MULLIGAN STEW

MULLIGAN STEW

AN ORIGINAL SHORT STORY

By

CHARLES H. SCOTT

         Traffic zips over the hill, down the winding road that is Barham Boulevard, the surface street connecting the L.A. Basin with the east San Fernando Valley.  Waves of heat trickle skyward from the hot tarmac.

         Just off the east side of Barham, the main entrance to the Stonewood Garden Corporate Apartments is tucked into the hillside ravine separating Hollywood from Burbank.  Despite the heavy traffic, the area is quiet.  Almost serene.

         A sign reads: IMMEDIATE OCCUPANCY -- SHORT & LONG TERM EXECUTIVE SUITES -- ALL AMENITIES.  Just beyond the sign, a red Ferrari waits at the guard house.  The guard points off towards a covered parking structure.  We do not see the driver's face as the car roars past the guard and into the lot.

         Parked outside the front entrance to the complex rental office, the red Ferrari sits doing 90mph standing still.

         Inside the office, Mrs. Maxine Stonebreaker, frumpy -- long past her short prime -- is the manager of this office and a hold-over from the previous owners.  A gray cloud of her ever-present cigarette smoke fills the air.  She waves her hands in grand expression.  Her fake eyelashes flutter like 2 butterflies trapped in lard whilst making some half-hearted attempt at flirting.  She has an annoying habit of calling people she just met "dear".  Mrs. Stonebreaker speaks around cigarette, "What exactly are you looking for, dear?"

         Before her stands Roger Wilcox.  Dark complexion.  Mysterious and brooding eyes.  Movie-star good-looks.  What more needs be said

          "Something quiet, but not too quiet.  Large enough for all my ... equipment."

         "Oh yeah?"  Mrs. Stonebreaker says, giving him a lurid eye.  "Just exactly what equipment would that be, dear?"  With a predatory eye, Mrs. Stonebreaker looks him up and down as if he was the early-bird special.

         Roger waits a moment before answering.  "Wall-to-wall refrigerators."

         Mrs. Stonebreaker casts a very curious look his way.  "What line of work are you in ..." she looks at his application, "Mr. Wilcox?"

         Roger answers deadpan, "Meat packing.  I work for THE JERKY WORKS.  We make MR. JERKY meat snacks for convenience stores and neighborhood markets all across America and Europe."

         Mrs. Stonebreaker mouths the words "meat packing?  Jerky Works?  MR. JERKY?  She'd thought she'd heard it all.

         Roger's stoic look says he's quite serious.

         Mrs. Stonebreaker admits, "Let me tell you, we get all kinds here ..."  She chokes off a laugh ... or is it a cough?  "But that's a new one on me, dear."  Mrs. Stonebreaker steals a glance over her shoulder at Roger as she stubs out her cigarette and hacks out a roiling smoker's cough.  She scans a wall schematic of the entire complex.  The apartments are color coded according to status: red for un-occupied, yellow for out-of-service and green for occupied.  Most of the board is green.  Then she grabs a large, jangling ring of master keys from her desk drawer and heads for the door.

         "You're in luck, dear.  I have just what you're looking for.  Building L, Suite 313."  She smiles her best sexy smile.  "It's quiet, secluded, has a great view of beautiful downtown Burbank ..."

         He follows her closely as they head out the door.

         Mrs. Stonebreaker flashes a knowing look.  "... and it's near the pool, Jacuzzi and clubhouse where all the action is."  Mrs. Stonebreaker shakes her hips suggestively.  Roger forces a faint smile while repressing a desire to laugh.

         They walk along a well-manicured, flowered pathway that runs from the nearly full asphalt parking lot and leads to the main entrance to the Northeast suites.

         Mrs. Stonebreaker prattles on endlessly.  Her mindless twittering goes beyond irritating; too much of listening to her irksome drivel would surely drive you crazy.  In fact, it's probably what sent Mr. Stonebreaker to an early grave, Roger thinks to himself.  He pays her little mind as he slips his wraparound shades on, glancing around at the attractive complex.

         The grounds are reflected in his tinted lenses; he gives the distinct feeling he's appraising it, but for what hidden purpose one can't even speculate.  Roger interrupts her ceaseless prattle, "How many apartments are there?"

         "We have 1150 apartments and 25 junior suites."

         Roger contemplates this.  "This place is bigger than I thought."

         Mrs. Stonebreaker responds proudly, "It's the largest in the company."

         "Most are single occupancy, I presume," Roger inquires as they continue walking.

         "Almost all, as a matter of fact.  We get some child actors and their families during January and June -- ¬casting season.  Other than that most of the tenants are single, business people."

         "Are most occupants short term?

         "About 80 percent are.  A few of the tenants have been here for more than 10 years.  A hold-over from when the place was rental condos.  But most are here only for a short time."  In a gossipy tone she confides, "People come and go so quickly it's hard to keep track of who's here and who's gone."

         Roger nods.  "That's good."

         Mrs. Stonebreaker shoots a very bewildered look his way.  "What exactly do you do for THE JERKY WORKS, dear?"

         "I procure their meat."

         Roger quickly re-directs her short attention span by pointing to a building off to the left.  "What's that building?"

         Mrs. Stonebreaker enters her sales mode.  "A conference room which accommodates up to 50 dinner seating and 75 theater style." Near the end of the walkway, Mrs. Stonebreaker opens a wrought-iron gate, steps aside so Roger can enter.  She leads the way past the barbecue grills which she points to with the flourish of Vanna White.

         They stop by the Jacuzzi and survey the pool area.  It is quite crowded.  Among them are several actors/waiters and a gaggle of actress/model/whatever types that lounge pool side.  Many read books or look over head shots.  Some are off to themselves, all alone.  All display lots of bare, bronze and well-toned skin.  You can almost smell the sizzle of the flesh mixed with the coconut oil as it fries under the hot sun, baking them to a succulent golden brown.

         A hairy, heavy-set, white-skinned man smokes a large stogie while he reads the show biz trades.  He reclines there in a leisure sweat suit, high-top sneakers, with a towel wrapped around his fat neck.  Everyone calls him Mr. Hollywood.

         Mrs. Stonebreaker is very much in the know, "Many of our guests are involved in show biz; music, films and television. That's why there's always people hanging out here."  Mrs. Stonebