oh Harry, oh Harry, how thoughtless of me. I am so sorry. I have no wish to denigrate either your or your parents' choice. Forgive me, Harry."

"You are forgiven -- but come and kiss me goodnight, Carson. I promise not to seduce you or be in any way naughty. My mission while I'm here is three-fold: to help Sara find a better body; to resume writing and to help you get back into your stride so you can meet your perfect replacement husband."

"I'm not ready to consider that yet Harry."

"There never will be the right time. As we speak some quality candidates are being snapped up."

"Oh Harry, you are incorrigible," said Carson, coming up and kissing his lips without allowing their bodies to touch.

Harry was happy, the happiest he'd been since his parents moved away to enter an expensive retirement village, having to re-start their lives that were running out -- his mum was sixty-nine his dad seventy-nine. He had two much older brothers but they never bothered with their parents.

The saying goes, "You're only as old as you feel." His parents had acted old for most of his life, which was a worry. It was unnecessary but it was their choice. But he, Harold Quentin Truscott -- God, what an ancient mouthful, thought Harry -- was feeling young again simply through fraternizing with younger people -- Lydia, six months; Sarah nineteen years and Carson was only in her thirties.

For the past twenty years, which is a convenient span to think back, Harry was aware he'd not belonged to any community group. Not a single one. But was he alienated? No, because when he saw people in trouble, he pitched in to help a little, and if they appeared lonely he chatted a little. Minimal effort, he admitted, but simply knowing names of people gave you the feeling of community and because he was casually friendly he became known and acknowledged. Few people in his community, though, knew he was a big selling author simply because most people in his neighborhood didn't read books -- they read magazines and watched TV.

In bed that night, his first night in Carson's home, Harry thought about Carson and was concerned for her welfare -- he was eager to help her find a man, a strong figure of a male head of household who Carson would come to love deeply, and Lydia would adore. 

That was called the perfect match, almost impossible to achieve, particularly second time round. The more Harry thought about it the more he lost headway until he had to admit he was stymied. He grunted in frustration until the answer came to him: how would Jessie Chicago handle this situation for her best girlfriend?

Wearing his boxers, Harry went to the kitchen for a glass of ice-water. It was dark, but already he'd memorized the layout. He walked to the fridge and poked out a hand when he could faintly see a glimmer of background light on the stainless steel door -- but most of that image was blacked out.

Huh?

His hand touched something warm and very soft. Harry knew instantly it was a woman's breast.

Sara's! Oh no.

"Sorry," he said. "Bad navigation."

"I vaguely saw you come in -- you walk incredibly softly."

Harry's mind soared -- he'd not touched Sara's tit; it was Carson's.

"Why are you walking around in the dark?"

"Because Lydia is almost asleep. She suckles until she's half asleep and then slows her pace, so I become bored sitting in a chair, so just pad about, aimlessly but it gives me the sense of freedom."

"I've been thinking of you, attempting to go to sleep."

"Naughty boy," she giggled.

"I'm going to rescue you, Carson."

"Give it a rest, Harry. I'm fine, I don't need rescuing. I've had some years with one of the finest men around, and am left with his child. What more could I ask? However, it's very heroic that you desire to intervene on my behalf, Harry; very noble, but not required. Do you understand?"

"It's one way of looking at it," Harry said, brushing past her and feeling only skin. She was totally nude! 

"Er, excuse me; when I open the door of the fridge to get the ice water the light will go on and you are, um, not dressed."

"We'll if that will embarrass you, don't look. Lydia is not embarrassed."

"Er, this seems to be a sneaky way of doing it."

"What, glimpsing my body? Open the door and look at me, Harry. Let's get it out of your system."

Harry pulled the door handle, desperate that the light bulb should not choose that moment to expire. He looked around and saw Lydia attached to a breast; his face softened and Carson saw that clearly. Carson's lower body looked lovely; her bush obviously was clipped.

"What do you think?"

"A great mother and child image has been captured, and you have great legs."

"Right, thank you Harry. Those were two lovely compliments. Now pour you water and go to bed; I want you to have a great sleep as we have a big day tomorrow."

Carson watched him walk away, swagger really, as she held the fridge door open. She reached for her secrete cache of chocolates to find only one left. Sara, of course, had discovered the hide-out soon after she arrived but she never scoffed the last one, which was a caring thing to do.

Carson was pleased with a discovery of her own, that Harry was not a one-dimensional character. By appearance he looked very slender one-dimensional. Discovering that he was Jessie Chicago's creator had certainly signaled that his mind was not one-dimensional, and the way in which he'd taken to Lydia was little short of astonishing for a bachelor without family around him, or it certainly appeared that way as Harry had given her the impression that even his parents didn't like him.

But why was that? It seemed crazy. Here he was talking about his mission being to help her find a suitable man. He wasn't conforming -- all women think men only think of themselves when it comes to sex, at least that's what she'd be told.

Carson yawned and wondered if Harry was good at sex. She walked to the nursery, smiling.

Sara and Harry drove off to the gym at six. They both signed in and Sara was shown around, introduced to various piece of equipment, then had her basic medical and various programs were discussed. She was then taken to a cycle and pedaled until near exhausted, her performance noted, given a rest and then asked to perform on a rowing machine.

The instructor then mapped out a program for Sara and drew a diagram of the circuit she should follow for three weeks when she would be given a re-assessment.

Meanwhile Harry went on a cross-trainer and watched the three personal trainers in action.

Sarah came up to him. "I want the muscular guy."

"Why, Sara."

"He looks good."

"I want you to have the little guy."

"What, that weed? This other guy would eat him."

"Weight for weight I'd put my money on the little guy. But not only that; he demands performance, he hasn't let that woman slacken up, not even when he trots over to help someone adjust weights. He keeps looking back, checking and checking. If you want good results reasonably quick, he's the man."

"Righ, Carson seems to trust what you say, Harry, so why shouldn't I. I'll have him if he's available."

* * *

At 2:00 Carson and Harry arrived at the offices of Mariners' Proven Products Ltd and were shown into the boardroom where the three partners, chairman Max Satterthwaite, Peter Doig and Fred Quirk were waiting. They all looked curiously at Harry and his brace.

"Max, this is my new independent advisor, Harold Truscott. It's not necessary to explain anything about him, expect to say he has full authority to act on my behalf. Unless he is accepted, we have no deal -- right?

"Carson, Carson -- we accept your right to be assisted by an independent advisor. Perhaps you can provide some brief details about this gentleman?"

"Come on guys, you heard the lady; let's get down to it. I'm Harold Truscott, known as Harry, and Carson has given me a thorough briefing so I know who you all are just by her verbal sketches.

"Carson, could you leave the room please."

"Yes, Harry."

The other three directors sat down as Carson left the room, but Harry remain standing.

"Mr Chairman, may I continue speaking?"

"I don't see why not; you have us intrigued," smiled Max, totally unaware of the squall about to hit, which would wipe away that smile.

"Right, guys. Let's keep this simple with no finger-pointing, at least not at this stage. My advice to Carson after reading documentation is that you guys are attempting to rip her off, big time."

"I beg your pardon," Peter Doig thundered.

"Should not Peter wait until he's invited to speak, Mr Chairman?"

"Yes indeed," Rex told Harry who avoided looking at the presumably scowling face of the lawyer.

"The offer you have made in writing to Carson of $2,331,700 comprising the valuation of her late husband's shareholding, equipment he personally installed and the full transfer of intellectual property rights he held legitimately in his own name, is fine except it needs to be hundreds of thousands of dollars higher, based on a more recent valuation of the company's assets."

The partners looked uneasy. 

"As well you know the current valuation was done soon after her husband's death which was amid a period of severely slumped trading following his death. Our understanding is that trading is virtually back to normal. I have two pre-sale conditions to impose and an ultimatum, but Carson should be in the room when I present them. But first, let's clear the decks of any bad feeling over this; there is no need for Carson to be subjected to discord in view of her recent loss."

Harry sat down, well pleased, and smiled broadly when the silence in the room was punctuated by loud slow handclaps from Peter Doig.

"Someone has a humor," quipped Harry, and that was greeted by nervous laughter.

Peter leapt to his feet.

"Mr Chairman?"

"You have the floor, Peter."

"Mr Whoever-You-Are, you have the gall to come in here an accuse us of attempting to cheat Mrs Robertson in the sale of her assets within the company to the remaining three shareholders. This is preposterous; indeed it is irresponsible and a severe libel."

"Peter, if you want a case of a totally incompetent presentation of a sale and purchase agreement proposal to presented for a declaratory judgment in Court, and followed --should the outcome be in Mrs Robertson's favor -- by proceedings against the company and its advisers alleging fraud and duplicity, then Mrs Robertson and I will find a damn good lawyer who will take you guys to the cleaners."

"Sit down, Peter," said Rex, wiping his forehead.

"Fred."

"In my professional opinion, Mr Chairman, the passage of time in bringing negotiations this far calls for the need of an updated valuation of company assets against current trading results."




A Woman with Mongrel Ch. 01



"Meaning?"

"The valuation needs updating, just as the man said."

Rex: But this could add another million bucks to the purchase price.

Fred: That is possible.

Harry: If that presents a problem Mrs Robertson and I are prepared to buy out you three shareholders at our valuation and find a buyer to take the company as a going concern; it does, after all, have the signs of becoming an international gold mine.

There was a lengthy silence.

"Any further comments?" asked the chairman. "No, then please ask Carson to come in Peter."

The faintly smiling Carson entered and Max explained that Harry had correctly pointed out that the valuation of assets was out of date.

"Harry, would you like to state your two conditions and ultimatum you mentioned to us."

"Yes Mr Chairman. One, that a new certified valuation of assets be carried out immediately and the sale proceed, based on that valuation. Two, that the company sets up a trust funded entirely by the company at $10,000 per year for five years, to be called the Philip Robertson Memorial Scholarship to be awarded to the student graduating with the highest marks in electronics at the end of the first year course in the three-year Diploma of Marine Technology at our city's Technical Training Institute. The ultimatum is that if there is not total agreement on items One and Two that Mrs Robertson and I offer to buy out each partner for $800,000 cash, which is not bad money since your original investment was only $150,000 each. We anticipate we can easily treble our money by selling out to the Americans."

Harry was pleased to see Carson staring at him, a slight smile on her face. He'd not discussed with her the demand for the scholarship or the joint purchase of all assets.

"Carson," said Rex, after a brief word with financial adviser Fred Quirk. "The new valuation should be completed by midday on Wednesday next. Could your and Harry now leave us to discuss these new proposals and we meet here on Wednesday, commencing with lunch."

"That would be satisfactory, Rex. Come on Harry."

As soon as they were outside, Carson turned on Harry: "Harry Truscott, please answer me this: how the fuck can we get our hands on a further $2.4 million cash to buy out those jerks?"

"I've got some put away, quite a lot actually, and once a mortgage company takes a look at the new valuation figures they will open their coffers to you."

"You didn't tell me about making this ultimatum and neither did you tell me about the memorial scholarship which, actually, I think is a sweet idea."

"I didn't think you would wear the ultimatum because of the risks -- Diomedes Mantell would have done it that way. I only thought of the scholarships when I saw those guys sitting, smirking at first, and I thought the bastards and they should pay for trying to rip off the wife of their late buddy."

"Good one, but $10,000 is not much."

"Perhaps not, but it will help some keen kid. Besides, if the company remains here instead of going offshore and the scholarship wins them kudos, they will be smart enough to increase to value to get more mileage."

"Diomedes Mantell's a pretty smart guy. I'm putting you on a promise: if I get more money than I was expecting from the sale, then I'm going to be very nice to you."

"How nice?"

"Very nice. I'll buy you a great present."

Back in bed, listening the breeze-blown sound of little waves arriving to kiss the sands in hypnotic frequency -- which is why he had the slider door open -- Harry fretted, fighting sleep. It was all too nice, too incredibly pat. She'd said she would buy him a great present, but her eyes indicated to him, unless he was very mistaken, that she was going to let him seduce her. This was all wrong -- any red blooded man wants SEX but not a reward. His mind clicked into creative mode as he searched to find the answers. Surprisingly, it came almost instant: Carson was deficient in one area -- yes, that was it! She had everything, except she knew she had to have a man she'd loved. But where was her mongrel, her flashing lights? Carson looked fabulous, spoke great, er, spoke beautifully, moved gracefully and was ever so charming -- a mother's perfect dream. In fact an advertiser's dream -- the perfect cardboard cutout of the ultimate woman. But where was her fucking heart, her passion! Triumphant that he'd figured out the problem, Harry slipped asleep and during the night dreamt of Carson and then Jessie arrived and confusingly the figures of the two women became ghost-like and merged.

Harry cried out in his sleep, a cry of frustration, but it was drowned by the 13th wave hitting the beach -- the wave in a sequence that comes in a little larger, a little nosier than its twelve predecessors. Anyone thinking that all waves were the same size needed to think again. As Harry would say to himself, 'Even Diomedes Mantell knew that'.

Lydia cried and feet padded along the floor to her nursery.

Nursing Lydia, Carson thought most people would automatically dismiss Harry as a nobody. Harry never appeared to shave properly and his hair was a walking mess, though she'd noticed he did have a brush and comb in his bathroom. They showed signs of having being used -- some tentative ritual ingrained by his mother no doubt but his mother probably had not pressed on to teach her boy how to brush and comb properly.

She'd teach him, thought Carson, and then flushing, thought she'd do no such thing. She smiled, thinking how heroic it had been offering herself in an oblique way to Harry, at least announcing it was on its way. Her face clouded. She'd made it conditional on receipt of a greater amount of money thanks to Harry's intervention. She'd offered herself to him over money? Oh God. No wonder his offhand reaction had disappointed her; he'd been appalled. He'd would be denied the chase - real or emotional - that apparently men revel in, grinding a woman down in relentless pursuit until the spoils lay before him.

Now Carson did more than flush; she stirred sexually and knew it. Harry's face, lined in disappointed, appeared before her. She pressed back in the nursing chair, wanting that face gone, and it disappeared. It was replaced by another face, a face she didn't know and then, eyes held tightly shut in an attempt to retain that image, Carson knew why she didn't recognize the face of Jessie Chicago -- it was because Jessie's face was terrible sad. This was uncharacteristic -- Jessie never, never, never was sad unless Diomedes Mantell was in jail or in hospital undergoing surgery after being shot or run over by a car in an attempted assassination. Carson opened her eyes. Jessie's image faded away and Carson wept; she had no right to do this to Jessie -- trading off sex for money, that is.

Realizing she was half asleep, her mind in confusion between reality and dredging pages of second-rate fiction. Carson did not resist. There was an answer here somewhere. Jessie was coming before her for a reason. Carson smiled. She was aware these 'visitations' -- if that were the correct term -- were progressive. Each time Jessie was becoming more real to her; she only saw Jessie, never Diomedes.

There would be a reason for this, of course.

She'd been mortified at injuring a person -- any person -- even a scruffy male author of ridiculously old-fashion type detective novels which he seemed almost solely responsible for a revival of the genre. The old style, that is, because plenty of wannabe authors were writing detective stories but delved boringly deep into modern forensic methods, electronics and some were now based on space craft chases between planets, for heaven's sake. Carson had been given a bumbling detective novel two or three years earlier, and in her loneliness after the death had picked it up to read, knowing it would be light and puerile, easy fodder for her wounded mind. The reading experience had been not too bad; in fact she went out and returned home with seven other titles in the series and the bookshop ordered the other three in the series and pre-ordered the greatly anticipated twelfth novel, as it had been suggested towards the close of the eleventh novel that Jessie Chicago was prepared to propose to Diomedes Mantell.

Carson had asked the owner of the small book store how many pre-orders did she have for that book. The elderly woman looked into her ruled hard-back notebook and said seven hundred and thirty-two. Almost blown away by that, Carson had told the woman that was unbelievable. Annoyed, the bookstore woman tossed the notebook on the counter and told Carson to take a look for herself. The thick notebook was devoted entirely to 'The 12th -- pre-Christmas'. 

Running down pages of names Carson saw every name she looked at was female. She handed the register back. 

"Now do you believe me?"

Carson had nodded.

"Women everywhere have become fans of Jessie Chicago. I reckon that the writer Harry Truscott is a women's pen name because no man is capable of writing so brilliantly about Jess's sensitive moments."

Carson had laughed and said the photo of the author on the inside rear of the dust jacket was definitely scruffy male -- her very words! The prim woman had snorted, and said that authors were deceptive bastards -- her very words! They laughed and Carson went home with her books, and that night began to fall in love with the character of Jessie Chicago.

Carson stirred and directed Lydia to the other nipple.

Jessie Chicago had first appeared in her dreams so vividly because Carson had absorbed details of character build-up; she'd been painted as quite an action girl -- she was big into fitness -- and the writer was big, too brutal in fact, on Jessie's eccentricities. In comparison, Diomedes Mantell appeared almost bullet-proof.

Carson jerked upright in the chair, taking sleeping Lydia with her.

"That's it!" she cried. "He draws the character of Diomedes well but he's superb with Jessie because she'd become a monster and possessed him -- she's forcing him to develop her into the perfect women. And that's true -- as the sequels have appeared her deficits in character have become less conspicuous and even in sex with Diomedes she's reacting to Diomedes as only a dream woman would."

Carson shrieked in triumphant laughter. That woke up Lydia, who began crying, and Sara came running into the room.

"What's up? Who are you talking to?"

"Myself, I know why Jessie Chicago is beginning to haunt me."

"Have you been drinking?" Sara charged. "More than half a glass is bad for Lydia."

"No, only the half glass I had last evening. How many of the bumbling detective series have you read, darling?"

"I'm on to the seventh."

"What can you remember about Jessie Chicago?"

"She's just an amazing woman, so inspirational. Stupid Diomedes Mantell fails to see that. He only has her to help with the driving over long distances, to cook when they are camping and of course, for all the sex. Gosh, are you aware that if the woman..."

"Sara!"

"What?"

"Let's leave the sex out of it just for now. I want to become like Jessie Chicago."

"You?"

The almost derisive look on her niece's face horrified Carson; what did she see that Carson didn't?

Lydia gurgled at them, so Sara took her and suggested they go to the kitchen. It was 5:30 so Lydia might take some solids.

"What's wrong with me becoming like Jessie Chicago?"

Sara avoided eye contact, which made Carson stiffen slightly; this just would not do. "Sara, I need the benefit of your advice, your youthful rising perception."

"See -- you're wheedling; Jessie Chicago never wheedles."

"Wheedle. I never wheedle."

"You do... you smile too much...you are boringly constantly pleasant...you avoid any behavior that would make you appear vulnerable...and goodness knows what else. You are my adorable auntie, but you cannot become a Jessie Chicago."

"Oh Sara, you shock me; is that how you see me?" said Carson, smearing a tear on to her cheek. "I never realized. I always try to be good, to be pleasant to everyone. I always have, even to my dolls."

Sara avoided being drawn.

"Come on Sara; I shan't wheedle. Come on, you little bitch, tell me exactly what I am."

"You can't even pull that one off, auntie, giggled Sara. "You're not supposed to look pleasant when you call someone a bitch."

"That's enough, Sara. Tell me as nicely as you can; but give it to me on the chin."

"You constantly act like an ageing Barbie doll."

Carson staggered backwards, hands behind her back reaching for one of the bar stools; she needed to sit down. Her pretty face, devoid of makeup, had paled and she was obviously near to the watershed.

"Don't worry, Aunt Carson. Everyone loves you and everyone knows Jessie Chicago is too wonderful to be true. Everyone. Do you realize a Jessie Chicago Fan Clubs has launched in Chicago, with branches springing up everywhere, and now even leading women's magazines are attempting to explain the phenomena? I read on the Internet at midnight that a kind of hysteria is developing because the author of the bumbling detective series has been injured in a car accident but has been discharged from hospital and has just disappeared. There's a fear that it won't be Christmas without the twelfth novel."

"Ohmigod, those poor women. I can imagine what they feel. We must do something."

"What?"

"Let me think. I know, fetch your digital camera and take a photo of Harry. Make sure you get the arm brace and make sure he's decent -- drape the sheet over you-know-what discreetly. Then come to the computer -- I know a website I can use to post the story -- but we must remain anonymous otherwise we'll be besieged by the international media."

"Can you do this?"

"Of course, I use to be promotions officer for Kelly Drake Fashions."

"Kelly Drake -- oh God, I never knew that. She's a legend."

"Well, Sara, your mum has never been interested in anything beyond horses, babies and lambs, has she? She'd addicted to farm kitchen fashion."

"You're funny, auntie," giggled Sara. "I can almost imagine Jessie Chicago saying something like that."

With Lydia happily playing on the floor with a necklace, Sara watched Carson download the image and edit it.

"Gosh, he's getting a little porky around the belly -- he needs to work out more at the gym."

"He's probably gaining weigh, Sara, because he's not having sex."

They giggled.

Carson accessed the website she wanted and copying one of the pages she'd designed six years earlier, cleared the graphics and text, inserted the photo and added the caption: '

Wounded by not down, sleeping author Harry Truscott had taken refuge with two women dedicated to restoring him to health.

She then inserted the text she'd written in MSWord and formatted for a web page: 

Author Promises Jessie Chicago Will Come Through for Christmas.

The story, of course, was a complete fabrication as it quoted Harry who remained unaware this was going on.

Carson then scanned Harry's driver's license, and found letters from his literary agent and publishers which contained the addresses of their websites. She then linked the web page she'd constructed to the websites of Harry's agent and publisher and to the website address she'd taken from the record of Sara's midnight visits of sites -- Home Page of the International Fan Club of Jessie Chicago.

Finally, Carson sent off emails to the Chicago website webmaster and to Harry's agent and publishing editor, alerting them to the existence of the webpage, which would soon be posted. She inserted a screenshot of the page she'd constructed.

"Why did you insert the scan of his driver's license?"

"For authenticity -- it's fairly difficult to fake a license, isn't it?"

"I suppose so. But the media will hunt him out, won't they."

"I suppose so; that always happens in books and films. But except for the gym, I'm going to keep him indoors."

Their house guest appeared. "Hello, you two -- looking at adult websites, huh?" Harry grinned, bending over and pretending to shield Lydia's eyes.

"I've never looked at an adult website in my life," Carson said stiffly.

"And that's what is partly wrong with you," whispered Sara.

"Come on, Harry. You can play with Lydia when we return -- let's hit the circuit. I'll pretend I'm Jessie Chicago and show that little barbarian who masquerades as a personal trainer that I've got what it takes."

"Who is Jessie Chicago?" asked Harry, straight-faced.

The women looked at each other and groaned.

TO BE CONTINUED... 



A Woman with Mongrel Ch. 02



SO FAR: A still grieving widow Carson Robertson hospitalizes in a vehicle accident the author of the bumbling detective book series that is growing in popularity, Guilty at injuring the creator of the fabulous character Jessie Chicago, Carson takes Harry Truscott into her home to help in his rehabilitation. Harry has a broken shoulder that is encased in a gunslinger brace. Carson reads back copies of the series and finds she is beginning to share the persona of Jessie Chicago and is influenced by Harry suggesting she ought to lace herself with more 'bite' -- he calls it mongrel. Carson's niece Sara and Carson create a website they link to the new Jessie Chicago fan club in Chicago; the article announces that the missing author is alive and well and is working on the hotly awaited twelfth book in the series in which Jessie is expected to propose marriage to the Bumbling Detective.

*

With baby Lydia asleep and author Harry Truscott and her niece Sara George away at the gym, Harry's hostess and benefactor Carson Robertson poured a coffee and began reading The Bumbling Detective Duels with Baron Von Hoff. 

It was selective reading of course, a piece centered on Jessie Chicago's fears as master swordsman Baron Von Hoff crosses blades with the bumbling Diomedes who is about to be carved up like a roast unless he puts aside his personal code of conduct, draws out his .38 Smith and Wesson Special and shoots the villain.

During that quiet time, tears dampening her cheeks, Carson came to realize what Sara had attempted to tell her: The over-riding thing that Jessie Chicago had that Carson didn't was passion. Jessie had it galore, enough for two people.

Carson put the book down. She was doomed to remain an ageing Barbie Doll -- good gracious, did Sara really have to say ageing -- if she truly lacked passion. Her one hope was perhaps she did have passion but had never learned to release it. Barbie dolls! Carson had never been into them, but her Molly and Susan had been dolls of character. Dolls with passion? No, they were always perfectly behaved. Carson wasn't sure if she preferred the word bitch or the word mongrel -- both were pretty repulsive. But if that's what it took to drive passion out of her then she'd have to find the switch. 

One niggle remained -- what if she could become something like Jessie Chicago -- her friends would probably think she was on drugs. Did that matter? No! Her mom was to be blamed for creating the Barbie Doll likeness, ruminated Carson, an edge of resentment running through her belly. Her mother always wanted Carson to be so good and made it so difficult for her to resist her mother's persuasive charm.

The deceitful bitch -- all she wanted was to hear her friends say her daughter was such an adorable child. With resentment rising, Carson hadn't been aware that she's just tagged her mother with an awful word she never used. 'Bother' and if really wound up, 'damn' were about tops for sweet-mouthed Carson, who'd rate as the perfect antithesis in character to Jessie Chicago.

Picking up the phone Carson began calling friends -- she decided to host an impromptu barbecue party beside the pool tomorrow night. Her parties were legendary -- everything was always so nice, the people so well-behaved. A very predictable Mrs Barbie party.

"Grrrrrr," growled Carson aloud. "Let's try to let out the mongrel." 

Sara came in first, her tights almost dripping sweat.

Carson was about to frown and say, 'Darling, perhaps it would be best if you shower before coming home' but caught herself. "Oh, look at that lovely sweat, darling; you must have thrown yourself into it this morning." Sara gave her a peculiar look and said something about going to shower.

Harry came in, red-faced and still perspiring. Carson walked over and kissed him, saying, "Did you give it heaps this morning, Harry. Come, I'll help you shower."

"Nice try, you sound almost authentic."

"Get into the fucking shower!" yelled Carson, pointing at the door to his bedroom. She did her best to look furious.

"Sorry, baby. But my mind is made up; I'll not try to touch that body of yours until I'm rid of this brace."

"Oh men!" wailed Carson, and stomped off to her bedroom, slamming the door.

Harry stood, mouth open, scratched his head with his good arm and went to shower.

Lydia began crying.

Thirty minutes later Carson came out, announced Lydia was asleep and told Harry she could put a couple of hours in working with him before she went shopping. Harry offered to accompany her shopping but Carson said no, quite defensively, he thought, unable to figure out why.

Harry and Carson were moving along quite well with the new novel, which was half completed when Carson took over on the keyboard. She resolved that she was not comment on Harry's dictation -- she was simply there to hit the keys and correct literals; it was, after all, his book.

Being soft by natural, Carson found it fairly easy not to interfere. Temptation to comment critically came only when they were working on the best part -- the red-head Jessie herself, especially during introspective musings. Harry would utter some uncharacteristic thought, quite unlike Jessie would think, but before Carson could type those words he'd call 'halt', and reword that passage. Eventually Carson had to concede that Harry knew Jessie better than she did, as he possessed future action thoughts about Jessie.

Initially the team -- Harry dictating and Carson keying in the words -- was anything but a team. Harry was unused to dictating and changes were rife.

"This is hopeless, it won't work," Harry had said. "With all these interruptions to correct myself, my thoughts are just not flowing on to screen."

Harry was sitting right up against Carson, she found this very acceptable. She could smell him -- his signature odor. It was very masculine and without doubt pleasant. She wondered if she could smell her womanly scent -- she believed that was what her natural body odor was called -- through her perfume? If he did, he gave no sign of it like...like what? As if sniffing the air. 

Oh God, what was she thinking!

She was becoming interested in sex again, and knew it, and not only because of erotic dreams. A couple of days ago she'd seen a man, working on ripping off covering on a pitch roof, stop, and take off his shirt. The site of bared, sweaty flesh caught in the morning sunshine had stirred her.

During her mourning, sex had been the last thing on her mind, and during times of depression she'd often thought she would never be with another man again -- not after Philip, he was so special. That preparedness to remain celibate in tribute to Philip nosedived at a small party once evening. Sally Quirk, who rather away on gin, mentioned the company's assistant general manager was also missing Philip.

"Why?" asked Carson, with enough sparkling wine aboard to retort before she thought.

"Because they occasionally were at it."

They'd both giggled until Carson comprehended what she was giggling about. She was devastated, sank to the floor in a heap and had to be put to bed. Everyone thought it was post-death syndrome -- that she was at a social function and realized Philip was not there alongside her.

Carson has left her bed thick-headed next morning, ready to feed Lydia, absolutely determined to pull her money out of the company. It was either that or getting the adulterous woman fired, but that woman had a child and out-of-work husband to support.

Harry had returned from a nervous visit to the toilet.

"Harry, you are sitting all hunched up by me, looking at each word as I type it, this can't be a creative way of doing this. Why don't you try walking around the room, hands in pockets, looking at the carpet, looking out of the window -- looking anywhere but at me and the computer? Just walk and talk." Miraculously, that worked. They made great progress that day on The Bumbling Detective Considers Jessie Chicago's Offer of Marriage.

Carson loved that title. Harry explained that the publisher wouldn't want such a long title, but the executives could go to Hell; either they accepted that title or no book.

"I can't imagine publishers accepting ultimatums, Harry, not even if you were an A-list author.

"Well, it sometimes pays to have a bit of mongrel in you, Carson. You know that, the jerk Diomedes Mantell doesn't but you know who does, don't you Carson?"

Carson knew Jessie Chicago did; Jessie had mongrel when it counted. By having that she's managed to get them out of tight corners time and time again. Mongrel, eh. That's never come to the surface with Harry before, and she'd never heard him refer to Diomedes Mantell in such an uncomplimentary way before. He called Diomedes a jerk!

Oh oh!

Carson clamped a hand over her mouth to cut off an anguished scream. She knew why Harry had just admitted something to her, in a very obtuse way...Diomedes the jerk was going to reject Jess's proposal of marriage!

Carson began to cry; she didn't want to cry but the tears still came.

"Oh Carson, Carson -- what's wrong?" called Harry, coming to her and placing his good arm around her. "Oh, you're shaking. Is it Philip?"

"Don't do it; don't do it Harry," she said, running from the room.

She didn't return and he heard the SUV roar off as if a hoon was driving it.

Harry went to the kitchen for coffee. Sara handed him Lydia and poured the coffee.

"What's up with Carson?"

"She doesn't want you to do it, Harry."

"She said that to me, but don't do what?"

"She didn't say; think Harry, you must know."

"I don't know anything," Harry whined, his mind a complete blank.

"Dad-dah," said Lydia, blue around the mouth.

Sara didn't appear to have heard what he thought was Lydia's first word.

"Sit down and flip her over, and rub her back in the way I've taught you Harry. She has wind."

Babies are just as complicated as women, mused Harry, settling down again, as thought processes reconnected. Why does Carson want to go shopping? She went to the supermarket this morning.

At the mall Carson sat in the SUV until she was calm. She tidied her hair, freshened her lipstick, and walking away from the vehicle in a very determined way, heading to the most expensive and daring dress shop in the mall.

* * *

The three adults watched TV together and when Sara departed Harry took her place on the sofa beside Carson.

"Carson dear, I'm sorry I upset you earlier today. I don't know what I did, but I apologize."

"That's fine Harry," she said, swinging around and kissing him full on the lips, pressing right into him. Then just as quickly, she was seated back upright, ready to watch one of her favorite programs.

Harry was slightly dazed. Was that a kiss, or was it what?

"Carson!" screamed Sara.

"Oh God, it's Lydia. She's been very windy today."

Harry's face crumpled.

"Oh Jesus, I've done damage trying to bring up her wind."

They raced out, and found Sara standing at the door to the computer room, smiling hugely.

"What is it?"

"Your web page -- the counter on it shows 7603 hits."

"But that's impossible; there is a delay before posting, it probably has only been up for a couple of hours."

"Sorry, Carson, the count now is 8557 hits."

"Eeeek!" shouted Carson. "Go to the Chicago website."

"What's all this about -- and why is the photo of me in bed half-naked on screen?"

"Later, Harry. Go Sara." 

Sara brought up the 'Official Home Site of Jessie Chicago' maintained by the Jessie Chicago Fan Club of Chicago, Illinois.

"Oh, will you look at that," breathed Sara.

"You beautiful people," sighed Carson.

Harry simply gaped.

He's Alive and Jessie Chicago Lives! stated the banner.

The article quoted the World President of the Jessie Chicago Fan Club, Eleanor Silverstein, as saying reports that the author of The Bumbling Detective series had been wiped out in a rage motor accident by an insane woman driver had been dismissed as 'a complete fabrication'.

The creator of Jessie Chicago had just been released from hospital and had gone into retreat to complete the twelfth novel expected in bookshops before Christmas, stated the article.

"That brings immense relief to the fans of the heroine figure Jessie Chicago who is an inspiration to elegant women around the world who know how to kick butt when she has to."

The article concluded that the author's survival of the accident had been confirmed beyond doubt and then provided the website address of the page containing further details.

"We need to refresh our page," Carson said, smiling slyly, as Sara moved out of the seat.

Carson added an update: NEWFLASH: Author Harry Truscott has resumed writing the twelfth book; it is titled The Bumbling Detective Considers Jessie Chicago's Offer of Marriage.

"Carson, you can't let the publishing editor see that cold -- I have to make submissions and explain my reasoning for wanting an unfashionably long title and that submission, if approved, then goes to the editorial board and then..."

"Stuff you, Harry; where's your mongrel," Carson said, signing off the change to the webmaster. "There, all done. The Jessie Chicago Fan Club members will from tomorrow be ordering the book of that title and the publisher will be advised of those orders. By the time we have finished with our advance promo, we will have generated a million advance sales, I reckon, perhaps two million. Have faith in yourself little man."

Carson swept from the room, humming 'The Grand March from Aida'.

"She can't do this, and her estimates of sales are ridiculously high," snorted Harry, pumping up ready to battle verbally, only his target had flown.

"She has done it, so get used to it Harry," Sara grinned. Aunt Carson's worked in marketing so will know what she's doing. Look at this meter reading of hits on her webpage -- er, our webpage. It was at 102,557 hits half an hour ago."

"Oh my," Harry gasped, wiping a hand across his mouth. It's just clicked 189,909. This is unbelievable."

"What's happened to her, Harry; I've never seen her as aggressive as this -- she was almost bossy to you?"

"Dunno, must be the excitement of this evening's barbecue.

Sara checked their Bumbling Detective author's webpage at midday and found the hits exceeded 220,000. 

"The momentum is picking up Harry," she told the author Harry Truscott. "We may have captured a half million clicks by nightfall."

"Nah, they'll begin to fall off soon."

"You don't understand, Harry," Sara said patiently. "People will by networking by email, chat sites and text messaging on their phones. The big rush will come during the next twenty-four hours and then it will tail off."

"I think I should contact my agent and publisher -- they will be frantic about what's happened to me."

"Don't do it Harry; Aunt Carson says we must build the suspense."

"Well, if Carson wants that, so be it. But they will find me anyway as you said you emailed them copies of the web page -- they have this email address and will soon have your street address and phone number -- you amateurs have left yourselves wide open," Harry said, flushing in triumph.

"Aunt Carson used her former employer's website; they went out of business two years ago but the rental for the site on the Internet Service Provider's server was paid five years in advance to get maximum discount. She sent the emails from within the web page and they can only be traced back to that page, unless whoever is searching digs really deep. Somehow I don't think the agent or the publisher will do that."

"Carson's has brain as well as looks, doesn't she?"

"Harry, if you have just concluded that, you are a slow learner for the creator of a smart-ass detective and his superwoman sidekick."

"Don't be too hard on me, young Sara. I am just a male."

Sara giggled.

"Little wonder my aunt likes you."

"Likes me -- you mean Carson?"

"Oh Harry, sharpen up will you. Do you want her to blow a mating call trumpet?"

"Sara!"

But Sara had left the room while he was reaching one-handed to fish out his handkerchief to wipe his steamed-up glasses.

At 3:00 Carson arrived back from shopping then loaded the SUV.

"I'm taking Lydia over to mom's as arranged but I'll change over there. Don't worry if I'm a little late -- you have met most of those coming, Sara, and Harry you'll know Fred Quirk and Peter Doig and because you are male the women will soon introduce themselves."

"Peter Doig," Harry said doubtfully.

"Yes, Peter. A bit stroppy but he knows law and has been a friend of this family for a long time. His wife Lisa was my chief bridesmaid and we went through school and university together."

"Fred's more my type."

"I guess the meek attract their kind, but I can live with that -- at least you are both gentlemen."

Wow! mouthed Sara to Harry behind her aunt's back.

By 5:30 everyone had arrived, the only person missing being the hostess. It was noisy beside the pool, with voices raised above the CD music chosen by Sara and not being played too loud, on Carson's orders.

The conversations stopped abruptly and some of the men went virtually pawed the ground. Carson had arrived. She was stunning. The fair curls had gone, her hair was now straight, the back cut square at the shoulder line, the color now copper as were her lips, and fingernails and the choker. Carson wore no bra; that was very obvious; the mid-calf dark green dress was very tight, slit almost up to her right hip bone and she wore dark green suede boots.

"Doesn't she look magnificent," marveled Lisa to Megan, wife of the company chairman/senior partner Max Satterthwaite."

"Quite breathtaking," agreed Megan but I hope she remembered to place pads against her nipples as she will express. If I were feeding a baby I wouldn't dare go bra-less."

"What do you think of your auntie, dear?" smiled Lisa. "Come on, Sara, say something."

"She's become Jessie Chicago."

"Who?" asked Megan.

"Good God -- the look certainly fits," said Lisa, who was half-way through reading one of Harry's novels. When visiting Carson and finding out about Carson's 'man' who was at the library doing some research, she'd chosen The Bumbling Detective and Sidekick Do Rio. "She's going to reward Harry by having sex with him, isn't she? That always happens in the book."

Sara nodded.

"What has he done to deserve a reward of that magnitude?" snorted Megan, who possessed the conservative view that the purpose of sex was for conceiving babies.

Both Lisa and Megan waited expectedly for Sara's reply, but she disappointed, saying she really didn't know.

"I know -- that Harry fellow has put his nose into the deal the company had offered Carson and according to Max it's going to cost in excess of another million dollars to do the deal," said Megan.

Sara snapped right back. "No, no. Never for self-enrichment -- Jessie Chicago only does it out of gratitude for the man she secretly loves or alternatively to release the tension build-up from fighting to save his life."

"Who on earth is this woman?" asked Megan.

"Jessie Chicago," chorused Sara, Lisa and two of the three other women standing nearby who'd been drawn into the conversation.

They all laughed, and then their attention was distracted by shouting on the other side of the pool.

"You had no right to bring him into negotiations that were all but concluded," fumed Peter Doig, throwing his empty whisky glass into the pool.

"Go home, Peter -- you're drunk."

"I shall inform you if and whenever I am drunk," he said loftily to Carson. "I want you to attend a meeting tomorrow where you shall be asked to sign at the original unconditional offer."

"Bugger off, Peter. I'm disgusted that as my advisor you did not look after my interest adequately."




A Woman with Mongrel Ch. 02



"You slut -- look at you, dressed like a prostitute!"

"Stop it and stop it now, Peter," yelled his wife Lisa across the pool. "You had too much to drink at lunch and now you're drunk. Apologize to Carson and go home."

"Fuck off all of you," Peter said surly.

"You're the one fucking off," Harry said, taking him firmly by the arm.

"Ah, it's you lover boy. Goodnight Harry."

Peter broke free and without warning sunk his right fist into Harry's stomach -- Harry's gym-toned stomach. Harry staggered back two paces, hurt a little and winded but still on his feet.

Peter came back at one-armed Harry who fended off the punch, and slammed a counter to the ear, causing Peter to howl with pain.

Harry's next left jab caught Peter on the nose, drawing blood. As Peter staggered back Carson said calmly, "Good night Peter" and raising a leg, booted him on the hip and he lurched into the pool.

Coming up spluttering, Peter floated for a moment then said, "Oh Hell, Carson. I don't want to spoil your party. I've been a real prat, a poor loser and I apologize. I'm very sorry Carson, sorry Harry, you're a tough bastard; darling I'm terrible sorry to have embarrassed you and sorry gang for messing up."

"Come out at the steps, Peter, and change into some of my clothes," Harry called.

"Thank pal -- but just a minute while I dive to find my glass. I have no wish to be accused of casting litter."

Everyone laughed, Sara turned the music up, the neighbors complained, Harry suggested to Carson that she invited the neighbors over, they accepted. 

The police broke up the party just after midnight following complaints from the wider neighborhood but there were no arrests or citations issued; the woman police sergeant was told it was a Jessie Chicago party as she was a fan of Jessie's.

Carson took Harry to her bed.

"I'll not take no for an answer, Harry, she said undressing him after his one-handed visit to her bathroom.

"Thank you for saving my evening. I must reward you."

"I may be too intoxicated to perform."

"Well, then, just come along for the ride."

"We may wake up Lydia."

"She's with my parents along with bottles of expressed milk. She has a regular little milk bar over there."

"Sara might hear us."

"Sara helped Lisa take Peter home and she's staying there the night -- Lisa understands what motivates Jessie Chicago AND Carson Robertson."

"Who's Jessie Chicago?"

"Quit stalling," Carson said, taking off her dress, which left only her boots and socks to be divested.

"Do you remember what these are for, old fellow?"

"Uh-huh, but you are out of action up there, aren't you?"

"I think not. Instead of dry sucking you'll be able to get a reward for effort, but I warn you it will probably cause milk flow and I'll be dripping all over you."

"I really don't see that as a problem. Are you going to turn out the lights?"

"No."

"I'm easily embarrassed."

"That's too bad, sweetie. I've something else I really want you to inspect closely, incredibly closely in fact."

"I'm getting hot."

"It must be the liquor."

"I don't think so."

"Oh, that sounds promising. Now let my feel this little thingy in these underpants; I suppose it's all soft and coy.

"Oh my God! Start sucking baby, but remember we don't have to make this first one last all night. I'll probably become a little sore through being out of use and it being post-natal; just let's rip into the first one or two.."

"A couple? Usually I'm only good for one -- two if I get excited."

"Not with me you won't, after doing it twice I'm only warming up."

"Yes Jessie, er, I mean Carson.

"Jessie is fine if you wish, Diomedes. Speaking of Diomedes..."

Sun streaming into the room woke Harry. His injured arm felt good, just its uncomfortable self, but his left arm was killing him. Oh the fight, he remembered the fight with Peter. He felt his left shoulder, feeling hair -- long woman's hair. 

Blearily Harry looked down and saw copper hair. That's funny, he thought, I don't recall knowing a redhead that intimately. Then he remembered -- Carson had taken him to her bed, this was her bed, her bedroom. He wondered had she really fucked him as she'd threatened to do. He groaned, remembered he'd been stealing her baby's milk.

He sighed, and went back to sleep, thinking he felt drained; she must have gotten him away, and more than once. Why had he taken advantage of Carson like that?

Carson woke mid-morning, feeling as if she were floating on a bed of sweet flowers and the tiny surf at the beach was playing her tune. She stretched and realized she had been leaking top and bottom, then remembered why.

It had felt incredible sexy when seeing Harry's head at her breast and he'd been so gallantly gentle, even gurgling and calling her mommy until she was ready to explode and was prepared to give him everything and as much as he wanted.

All the time though with her thoughts racing, she'd been aware he was Harry, not her handsome new prince. Her hands had confirmed he was loosing that flab around his tummy from being at the gym, then when she levered out his erection she was glad that it wasn't as huge as she'd first thought and it pleased her it was really thick, believing having Lydia would have made her a little wider down there. Only it didn't happen like that.

When she'd lifted away, leaving Harry grunting, milk running down his chin and looking dazed, Carson realized he was indeed drunk and she wasn't that far behind him. This was a potential disaster! Oh damn, she'd thought, tears about to come and then giggled at what came next.

"Tears about to cum," she'd brayed.

"What?" asked Harry, looking cutely puzzled, eyes trying to focus on the breasts swaying over him provocatively.

"About to cum," she'd giggled.

"Oh damn, I'm nowhere in," he'd complained, dragging his good hand across her soaking vulva. Missing her slit, one of his fingers touched her clit and Bang! She was away in an incredible ejaculation. 

Yes! Carson crowed to herself. An ejaculation! She'd not had one of those for a very long time, and even then had had to assist Philip to get her to that level of climax.

She remembered struggling to plug Harry in but within seconds collapsing back on to his good shoulder, very aroused but very tired. He appeared already asleep -- she'd checked, he still had half an erection available. Then she was aware she was slipping off to sleep, so thought let the journey continue. She felt so happy.

Carson kissed Harry -- the closest thing to her was his left nipple so that was kissed. She smiled wickedly but her goodness triumphed so she refrained from nipping it.

Padding out to the bathroom, Carson thought for a moment she'd had sex; she was covered in dried goo. Then she remembered what had happened. Her chest was covered in dried milk and no doubt his lickings and she was personally responsible for the way her thighs were almost sticking together.

This was definitely not vintage Carson. After sex she always showered and re-presented herself pristine clean. This delighted her -- the image she was seeing in the mirror with a satisfied look on her face was the new Carson, but not Jessie Chicago, not even an impersonation. At least she didn't think so. Carson re-emerged from the bathroom humming and musing during the night I left my period of mourning behind me. Carson remembered something her mother had told her during a pre-marriage pep talk: "All men wake up with erections."

Returning to the bed, Carson threw the sheet off Harry, and licked her lips at the sight of a pre-loaded erection, thinking it must be pre-loaded because it hadn't fired during the night, at least not to her knowledge. She began gently licking and kissing it and fingering his testicles -- or nuts as men preferred them being called. 

It was a beautiful penis to lick, looking much younger than Harry, and not much surrounding hair. She wondered if Harry would want her to shave; if he expressed that preference she'd say to him okay buddy, but I want the hair off you. Such thinking made Carson feel deliciously naughty because until now she'd tended to suppress such thoughts.

When she was midway tonguing on a long upwards stroke and happily humming, she felt Harry's fingers wrap around her right ear.

"Oh baby, the things you do to me," he cooed -- yes cooed, she thought.

He sounded fine and VERY interested. Carson squirmed and lifted, allowing the fat head of his penis to pass into her mouth. She hadn't always tried to jam the penis of the moment down her throat, but obviously Harry was one of those guys who needed the full works if he were to fire more than once. She always wanted this session as it was unfinished business and a test to determine whether her ejaculation a few hours ago had been a rogue one or there were more to come.

She was going to fuck this man until he'll be barely able to walk and then he must relieve her of some of excess milk, Carson smiled. Her eyes widened -- not because of what she had in her mouth, but because that was Jessie Chicago talking -- it was Jessie, passionate Jessie!

Carson went to work and Harry's eyes didn't only widen -- they bulged.

It was almost midday when Sara called.

"Hi, it was a great evening, apart from Peter, wasn't it? Oh my, you should have heard the tongue-lashing he received this morning. He's agreed to come crawling to you with a beautiful present and be genuinely contrite, otherwise..."

"Otherwise?"

"Lisa didn't say, but we know what she means, don't we?" said Sara.

They giggled.

"Did you?"

"Yes, finally this morning. I'm so happy."

"That great auntie, I'm so happy for you."

"Sara, drop the title auntie, huh; permanently."

"Oh great, Carson, I've been wondering about that for some time; we've become almost like sisters. You were awesome last night. Mom would never have had the guts to dress up so daringly like that. I'm sure if you had been so top-heavy as a result of nursing, you would have been the replica of Jessie Chicago."

"Oh yes, well later today I'm having my hair taken back to its natural color and re-curled. The charade is over."

"Okay, but you'll have to revert back again after Harry has his brace removed."

"Why?"

"I've been thinking. We must make a movie clip -- I'll hire a commercially quality camera. We'll put the clip on the website -- with you announcing the forthcoming arrival of the new book."

"Sara!" shrieked Carson. "What an amazing idea. Oh, you're such a clever girl. You will be producer but I'll hire a full production unit and we'll do it properly. We'll have a mix of dialogue; I'll mime a sexy song and Diomedes..."

"You're going to the expense of searching for an actor to pose as Diomedes?"

"No silly, we'll use Harry. Who do you think Diomedes is if he's not Harry reinvented?"

"Oh God, and the books allow this -- Harry is eight years older than Jessie Chicago. You're brilliant, Carson. We'll really have to work on him -- no, he'll need a professional make-over."

"Yes, good one Sara. I think you've at last found your niche as a career -- this stalling is over. You need to enroll in advertising and promotion studies, taking the first available chance to enroll. You must continue staying on here, unless you wish to reside on campus; it's over to you."

"The promotion idea was our idea, Carson."

"Entirely yours -- you were the originator, Sara. It's a dog eat dog business world which is why I couldn't hack it any longer, but you have mongrel in you."

"Mongrel?" "Yes, a hard streak that when the going gets tough you shift up a gear or two, as much as it takes to cope."

"Advertising and promotion studies, eh? I like the thought. If I work on your production, even as assistant producer, it will be a valuable addition to my CV."

"If the admission panel includes women, you will waltz through selection, my dear. Anything to do with Jessie Chicago is going to be BIG, and when they read you have described yourself as the niece of Jessie Chicago's creator..."

"Harry's niece?"

"It's advertising and promotion, darling, not the real world."

"Oh, I see. Of course. Uncle Harry, eh?"

"Um, I suggest you keep that to yourself, darling. There are some things men don't handle some things very readily."

"Like deception?"

"That's the one, baby. You are all grown up. It's been good for you being with me and having responsibility for Lydia."

"I've just checked on Lydia, which is the reason for phoning. Your mother says milk supplies are almost depleted. I've never heard anyone use that term, although I know what it means."

"It's old person's English, darling. That's why she winces when you greet her with 'Hi'."

"What alternatives are there?"

"Good morning, good afternoon, good evening where appropriate will work wonders."

"You are so clever, Carson, such a brilliant role model.

"Carson! Are you there Carson?"

"Sorry, I dropped the phone," said Carson, in shock at hearing herself described as a role model.

"He won't be sleeping in my bed when you are in the house, darling. We will be very discreet -- probably sneak off to a hotel."

"Don't -- just do it where and when you feel comfortable. On the lounge floor if you wish; I'll shield Lydia's eyes and ears. In fact I wouldn't mind a piece of him myself -- our Mr Scruffy is turning out to be quite cute."

"Sara!"

"It's your fault, Carson. You're the one triggering my, um, mongrel."

"Oh darling, come home with Lydia. You obviously are in need of caring counseling."

"That's not a subtle way of trying to protect your man."

"Come home you bitch, and if you put one foot wrong I'll scratch you eyes out."

"Yeah, right on. No wonder women love Jessie Chicago, Carson -- or was that Jessie speaking. My mum is going to feel she's lost her sister, her role model. She's always regarded you as sophisticated, intelligent and incredibly feminine."

'Bronwyn holds that impression of me? She's never said so. I've had the impression she looks down on me as being yet another person corrupted by the city."

"You're forgotten how country people think, Carson. They don't need mongrel -- they have deep belief in nature, God-given values and regard narrow-mindedness as essential for achieving ultimate sainthood."

"Oh Sara, you're exaggerating. But I do agree they tend to be a bit bigoted."

"There you go, but drop the words "a bit'. But they are lovely people when amongst their own."

"Hurry home, Sara, I'm missing you."

"Me too. You're the greatest woman I've ever known, Carson and I love you as much as I love mom."

"Carson?"

There was no answer as Carson was looking rather bewildered; she was eying her phone which had again crashed to the tiles, this time turning itself off.

Carson picked up the phone and found it still worked. She phoned Bronwyn.

"Oh God," Bronwyn said apprehensively. "What's happened to Sara; you never phone me in daytime?"

"Nothing, she's wonderful, she's a most wonderful person, Bronwyn; you must be very proud of her."

"Carson, are you on drugs. You wound extraordinary happy and you were reluctant to take in Sara, remember? You never actually said that, as you are too nice to say such a thing; but I read body language."

"Come here on Friday and stay the weekend, Bronwyn, bring Tom if you wish -- yes, bring Tom -- Harry will like him as he doesn't have city versus country hang-ups, at least not to my knowledge."

"Who is Harry?"

"Creator of Jessie Chicago."

"Ah, a real twerp obviously if he's given a woman a stupid name like that. What do you mean created -- carnally or fictitiously?"

"Oh my, my elder sister has found she had a brain. Come and stay the weekend, sweetheart. Sara and I want to do something to you; the boys can look after Lydia."

"Oh, darling Lydia, still too young to be corrupted by the city. How is the little sweetheart?"

"Good I am assured. I haven't seen her since yesterday afternoon."

"Carson! That's unforgivable; oh, the poor little defenseless darling."

"Sara and mom have things under control -- Lydia was just having a sleep out."

"A sleep out, oh why didn't you say, although she's still a bit young for that. But never mind. What are you and Sara have in mind for me if I do decide to visit?"

"Of fuck, Bronwyn. Lean to live, learn how to enjoy the anticipation of being surprised.

"Carson," screeched Bronwyn. "Never before have I heard you use that awful word and you're speaking on the telephone and I think there are regulations against use foul language on the phone or using it to incite sedition and..."

Carson allowed her sister to exhaust her thoughts on that subject.

"Are you coming on Friday?"

"Yes, of course. It's a mission now."

"Then in that case bring Tom or else don't come -- we'll need someone injecting humor around the place. I'll get mom and dad over for a barbecue beside the pool."

"The pool? Can't we eat inside?"

"Why?"

"We all know that goings-on that start at, um, poolside barbies as they call them."

"It will be a family gathering, with the exception of Harry, who Lydia, Sara and I consider family."

"Who's Harry?"

"Diomedes Mantell impersonated, or is it the other way around?"

"You are not making sense, Carson."

"It will at the weekend -- I'll give you The Bumbling Detective Meets the Sensuous Jessie Chicago to read."

"That sounds a load of tripe. I'll give that a pass thank you."

"Sara's on to the ninth book in the serious; I'm not sure they're suitable reading for her."

"Leave the book at my bedside. I'll look into this. I better go as I have lambs to bottle feed."

Carson saw she had a message from Lisa Doig. She called back and told her friend not to mention the Peter thing. She knew he hated being beaten. Carson knew he had this short-coming but she still liked him and he and Lisa were perfectly matched.

"How's that?"

"You always had a preference for large parts."

Lisa screamed with laughter then said she'd never heard Carson talk like that, never.

"Look, the other reason why I called -- has anything happened between you and Harry yet?

"Yes, this morning."

"Oh God, I'm so happy for you Carson, you were becoming a bit of a worry. Look, anytime you want to have a wall-to-wall fling, just bundle Sara with Lydia over here for the night. Sara's surprised me, she's such a lovely girl and had us in fits over breakfast describing the differences between you and your sister, saying her mother seems more like fifteen years older than you rather than five."

"That's very lovely of you to make that offer, Lisa. I'll call on it if needed."

"Oh, alternatively if you ever need someone to look after Harry, just give me a call. Sara's told me Diomedes Mantell is really modeled on Harry's ego. I'd really like to explore that concept."

"Keep your hands off him, you bitch."

"Hmmm. Sara also told me you have modeled yourself on Jessie Chicago which made me realize why you were in that ridiculous get-up last evening and what would be in store for Harry for helping you to save your party. Isn't it so sordid living in the city, darling?"

The call ended and Carson sighed. She and Lisa had grown up in the country, being near neighbors, and had not escaped to the city until entering university together and their lives remained intertwined. If Harry were to stray from her, she wouldn't mind so much if it were to Lisa.

Carson, Sara, Lydia and Harry were reunited as a family over the evening meal. Carson and Harry had agreed to maintain a distant relationship 'in the interest of the family' and adhered to that despite the nudge, nudge, wink, wink behavior from Sara.

Carson soon put a stop to that.

"Your mother and father are arriving on Friday to stay for the weekend."

"Oh, heavens; I better get my room sorted out, mom has her standards, you know," said Sara, fighting panic.




A Woman with Mongrel Ch. 02



"Bronwyn will be hunting around looking for signs that you have been corrupted by the city," Carson smirked, needlessly increasing Sara's panic but feeling not at all repentant.

When they were alone Carson said to Harry, "Will you miss plumbing my depths this evening, my curly headed boy?" Carson enjoyed using her new sense of being able to heartlessly play the part of a sexual provocateur but this teasing foreplay was negated by Harry sighing in relief and saying, "Thank God, no demands on me this evening."

At 11:00, staring at awe at the webpage, Sara and Carson found it difficult to comprehend -- the number of recorded 'hits' stood at 923,333, but alas the incoming hits appeared to have slowed markedly. 

Carson used her experience to produce the analysis and solution as one: 'We're wilting; we have to rev up slack potential respondents who are not bothering to lift off their butts."

"Simulate artificially with promo drive."

"Good girl," Sara. "Bring up the web-page and let me at it."

Once the page came up Sara moved to allow Carson to take control.

Hullo world.

This news release is presented on behalf of Harry Truscott. He has a mangled arm in a brace resulting from the crazed woman who rolled his car with her SUV in Tauranga City in New Zealand, which most of you think is somewhere off South Africa.

"Carson, you know you mean Australia."

"The idea is to allow the fans to feel superior if they know where New Zealand is."

"Oh, sorry."

"That's fine, Sara. Promotions and PR is all about positioning, sometimes known as 'spin', rather than reality. You must think where you want to be, even if that is unobtainable, rather than where you would expect to be, given performance, history, current trends and latest information."

"So you lie?"

"Er, I prefer the recognized and unpublished term -- 'we manipulate circumstances to our advantage'.

"But Carson, that almost sounds plausible, almost acceptable even to conservative thinkers."

"You're a smart kid, Sara. You'll go far in this business with that instant perception of yours."

Carson continued her new page.

Harry Truscott, author of 'The Bumbling Detective' series is struggling to deliver to his readers in time for Christmas, is being assisted in his rehabilitation by the woman whose drunken driving slammed him into hospital. She visited him in hospital and something flickered between them; through his unkissed, bruised lips he asked her to help him -- he needed a sanctuary, home care and someone to transcribe his dictation to a computer document.

"I must get my manuscript to my publisher in time otherwise I'll ruin my fan's Christmas," he wept in a mix of shoulder pain and frustration,

"Harry wept?" commented Sara, her more refined figure from gym work beginning to show but her incredulous expression identified where her focus was.

"Darling, in PR you must strive to plunge to the heart of your target, in this case readers. Their heart, especially for women, is the centre of their vulnerability. Make them cry, even to the point of an uncontrollable dry sob will suffice, and they become more receptive to the message, but you still have to drive home the stake."

"Yuk, you sound like the peasants dealing with Dracula."

"God, Sara, you are such a natural. It's almost a waste of time you going to university to study, though you do need to learn how to manipulate student loans, recover from lost library cards, acquire computing hacking skills and to widen your experience in sex. But, rather than divert, let's end this new message to fans of Jessie Chicago."

Weakened by the accident, Harry Truscott is heroically attempting to produce the words that will allow the charismatic Jessie Chicago, who has become the darling of women around the world, to express for the first and only time her true feelings towards private eye Diomedes Mantell. If Jessie fails to confront Diomedes now, he'll never know the wondrous love capable of erupting from Jessie's breast. Please, dear fans, tell your friends to click on to this website, read the latest news about Jessie, and then order her book for Christmas. Order copies for all your friends.

This is not a sales pitch. If Harry Truscott knows there is support for him writing the words that will bring Jessie face to face with Diomedes for this moment of truth, he'll continue to write, ignoring the pain and discomfort of his injuries.

"That's awesome, Carson. In terms of sheer emotion, I believe you write better than Harry."

"I think so too, darling. But for God's sake, don't tell Harry that. Men don't like to feel their superiority is threatened."

"Carson, you are simply fucking amazing."

"Thank you darling, but watch you mouth. You are being groomed to become a lady."

Before going to bed after some heavy web surfing, Sara checked the page counter again -- it had advanced only by 31 hits. She went to Carson's bedroom to report, disappointed.

"Don't worry darling," comforted Carson. "Our new story will come on-line via the webmaster in a few hours, in time to catch Northern Hemisphere web surfers and Jessie Chicago fans before bedtime. There will be a flash response."

"Pigs can fly, Carson."

"Oh you young person of little faith. We have shafted women to the heart, Sara; news that the new story is up will flash round the globe, just you wait."

At 5:30 Lydia woke up Sara. Sara took Lydia to Carson then she checked the webpage counter and then her scream woke Harry and half the neighborhood.

"We've scored 2.389 million hits," she yelled. "The world is reacting."

"That's only the English speaking world," called Carson. "Imagine the response had news about had Harry's twelve volumes been printed in other languages.

* * *

Words were falling from Harry's lips in vibrant fluency, with few breaks in dictation to correct mistakes or orphan thoughts with his dictation. There still were breaks for fine tuning, just as he would back-track his own typing for editing.

"We're hitting the rhythm at near maximum speed -- congratulations for bearing with me."

"Yes, you are in your stride. Talking about hitting the rhythm, Carson said. "When are we going to get together again? I didn't expect we'd be going at it like a married couple but we've only had the one session."

"Oh, I thought we'd had more?" teased Harry, drinking his coffee.

"There will be no more if you can't remember what you've had, you ungrateful detective writer," Carson said primly, unaware until too late that the pot was being stirred.

"Tell me, Carson. Just how much do you really like being pounded?"

"Pounded is not how I would describe sex as I like it. But hadn't we better resume?"

"You mean sex or the book?

The severe look he received throttled back Harry. "Okay, okay; just joking. You are a magnificent help Carson, and we're now actually ahead of schedule. I think I should take you out for dinner tonight."

"And stay at a hotel?"

That popped out without Carson really meaning it. But at least she'd avoided uttering the addendum, "I'll pay"

"What a splendid idea -- what we would do alone in a hotel room I have no idea."

Carson just stared at him, shaking her head as if dealing with a naughty child.

The next session it was all on, with Jessie preparing to propose to Diomedes.

Carson's fingers danced over the keys and joy spread throughout her; this was Harry at his best and she adored it:

Jessie hitched up the minuscule cotton top that barely covered her new front-fastening blue French lace bra with its straps embroidered in tiny pink roses, each individually personalized with hand sewing. This creative garment of frivolity with its laid-back sexiness cost Jessie the equivalent price -- a guesstimate of course -- of what two couples in uptown New York or Paris, each with two teenage mouths, would spend on food for home-cooked meals for a month.

Her new black skirt made in Dublin of all places was patted smooth over curvaceous flanks, and she checked alignment of the seamed patterned stockings from Madrid and the long bright matching red ear-rings manufactured by her shoe-maker in Milan. Then, tapping her nipples to stand proud, Jessie entered the study and in a sultry voice invited Diomedes to the table.

The Bumbling Detective about to re-assemble the parts of his .38 he'd just cleaned and oiled thought about calling for a delay, but Jessie's straining breasts under that cute little top were signaling she was hot, ready to go -- dinner was ready, and hotly so. 

Diomedes was aware a body like Jessie Chicago's was one-of-a-kind -- an exclusive limited edition conceived only once per century throughout the entire Planet. Therefore he was being enticed to the dinning room to savor that body, to plaster it with slices of roast beef and gravy, decorate it with leek and cabbage leave, position roast potatoes at strategic places meriting extra attention and he'd be ready to eat his fill lasciviously but with the manners of a perfect gentleman. That was rubbish thinking of course. Both knew that continuing the tradition, Jessie would eat in the kitchen later when doing the dishes and clearing away.

"Well?"

"This is making me horny,"

"Carson, that is the sweetest thing you could say to me; doing that to you in bed is one thing, but to achieve that level of sexual stimulation simply through prose is the writer's ultimate accolade."

"Oh Harry, Harry," Carson cried staggering over and collapsing against him, with the distinct feeling that an orgasm was not far off. 

With a passionate two-handed yank Carson sent buttons flying around her like missiles as she ripped the shirt off mouth-opened Harry.

He'd wanted Carson to get mongrel; well here it was, rising from the depths and now evident in her behavior, in the intensity in her eyes the way her body jutted forward, her jaw rigid. "Are you sure this is what you want -- in perhaps another four to five hours we'll be at the hotel or we could even call into the hotel before going to dinner?"

"On the floor buster, watch your injured arm."

Harry shot a look at the floor, then a pensive look at the door.

"The d-d-door," he wavered. "It's not locked."

"Lydia's asleep and Sara is beside the pool sunning herself. For heaven's sake, Harry where's your mongrel -- grab it when it's on offer, if that's what you want."

That tipped Harry. He began grabbing anything he could get his hands on.

"That's better Harry, cooed Carson, attempting to slow down, as mongrel-pumped or not she had no desire for Harry to recall this encounter as being forced sex. "Help unbutton something, darling -- I like being naked when I have sex."

Harry started dribbling, his breathing rate rising.

"Good boy," she purred, knowing she had become Jessie Chicago

"My, haven't your grown since last time we played together. Oh my, Harry -- that's even more impressive," hissed Carson, only her top half bared, falling on to his legs, her tongue reaching out to wet him. The rest of her clothes could come off after she was done with this entrée.

Harry's good hand dug into her hair and gripped hard.

"We're ready, are we?" she muttered, plunging on to his erection with a deep-throated animalistic cry that Carson, wide-eyed, knew that wasn't her -- she'd never uttered a depraved sound like that in all her life...um...her sexual life.

Harry had become hot. Hot hot, that is, so within a minute he was bucking and jerking and Carson was yelling in pain as her hair was being yanked.

"How was that darling?" Carson smirked, wiping her mouth.

"Bea-utiful," smiled Harry languorously, which was the wrong thing to say if he'd fancied a brief rest.

Carson flew on to him, sliding off her skirt and panties with a hand and a hooking foot as she went. Being a multi-tasker she had no problem avoiding colliding with the brace while landing in the right place for docking.

Harry went almost cross-eyed watching the heavy breasts flying towards his face but acting on their own accord his hand and mouth took on the left-hand one, the best choice in fact because Carson landed tilted away from his shoulder immobilizer. He was blinded by breast but as Carson took care of docking her body moved down, allowing Harry to see something other than blue-veined flesh that was beginning to suffocate him.

'Man suffocated by big boob babe during sex.' Harry filed away that mental note; it would turn up sooner or later as the method of murder by a female being hunted by private detective Diomedes Mantell. The thought of poor Diomedes under threat of that creepy woman reacted on Harry.

"Gosh Harry, you've grown even bigger -- what have I been feeding you? But come on, let's have some action from you; you're resting back like a suburban housewife."

Carson shrugged. She knew nice Carson never thought like that let alone talked like that. She'd wanted to be possessed -- well obviously she had. She'd just have to get used to it and be her new self.

"That's right Harry, oh that's g-r-e-a-t. Oh Harry. Oh H-a-r-reeeeeeeeeee!"

Crimsoned face, red-chested and blowing like a beached porpoise, Carson gasped: "Clever boy, Harry -- that contribution was almost perfectly timed. We must practice more frequently. Achieving my purpose in life is my constant goal."

Harry's complexion looked an awful mottle of pink, blue and white and he wasn't the handsome new man she tried to dream about, but Carson kissed those lips with enthusiasm. She eased off to take in more air and kissed him again, gently this time and he ran his tongue under her bottom lip. He wasn't young, rich and handsome with a tremendous personality she sometimes dreamed of, but he was here! Carson moaned, opening her lips, and their tongues met.

Carson settled in for some serious kissing, aware they'd not cleaned up the study carpet. Their breathing rate slowed and if anything the kissing became softer. Carson kissed his nose and eyes, and licked both his cheeks, knowing she wasn't kissing his like one of the sexy sirens he wrote about. She was kissing him as if she loved him.

Carson, now in passion depletion, was very aware of that thought that had just crept into her mind. She smiled: her mother and sister were going to have a fit and her dad would rub his chin and wait to be told what to think by his wife. It didn't occur that Harry might not want her to love him.

They cleaned up and she helped Harry into a new shirt. 

Carson was in the kitchen when Sara came in with a stupid grin on her face, obviously not a grin from reading a book. If she says one word about hearing my screams I'll thump her, thought the woman always too kind to thump anyone or even berate an errant dog in her days on the farm.

"If he continues working on you like that he'll be good for you," Sara grinned, and was gone.

My niece is growing up, her mom is going to be amazed about this, but she'll probably cry because she's losing her little girl. 

Hot coffee over-ran the mug on to fingers. Carson said "Fuck" and dunked her fingers into her mouth, double glad -- glad that the coffeemaker was set to low-medium water temperature and glad that she'd said that horrible word. The mongrel cloned from somewhere appeared permanent.

Sara collected her coffee on the way out.

"Have a lovely time this evening and leave your phone on."

"What, so you can hear my screams?"

Sara attempted to ignore that remark but realized it was a joke. She looked at Carson, flushing.

They giggled.

The remainder of the afternoon was terrible for Carson, but she was determined to remain brave. Back on the book, after Diomedes and Jessie had wild sex on the table, they showered and cleaned up the room then went out for desert and coffee.

At the restaurant after being served their brandies, Jessie went around the table and sat on Diomedes' knee. She told him that he was the greatest man she'd ever met and she loved him.

Diomedes attempted to say she loved him for the sex, but Jessie silenced him, an elegant finger over his lips. She then said she wanted to marry him.

Diomedes' response was disappointing. All he said was, "Hmm." 

Jessie tried not to cry but the tears came [just as Carson's did and she typed that passage].

The lovers returned to the apartment, Jessie saying she'd sleep that night in the spare room. In the morning Diomedes found she'd gone.

Carson sat hunched over the keyboard and she heard Harry say quietly, "It's good to have emotion, Carson but this is only a story."

"It's not just a story, you fool. Woman desire to see nothing but good happening for Jessie-- oh yes, danger and minor injury so Diomedes can came to her aid and that will bond them closer, but not this Harry."

"The genre compels me to have a happy ending. Just wait for it."

"I know that, but must our hearts be made to bleed like this; how can you men can be so callous?"

"Okay, okay. Should I tell you what happens?"

"No, no," cried Carson. "It must unfold for me otherwise it's not a story."

"The woman's mind is an amazing thing," Harry smiled. "Come on, let's get ready to go out or do you wish to cancel."

"No, it will be lovely going out. But I'll be a bit sad."

"Oh yeah!" leered Harry.

They had a delightful time. Carson knew she was drinking too much alcohol and only with the greatest effort managed to avoid hinting at Harry to propose to her. She'd earlier decided he would not like her going on to her knees, at least not to propose. God, what was she thinking!

* * *

Life was great, thought Harry anticipating a great week, with Carson getting her money on Wednesday, he having his shoulder checked on Friday with removal of the brace coming closer and Carson's excitement about her sister and husband arriving on Friday. He'd thought he could move into the guest unit beside the pool.

He'd bumped into Lisa at the local shops and they had coffee. She'd suggested that her stay with her for the weekend.

That thought appealed until she added that her husband and children would be away sailing for the weekend. Harry thought of the consequences of stroppy Peter Doig finding out that Harry had been a guest in his house while Peter was away, so reluctantly declined the offer. Lisa looked a little taken aback but Harry saw her face brighten when she read the disappointment on his face.

"Yeah, I think Carson might prefer having you sleeping under her eye."

Harry had nodded, was pleased to feel Lisa's knee touch his and she didn't jerk away; obviously she liked him. He felt a great urge to pat that knee in friendship, an urge that was not executed because of possible misinterpretation.

They left the coffee bar and exchanged farewells. Then without warning Lisa kissed him, on the mouth, and in the main street of Carson's shopping area where everyone seemed to know her; Harry slunk away, very embarrassed but he turned to see if people were finger-pointing or had their hands over their mouths in disgust. But no, there was no sign of disruption. Harry looked at the slight sway of Lisa's rounded ass outlined under her tight blue dress and his mouth felt dry, so he licked his lips, just as she turned and looked at him.

Harry your idiot, he censured, waving as Lisa shot him a triumphant smile. In remorse he bought flowers for Carson.

On Wednesday Harry couldn't take his eyes off Carson as they prepared to leave the house. She looked like Businesswoman of the Year, dressed in a black pinstripe jacket and skirt, plain white shirt buttoned to the throat, sheer black stockings and black patent leather shoes with five-inch heels, or at least his idea of what five-inch heels were like.

"You look stunning -- stockings rather than panty hose?"

She nodded, looking pleased, as her lips parted.

"Thigh highs or garter belt?"




A Woman with Mongrel Ch. 02



The lips parted further as she said, "If you're that interested, investigate."

Harry, in a grey suit, grey turtleneck and light charcoal slip-ons, walked over and staring into her eyes lifted up her skirt and then slipped that hand on to her thigh.

"Oh, excuse me," said Sara, back-tracking but not looking away.

Harry's good hand dropped as if it had been shot.

"Come in, Sara. Harry had the need to explore me."

Harry looked at Carson aghast, and glancing at Sara was aware she was similarly embarrassed. My god, he thought, this women has become truly possessed.

"Bodies should be fondled when there is mutual sexual attraction, don't you think Sara."

It seemed Sara didn't know what to think, but her chin lifted and she said, "Are you two getting much sex?"

The whites of Harry's eyes showed; there were three entrances to the room and he looked desperately at all three.

"I think I hear Lydia," he said, fleeing as braying laughter erupted behind him.

In the SUV when Carson was backing down the drive, her body twisted to peer up the street before turning out, Harry's question was answered: he had a great view of the tops of thigh highs.

"Sara -- she seems to be maturing in front of our eyes."

"She has a lover, Harry."

"Um, with your consent?"

"She's eighteen, Harry. She doesn't require my consent."

"Um, I suppose, um, she talks to you about it?"

"Only since I confronted her; Lisa gave me the word."

"You mean, Sara and Lisa's Jenni? Oh God."

"No Harry, Sara and Jenni's girl friend's older brother."

"Oh."

"Lisa is so pleased that it's Jimmy, saying she wouldn't mind a piece of him herself."

"She'd joking, of course."

"Not Lisa, Harry. She becomes very focused about sex. She was an old hand at it by the time I was deflowered."

"Do they still use that term?"

"I don't really know, but I do."

"Used it that sense it sounds heroically romantic."

"A man would think that way, Harry -- but in fact I was eager to be deflowered because I was nineteen and becoming desperate."

"Lisa allows this Jimmy guy and Sara to do it in her house?"

"She has a cabana down at the pool, like us, but their pool is down a bank from the house, so the setting is very discreet. It's a wonder Lisa hasn't invited you over to see her cabana, Harry. She hasn't maintained her notoriety by being chaste."

"No? Um, could we switch the subject? We're almost there and I don't wish to walk in...um...walk in."

"Walk in with a tent pole you mean?"

"Carson!"

"Okay, okay," she laughed. "Now don't drink too much over lunch as you'll have some tough negotiating to do afterwards."

"No."

"No what?"

"You won't need me. They'll say here's the registered valuation and here's the sale and purchase agreement, exactly how you wanted it and here's the money; sign and it's all yours and then we'll go back for more drinks."

"Never, Harry. These guys are tough."

"You're wrong, Carson. They've been told what to do by me, and know that I was correct in everything I said, and now they've been told what to do by their wives, your friends. It will be a two minute signing session, Carson."

Turning into parking lot, Carson involuntarily showed more stocking top. "You're too used to making things happen as a creative author, Harry. You're dealing with reality here and looking at it through tinted glasses."

The signing meeting lasted all of two minutes. Harry didn't bother going in with Carson, despite her anxious protest.

Megan Satterthwaite, Crystal Quirk and Lisa Doig gathered round him and gave their thanks for Carson's miraculous rehabilitation.

"Miraculous?" commented Harry.

"Yes," said Megan, who'd offered that particular phrase.

"She was a dying swan when she met you; now look at her."

"But I've done nothing towards her recovery, as you put it."

"It's where you've being putting it," Lisa snickered.

"You've given her new purpose for living, Harry," Crystal said. "She's absolutely captivated by your writing and enamored by Jessie Chicago who came to Carson at her greatest moment of need -- you are Carson's hero, Harry. Women may have one lover, or they may have a dozen or perhaps their lover's love is all but extinguished or has terminated for whatever reason. At the same time, Harry, all women yearn for a hero -- for some it becomes their daddy, perhaps a university lecturer or figurehead of immense community standing. Carson has it all -- she'd had her hero and lover bundled in one."

"You guys have had too much to drink," snorted Harry. "I'm a nobody except that I write crap that appeals to a few thousand readers latching on to the way I express my thoughts and create my characters. That's all it is. Jessie, I mean Carson came to me, feeling sorry for me because she'd whacked my car into tomorrow and messed up my writing arm, so I provided a little diversion for her. Okay, along the way she rediscovered her horniness and I happened to be the nearest guy on hand, so was treated. I'm grateful to her and hope I can find the right guy for her and Lydia and..."

"You're wrong, you dickhead," grinned Lisa, interrupting him. "Here she comes. Just watch what she does. I'm Carson's oldest friend, and stood closest to her after the tragic loss of her husband and lover; I know how she reacts."

They watched Carson approached as Lisa finished, click-clacking her elegant heels on the tiles. She waved to them happily.

"Just you watch, Mr Smart-ass Author who doesn't recognize love when confronted by it," Lisa murmured.

"It's all over and I offered the partners the capital to build the new production line at one percent under the commercial interest rate; they've accepted."

Her friends and Harry raised their near empty glasses in salute.

Carson smiled at everyone and walked through the women. She reached up and kissed Harry on the lips, then standing beside him, pulling his good arm around her, said, "Who's breaking open the champagne?"

"We don't have champagne," said Megan, who worked with the firm as office manager.

"Oh yes we do," said Carson happily, as she called out "Bruce!" The door opened and in walked the factory manager with a case of French champagne.

Carson grinned at Harry. "Your thinking is so superior to mine, Harry. The meeting went exactly as you predicted." Then she whispered, "I'll buy some garter belts if that's what you want. Jessie always wears them, doesn't she?"

Harry beamed and kissed her.

Later, when buying a black and a blue garter belt, and agreeing with the assistant who said, "They're only worth wearing to please your man, aren't they", Carson had a thought at the other end of the spectrum of garter belts and sex -- her mother.

Tragically, her mother had heard about her daughter's unexpected house guest, and in typical sneaky fashion had called Lisa to worm information -- the worst possible choice. Lisa would have gushed on about Harry's looks and age and how Carson was nuts about him -- a typical Lisa expression that would have made Mrs George immediately speculate about the involvement of Harry's nuts with her younger daughter. Her mother had refused to come over and meet Harry and slammed down the phone when Carson had said she'd bring Harry over. Carson had anticipated her mother would disapprove of Harry being a writer of 'dirty books', looking 'grubby' and 'being too old'. Mothers were expected to be defensive, but not like this -- for goodness sake, her critical mom hadn't even met the man.

"Fuck mom!"

"Omigod," cried Carson, thrusting a hand over her mouth.

The woman behind the counter smiled and asked if Carson was also having mother trouble.

"I am too. She discovered I have two guys on the go and hasn't spoken to me for three days which is difficult 'cos I still live at home."

That made Carson feel a little better, knowing she wasn't the only adult woman having mother problems. 

Carson went to a quite café on the riverbank, not too far from home; she had some serious thinking to do. Her life had turned, undeniably, and she was pleased about that. But was the turn in the right direction?

Knowing that she was going to have this serious conversation with herself Carson ordered a glass of quality dry white wine. She had stored milk at home for Lydia, so she planned to have a break out, drinking two perhaps three glasses, but no more because she was driving. She needed wine to relax her -- well that sounded plausible. She liked drinking and missed having the occasional binge; it really did loosen her tongue. She felt in a playful mood, calling this period 'One of my finest hours' -- that it, the time she was away from everyone and everything yet knowing Lydia was safe. For a nursing mother it really was 'quality time', the expression some people tend to bandy about as if under-rating it.

She pulled out her small notebook and wrote some notes under headings.

MOM: Gathering age had sharpened her tongue and narrowed her mind and she has to think for both herself and husband. She loves Lydia and Carson and Bronwyn in that order, Carson suspected, but how does one really know? Mom hates sleaze, she hates surprises and she's always wanted her daughters to fall in love and be loved by a younger, handsome, socially very acceptable and rich man -- one man per daughter, that is. Mom had not anticipated a daughter losing her husband. Mom had highly respected Philip. Oh boy, watch out Harry.

The wine arrived and Carson took a deep draught. Marvelous. Now to real work.

If Harry becomes a universally accepted author in the genre of detective romance, Mother could become hooked!!!! And may allow him to visit her.

HARRY: Laughs, loves Lydia, loves Carson (I think), Sara would like a piece of him, Lisa definitely does and no doubt Bronwyn will. Why? Good question. A light shines out of his shabby appearance? Yes, good one. Harry really is a surprise package. Unbelievable great at sex [Carson looked around, embarrassed that someone may have seen her write that. Really -- how childish!] She noted that she was at her best making love to Harry. Harry's going to leave me.

Coolly, Carson picked up her glass and sipped. She had no idea why she'd written that. It must be a thought that lurked deep. She remained emotionally in control, knowing if it did happen she'd probably be hysterical, but that was another day. Right now it was just a thought, albeit a brutal thought. She squirmed in her seat, feeling her briefs cut into her, wishing she'd not worn them. God, that would make Mother sit up and take notice of her younger daughter!!!

Okay, Harry. If that's what you want to do, go! I'll not like it, but go!

JESSIE: What a babe. Why am I using that word? So what if Diomedes uses that term as an endearment. I really don't have to pretend I am Jessie Chicago, though admittedly it has been a great prop for me. But why do I want to be someone who I am not? It's codswallop to believe I can replicate Jessie Chicago. Perhaps intellectually I could be more than her match, but sexually and especially physically she lives on another planet. I must say, however, that focusing on her I have brought my mongrel to the surface. I really believe in mongrel, now that Harry has been the trigger and I've felt the power within me. I hope I keep it under control.

THE DOIG'S: Do I want to continue with them, yes I do-I-do. I'm sure Philip shafted Lisa, more than once possibly, and possibly at her invitation. That's grim, but then she off-sets that in other ways. I always knew she was predatory. Thank God I've never allowed Peter more than a quick grope; he can be such a sleaze-ball. Yes, stay with them as friends. Get too choosy and you'll soon have no friends.

MONEY: The good think about my indifference towards money (providing I have cash on hand) is that becoming a multi-millionaire has not changed me a bit, just as I had predicted. The secret is not to talk money, with anyone. Remember your advice girl!!!!

The waitress appeared with the bottle and a fresh glass.

Carson asked, "Are you married?"

"Yes ma'am, happily married."

"That's lovely, you look the perfect wife."

"None of us is perfect, ma'am."

"Quite right. Well, good luck with your marriage."

"Thank you ma'am, there is no charge for this drink. It's lovely having a sweet person like you are our restaurant."

"Your restaurant."

"Yes, I am Paulo second wife."

"He has two?"

"You're sweet and funny, ma'am. My name is Acacia." 

"Acacia, have you ever heard of Jessie Chicago?"

"Is there any woman who hasn't?"

"You'll enjoy meeting my man, Acacia. I am Carson Robertson by the way."

"Yes, I know who you are. Is your man Diomedes Mantell?" laughed Acacia.

"You don't know how close you are. I'm delighted you took the time to talk to me Acacia -- I'm really not as lonely as perhaps I look."

TO BE CONTINUED...



A Woman with Mongrel Ch. 03



SO FAR: A still grieving widow Carson Robertson hospitalizes in a vehicle accident the author of the bumbling detective book series that is growing in popularity, Guilty at injuring the creator of the fabulous character Jessie Chicago, Carson takes Harry Truscott into her home to help in his rehabilitation. Harry has a broken shoulder that is encased in a gunslinger brace. Carson reads back copies of the series and finds she is beginning to share the persona of Jessie Chicago and is influenced by Harry suggesting she ought to lace herself with more 'bite' -- he calls it mongrel. Carson's niece Sara and Carson create a website they link to the new Jessie Chicago fan club in Chicago; the article announces that the missing author is alive and well and is working on the hotly awaited twelfth book in the series. Harry finishes dictating the first draft to Carson and is waiting for a promo film-clip to be produced before leaving Carson so she has the chance to find her new prince.

*

Bathwater dissolved from the beautiful Carson Robertson the dried liquids of lust. She wondered if she or her author-lover Harry Truscott had secreted the greatest volume, an unusual thought for someone in post-coital bliss but then Carson had a thing about attention to detail.

She was also pragmatic about sweating, again an unusual thought, but she reasoned unless she sweated -- or perspired for persons who continue to dolly with words like aviatrix, doyenne or authoress -- she's not put real effort into sexual connection. For that reason the only times she liked sweating was when having sex or playing tennis.

She sighed, accepting she was very much in love with Harry. Perhaps his age and untidy appearance would raise eyebrows of family and friends, but before too many met him she'd have his scruffiness removed. It was the inside of Harry that she adored.

He was so wise, so aware of things, despite his limited formal education. Harry had wit, passion and really liked her -- she could see it in his eyes, feel it in his touch even when he was handing her a drink. Even better, he adored Lydia who definitely related to him as if he were her daddy. Harry's emotions ran deep and he had compassion and wanted people to feel loved and to be excited and perhaps even live to the edge like Jessie Chicago. Most books she read were written by women, or at least the author's names were feminine. Carson knew that no woman could have created Jessie and held her true to character throughout without stamping her with clues for the reader to ensure they recognized Jessie's femininity; Harry wrote those traits into her words and behavior so the reader didn't have to be told about her femininity through strategically dotted 'clues'.

Harry did nothing to cloy Jessie's lust for life and love, and he did it so passionately that she appeared to have welded the desirable attributes of both females and males to become a god-like female warrior. Jessie could take a bullet, expressing little more than a grunt, and yet reach for her lipstick and blusher before air-lifted to hospital. Or if Harry was the one down, she'd carry on with the case, not sparing a thought for him, until she'd wrapped everything up and delivered her prisoners or waited with the bodies of her victims. 

Okay, some female writers could create a heroine like Jessie, and have her in a shoot-out and take a bullet -- but they would idiotically then have her fall wishing she was back home tending to her flower garden or having a pregnancy test. Harry's heroine saved the girl's stuff for when they were off duty, or having it off during a lull.

Despite her inescapable femininity -- her beauty and the way she regarded herself, Jessie had no wish to be a man. It really was so captivating.

Jessie had a dangerous amount of mongrel in her, smiled Carson. She recalled in The Bumbling Detective on the Nile, Diomedes went down with a knife sticking from his thigh and a bullet lodged against his shoulder bone. As soon as Jessie gave him a shot of morphine and told people coming to his assistance to leave the knife for a surgeon to take out in hospital, on she went with the chase.

The three thugs ambushed her. They disarmed Jessie and moved in to do something pretty gruesome. None of them had thought of a cautionary body search because they found her Glock and a knife in her handbag. Jessie pulled her small Beretta strapped to her upper thigh and calmly dispatched all three. Then wailing in anger (yes, those were Harry's words) as one would expect any woman to do, she then did something one wouldn't expect any woman to do: she kicked the body of the thug who'd knifed Harry and savagely stomped on the chest of the leader who's shot her boss.

She then radioed the authorities to come to collect her and the three bodies of the assassins and asked how Diomedes was coping in hospital. Jessie then combed her hair and cleaned her grimy face with baby wipes (she always carried them out in the field). 

Carson had nothing but admiration for Jessie for venting her anger on the dead; it made her feel a little sick reading about it, and she was even queasy thinking about it now, but now she understood -- God, Harry was so brilliant; why hasn't she realized at the time she read the book. Jessie had been forced to kick and stomp those bodies to release some mongrel as she did not wish to be consumed by it.

God, Harry, you are so brilliant!

Once again Carson told herself she had no need to do anything but admire Jessie and what she stood for; it was not necessary for her to 'get a bit of mongrel' as Harry had called it because her parents, her sister and family and her friends liked her as her natural self. Carson was aware people thought she was 'every so nice' as she occasionally heard herself being discussed. But curiously, since she had found she'd taken a bit of mongrel aboard, she seemed to walk taller, no longer being slightly afraid of the awful Peter Doig and a bit of mongrel added a new dimension to love-making. Did it what!

She heard the front door open, knowing Harry was back from his walk to the shops to get pizza. She pulled the plug and waited for Harry to come in and dry her: Harry was like that. No groping, although some light banter. When drying her back he would kiss her between the shoulder blades; delicious. Carson wondered if many women received such treatment as regularly as she was receiving.

* * *

Harry was out of his brace and the physiotherapy was quickly improving movement, so much so that he was able to type. The surgeon advised a skin graft was not necessary.

"I feel redundant," Carson said sadly. 

"You can continue doing the proofing -- you're so good at that," Harry said, earning a hug and big kiss.

Sara briefed them about the film promo, showing them her marketing plan and then the story line.

Harry was most impressed. "You did all of this yourself?

Sara nodded. "We'll listen to their advice but we are the client, paying for everything, so what we insist on goes."

"But I haven't paid a cent; what are the costs?"

Harry was told not to worry, that Carson had paid for everything and was also going to buy him a new car."

"Why?"

Carson looked at him, eyes passive. "Harry, I am beholden to you for not dying after I crashed my vehicle into yours and beholden to you for extracting an extra $1 million-plus from my cheating partners and so-called friends. It's the least I can do; I also intend doing more."

Harry look at Carson sharply.

"I understand why you need to do this, Carson, so I'll not interfere; but only a modest car, and not until next month."

"Next month, but why?"

"Because."

"Okay, Harry."

Harry knew of course that by next month she'd accept he'd walked from her life.

Filming the clip took almost two days. Harry acted the part of Diomedes which was not surprising, as he'd based the Bumbling Detective on himself. 

Carson appeared with her hair re-done red and in a black dress about which she and Harry argued. He fumed that Jessie would "never have her breasts exposed like that". Harry explained that although Jessie wore tight clothes she kept the display of her bared assets for Diomedes' private viewing.

"You can't see my nipples," Carson protested.

"I don't care."

"You're being priggish."

"You are trying to present Jessie out of character."

Carson paused, looking bewildered and then tensed as Harry's words sank through.

"Oh, oh God, so I am. I'm sorry, Harry."

The studio assistant took Carson away and they returned, with Carson in a yellow dress that followed ever curve authentically but showed no flesh below the buttoned neck line.

"Oh my," said Harry. "That looks positively obscene; perfect."

The director looked ready to erupt: "May we proceed?"

Carson had returned to her old music teacher, attempting to get her voice back in shape. That effort paid off -- she was filmed singing the Cold Porter number, 'Do I Love You, Yes, I Do." 

"The song will play throughout the clip," Sara said, "with fade-ins and outs of Carson as Jessie singing it and those other scenes of you two playing detective and appealing to people to buy the new book with be worked in, but not necessarily in order they were filmed as we must rely on the experts about that."

The group, who included a drama coach, gathered for drinks and then it was all over.

A fortnight later they returned to the studio to view the finished clip which included the titles and end credits."

"Very good, an excellent job," Carson said, quite pleased that her singing voice sounded so good and her acting passable.

Harry wiped his eyes.

"You guys have done a great job, seeing those two on film has brought it all alive for me."

"If this clip gets wide distribution I wouldn't be surprised if you get an approach from Hollywood for film rights, Harry," said the director.

"Nah, the Bumbling Detective will belong to a lost generation according to those young smart asses in Hollywood today."

"We've paid $20,000 in US dollars to an agency to get the clip distributed with promised playing time on a minimum of 200 TV music channels plus agencies selling filler programs to TV networks," Sara said.

"Twenty thousand bucks," Harry gasped. "Why wasn't I told about this - why was this done?"

"Because you're worth it, Harry," Carson smiled, taking his arm. 

Early that evening Carson, Sara and Lydia went to see Carson's parents. Harry didn't go because Carson's parents made it quite clear they didn't like Harry who they regarded as a scruffy freeloader.

Carson was tempted to pressure him to accompany them but decided it would be better for the showdown to occur with just she and Bronwyn confronting mother with Harry.

When they left Harry gathered up his things, most of which had been packed discretely the previous evening. He called a cab and departed.

The only thing he left behind was a note - to Carson.

When Carson returned home carrying her sleeping baby and saw the note propped up against the flower vase on the dinning table she turned white, handed Lydia to Sara and ran to Harry's room.

She returned, seconds later, tears streaming: "He's gone, nothing left. I was beginning to suspect something was on because for Harry he'd become a little morose recently..

Sara was crying and asked wasn't Carson going to read the letter; there may be an acceptable explanation.

"I know what it will say."

"I'll put Lydia down and came back and read it to you."

Dearest Carson, Sweet Sara and Beautiful Lydia.

This is what Diomedes would have done, Carson, believe me. It's the honorable thing to do. You are well recovered, living to the full again so it's time to move on, for both of us. Find yourself Mr Right, Carson. I'll stay in contact so if you have forgiven me by then you'll be able to invite me to the wedding.

I'm going off in retreat to finish my manuscript and will have it to Mary my agent on schedule, thanks to you.

Bye Dearest Carson.

Sweet Sara: You will do well at university; you are so focused and creative. Might I suggest you attach a brief download the film clip with a statement to the Jessie Chicago Fan Club in Chicago; it may get things moving, help my book sales, but imagine what it will do for your CV Sara if it takes off. Good Luck. Kisses to you both.

Unable to hold back her emotions, Sara ran sobbing into Carson's arms.

"What would Jessie Chicago do, Carson?"

"Nothing, and she'd hope the bastard never gets an erection again."

"Carson!"

They looked at one another and burst into near-weepy laughter.

At breakfast Sara asked Carson had slept well and the reply was she'd slept surprisingly well.

"He'll come back to me one day, especially when finding out I have not admitted a Mr Right into my life."

"So you are not going to grieve."

"No, what's the point; it's out of my hands."

Sara sent an edited version of the film clip to the Jessie Chicago Fan Club and titled the accompanying story, 'Jessie Chicago's Moment of Truth'. Sara was well pleased with her work and without thinking added contact details in case the fan club wanted to clarify anything.

Within the hour the phone went. Each time it rang Carson and Sara glanced at each other, wondering if it would be Harry calling.

A woman in a husky American accent said, "Hi there Sara, this is Eleanor Silverstein calling, World President of the Chicago-based Jessie Chicago Fan Club. We need to talk."

Thirty minutes later Sara came off the phone.

"Did you think you needed to tell that woman everything?"

"You didn't attempt to stop me," Sara replied.

"It's your project, your have to be given free reign."

"Our conversation was taped. She'll have it professionally edited over the next four hours -- it's nighttime in their part of the world. Then Eleanor will have the transcript emailed to all 240,000 of their members, post it on the website and alert the media."

"That's lovely of her," smiled Carson.

Sara replied yes, they had been so lucky. Neither woman realized what alerting the media meant. The club president sent out a news release that contained Sara's contact details.

For the next four days Sara's cell phone went practically non-stop. Fortunately it could be hooked up to the electricity supply otherwise they would have needed a battery of chargers. The first journalist arrived within an hour of Eleanor's media release and then they began streaming in, followed by TV crews and then the overseas media flew in, including a Chicago-based women's magazine that hired the fan club's Eleanor Silverstein to be its guest writer.

Meanwhile the 'Jessie Chicago's Moment of Truth' film clip was playing on music channels and TV channels had purchased it as a filler. Harry's publisher had contacted him and signed up for the right to have copies of the DVD distributed to all booksellers who stocked the bumbling detective series. Within ten days the publisher would dispatch a check for $20,000 on behalf of Harry to Carson for the 'loan' for the production of the film clip and $10,000 dollars to Sara towards her university study expenses.  

Meanwhile Carson was soon drawn into the media melee, firstly to hotly deny that it wasn't a made-up fabrication, easily argued because she and Sara produced digital photographs to prove that Harry Q. Truscott had lived with them for thirteen weeks while recuperating.

With dignity Carson admitted to having had 'a dream affair' with Harry and smacked a smirking journo across the face, making his nose bleed, when he asked if they'd drawn Sara in for a threesome.

That photograph of the male journalist reeling, blood squirting and the female journalists surround him applauding Carson was syndicated round the world and featured on the front page of local newspapers. The caption quoted Carson as saying, "It's only what Jessie Chicago would have done -- she wouldn't have wasted a bullet on the creep."

Drawing on her PR and promotion background, Carson hired a huge wall screen and the three-minute long 'Jessie Chicago's Moment of Truth' film clip played non-stop while media personnel were in the house. She repeatedly had to deny that Harry had fathered her baby.

"Where's Harry?" came the media cry. Reports came in indicating he was in twenty locations spread over three continents.

Then gradually, it all died away, with no sign of Harry and Carson refusing absolutely to divulge anything about Harry's latest book. Even an offer of $10,000 from a New York magazine for an exclusive on how the book ends failed to move her.

Finally it was all over. Twenty-four hours went by without an enquiry or visit from a media person. Then Carson received a phone call -- from Harry.

"Thanks for holding the fort so well, I've been following it on telly," he said cheerfully. "The courier has just left with my manuscripts." 

"Come home Harry," Carson sobbed.

 * * *

Harry had retreated on to remote Fishhead Island where the farmer, a former schoolmate, set him up the woolshed. Harry went across in the evenings to the farmhouse for a shower and dinner and to socialize while charging his phone and laptop batteries. 

He missed Carson, as he knew he would, and Lydia and Sara; they had become family. But sometimes things must change. He worried about Carson finding the right type of man -- he didn't want her ending up with someone like the rat bag Peter Doig. She was, however, very intelligence and competent and he knew deep down she'd make a wise choice.

Satisfied with that, Harry relaxed until he remembered Carson had taken him to her bed: what kind of judgment was that? Then he remembered she now had a touch of mongrel; that would assist her.

Ten days later Harry returned to the city and had the required number of copies of the manuscript printed straight off his DVD. Back at his own home he bundled them and called a courier. As soon as the courier left, Harry phoned Carson and her voice melted him.

They'd sparred a bit and then relaxing began conversing. Sara had sent in her pre-enrolment application to the university and within days had a complimentary call from the media department head about her Bumbling Detective promo. Lydia was recovering from a cold and Carson was going to the gym on some afternoons to build up fitness and to make her body more streamlined.

"Don't lose too much off top, Carson."

Carson chose to ignore that comment although tickled that he cared.

"The pressure's off me now," he said, "I'm going back to stay on the island with my old mate and help him with fencing. That should tone me up."

"Yes. Perhaps after that you should go down and stay with Tom." 

"Er, with you sister in the wings? I think not."

"Lisa may well have some jobs for you to do as live-in gardener."

"Nothing wrong with your humor," he laughed.

"Harry, your book is going to be a screamer -- some Manhattan woman whose weekly column on books and authors is syndicated worldwide, was quoted on TV last night as saying your publisher has programmed to produce twenty million copies using five printing houses in three countries. She called that unbelievable then added the publisher is probably being a tad too conservative."

"They talk crap when they are short of news," Harry said, "although I wouldn't be surprised if we get to five million with this one. I've tarted it up a bit for the women, Carson, including putting Jessie into a white wedding dress instead of a black one; it's what you wanted, remember?"

"Oh Harry, you're such a darling. What was the result of the pregnancy test?"

"Sorry Carson, my lips are sealed. Buy the book!"

"You bastard," Carson laughed, already deciding to send off a piece to Eleanor at the Fan Club saying she'd been in conversation with author Harry Truscott and the big question left hanging was, "Is Jessie Chicago pregnant?" 




A Woman with Mongrel Ch. 03



The call terminated in a friendly fashion, with Harry avoiding asking how the husband hunt was going. He gave Carson the phone number of the farmhouse, saying there didn't have cell phones coverage.

Harry was happy to have spoken with Carson. She was still pissed off at him, but what else could one expect; she was a woman.

Apart from breaking up with Carson, everything was going along honky-dory. God, he hadn't used that expression in decades. As Diomedes Mantell has a habit of saying, grinned Harry, the coast is clear for something to go wrong, very wrong.

It did.

Mid morning next day Miriam Wells his hostess came roaring across to the fencers on a farm bike.

"Someone called Sara phoned, Harry. This is very serious. She said Lydia's been snatched and the mother is in a terrible state. Sara says you have to take over for them, Harry, she's sending a chopper for you. Here -- take the bike; they'll land at the house."

"The bastards, not Lydia," fumed Harry, riding full throttle, his mongrel consuming him. He arrived at the house safely, wishing he had a .38 S&W Special to pack.

The chopper took him to the park where the snatch had occurred. Police were visiting house-to-house in the vicinity, trying to find witnesses and anyone with anything suspicious to report. Harry spotted Lisa finishing off a big sign: "My baby has been snatched; please talk to me if you know anything."

Sara came running to him. They hugged as the chopper lifted off. 

"She's in a hell of a mess, Harry. She's stopped talking. Shock grips here."

"What happened?

"She had Lydia in the stroller, right there by the swings. Carson returned to the Toyota to get a tube of sun block and her phone went; it was your agent wanting to contact you. That delayed Carson and when she got back to the swings there was no sign of Lydia. She was gone."

"Jesus! Nothing to go on then? No motive, of course. What about witnesses?"

"No one so far. The first police car was here in minutes. They regard kidnapping as number three. 

Harry knew murder/VIP assassination bracketed to danger to head of State would be number one, but what was two?

"What's the second top priority?"

"A cop down."

"Yes, of course," said Harry, kicking himself mentally for not thinking that. 

They ran across to Carson, who leapt to her feet and hugged Harry. She neither cried nor spoke.

"What's happening?" he asked Carson, and waved angrily to silence a policewoman who cut in to say, "We're going house-to-house..."

"Carson, every minute that goes by could be a countdown on Lydia's life, perhaps not. But we must think as if it is. Carson -- what did the police say they are doing?"

Caron look stonily at Harry, her faced shocked.

Harry whacked her across both cheeks.

"Oh Harry!" Carson shouted.

The policewoman was outraged and rushed Harry, who easily fended her off.

Carson then said calmly: "They asked had I seen anyone acting suspiciously Harry, but I saw no-one. Someone must have snuck in and out without me seeing them. They are going house-to-house looking for witnesses and cars are patrolling the streets looking for anyone pushing a baby in a buggy. There will be lots of mothers out doing that right now, Harry. Babies have woken up from their after-breakfast sleep."

"Think, Carson -- you must have seen something."

The policewoman returned at a run accompanied by a big policeman. Sara blocked their way, saying, "Stop, let him be; he's one of the best interrogators there is -- he's Harry Truscott.

"I know who he is -- author of 'The Bumbling Detective' series, said the policewoman, holding her companion back. "Hold it Duncan."

Harry slapped Carson across the mouth. "Well, Jessie Chicago, unless you tell us about your informant, your pathetic boss dies."

Bleeding from a cut lip, Carson came through: "A woman, stooped shoulders, long dress almost touching her boot tops -- a multi-gray check. She was walking a dog. Oh God, Harry, I saw her, not two minutes before I went to get the sun block. She was across there, on that other path. She was staring at us."

"Ma'am, are you sure -- absolutely sure?" asked the policewoman.

"Yes, the image is fixed in my mind."

"You heard the description, Duncan. Run -- get it broadcast."

"A map, does anyone have a map of this area?" cried Harry.

"There's one in the glove box Harry," said Sara.

"Don't touch that vehicle, sir, until our forensic people have been over it."

"Fuck your forensic check -- the snatcher would have been nowhere close to Carson's car," said Harry. "Run, Sara, get it for me."

Harry saw Peter Doig drive up and Lisa came running to him, crying."

"Constable, get that man Peter Doig to drive over here, I need him."

"Yes sir," said the constable, apparently convinced that Harry was the only one around who knew what he was doing.

Peter hopped out just as Sara returned with the map. She spread it out on the front of the car.

"Doctor's rooms located within one mile of this park," said Harry.

The policewoman pushed past him." I live near here." 

She picked out five medical centers, circling them in pencil.

"Know any Peter?"

"This one is our family doctor and we sometimes go to this one at weekends."

"Right, we'll take these two, constable. You get your folk to do the other three, asking all doctors for details of any patient living within a mile of this park who is suffered a miscarriage recently and is being treated for depression. They will resist, citing patient confidentiality. But give them the facts. If they still resist, beat it out of them or at least say you're taking them in for questioning."

"Right, anything else?"

"Yes, get a cop to come with us, to give our enquiry some semblance of legality -- that big bugger you had over here a few minutes ago. Sara, you stay here with Carson. Come on Peter."

"Duncan!"

Duncan came running and was told to get into the backseat of Peter's car.

"He's a bit thick, Harry. But just tell him and he'll do it."

"Thanks doll." 

Harry was embarrassed to have to call the policewoman that, but he didn't know her name.

They went to medical centre near Peter's home. The practice manager was very cooperative, rushed all five doctors out and none of them was treating a patient in that category. 

The next medical centre was ruled by a part-female part-dragon.

She told Harry to clear off and phone for an appointment.

Adopting his most menacing look and reaching inside his shirt as if about to pull out a weapon, Harry said: "All you guys out and wait in the parking area. Out NOW! The waiting patients rushed to the door.

"You bastard; you can't do that, I'm calling the police."

"This constable is the police, you silly woman," Harry snarled. "Take her to the car Duncan and read her rights."

"What rights?"

"Just get her outside and read to her, Duncan, show her your notebook."

"Yes sir!"

All seven doctors were emerging from their offices to investigate the commotion. Harry told them what was up and Peter told them about the penalties for interfering with the apprehension of a person suspected of a serious crime.

The doctors exchanged nervous looks a woman doctor said, "You better come into my office."

Within three minutes Peter, Harry and Duncan were in the car and off in a rubber-burning wheel spin.

"I know the street and I think I know the woman," Peter.

They arrived outside the address, just as the woman closed the gate and began pushing Lydia's buggy up the path to the house.

"I'll go," Harry said.

He vaulted the fence and said, "Good morning, Mrs Harrison. I believe you accidentally picked up the wrong baby at the park. This is Lydia Robertson. She needs to get back to her mummy so she can feed her."

Mrs Harrison blocked the dog charging in to investigate Harry.

"She's not my baby; I don't have a baby any more."

"That's fine, Mrs Harrison. Everyone understands what's happened. We'll drop you off at your doctor's on the way to taking Lydia back to her mummy."

"Lydia's asleep," Mrs Harrison said mournfully.

Oh God, thought Harry, hastening to the front of the stroller, to be met by two perfect replicas of Carson's eyes. Lydia greeted him with a sound that Harry thought sounded like 'Harry," well knowing that it wasn't.

"Goo-goo," he responded.

Peter drove up the street to the park, lights flashing and car horn tooting cheerfully. 

Policemen blocked on-coming traffic and Carson came running onto the roadway, her face strained with worry until she saw Harry holding Lydia up. She still was a bit worried as neither was belted in.

Harry handed Lydia to Carson and the Inspector in charge tapped Harry on the shoulder asking, "Name and the address of the culprit, please."

"Go to hell," said Harry, shocking the senior policeman.

"In that case..."

"Sir, the woman is being treated by her doctor; I can give full details later. I have everything in my notebook."

"Are you sure, Constable Hogan? We don't wish to be accused of yet another police stuff up by the media -- oh fuck, here they come now, like the cavalry. Late again."

"No court in the land will convict the woman," said Peter. "I am a practicing lawyer and confirm that she handed over Lydia immediately, she made no threats against Lydia and was surprised she'd done such a thing and is aware she is being treated for depression."

"As a chief witness I can confirm everything he said, Inspector," Peter said. "Of course Constable Hogan here was the hero in leading the charge to rescue Lydia and that pretty woman constable of yours came up with the brilliant idea that we could check for a local woman with a medical condition that might persuade her to mistake someone's baby for the baby she lost."

"Oh God, not one of those. The media will have a field day."

But Harry was all smiles.

"Inspector, this is Sara, an expert in public relations and media relations. Just allow her to handle the media but stand alongside her and answer media questions at her bidding. Keep relaxed if you stuff up, she'll cut in a put spin on it."

"Are you confident about doing this Sara? You look awfully young."

"Yes, Inspector. I'm as old as I am," said Sara, engaging immediately in a bit of spin. "By the time we finish with these eager beavers from the media they will have nothing but praise for you and your team and the women of this city will be ever so proud of their local police. I think we should begin by saying that Baby Lydia ensured her own safety with her big blue eyes and working that gorgeous smile of hers. She's having a feed right now so by the time the cameras are set up she'll be camera happy. I think you should hold her, Inspector. By the way, Inspector, the media know the mother as the Jessie Chicago look alike. You'll have to convince them this was a genuine snatch -- your hero Constable Hogan can show his notebook full of facts to the cameras. Here comes Constable Helena Sinclair. She'll describe the harrowing time she had with the inconsolable mother who had to be slapped out of her frozen state by her fiancé. Her fiancé."

The Police Inspector blinked. "Is that scruffy guy who just spoke to me so disrespectfully that beautiful woman's fiancé?"

"Yes Inspector, but he's a beautiful man inside. He's about to become a multi-millionaire."

"A multi-millionaire?"

"Yes Inspector, his latest book is expected to sell tens of millions."

"He's getting married in October, but doesn't know it yet, nor does Mrs Robertson. The Jessie Chicago Fan Club is organizing the wedding and thousands of women are expected to cram into downtown Chicago for the event. Please come with me, Inspector, I need to tell Harry and Carson that their engagement is about to be announced and that you have volunteered to announce it, live on TV. Since we have the media's attention we may as well as take advantage of it, eh Inspector?"

"Er, yes. Are you sure this is not a put up job to secure publicity?"

"You have my word Inspector, but I am taking advantage of the situation."

When Sara put the proposition to Carson and Harry they remained calm, looked at one another, saw the love there, and Harry said, "Go ahead, Sara. Someone has to push us the last yard. Carson, I love you and want you for my wife, will you marry me?"

Everyone gathered around, the women looking on held their breath.

"Yes, on one condition. That Jessie Chicago gets pregnant."

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes that Jessie Chicago will become pregnant. Why is that so important to you?"

"Women readers love Jessie Chicago, but her marriage will extinguish much of that interest. Except..."

"Except what?"

"If she becomes pregnant; then it all becomes a new ball game -- what color will the baby's eyes be? What will she be called? Will she have mongrel?"

Harry looked at Carson thoughtfully."You're pregnant, aren't you?"

Carson's eyes gave him the answer.

THE END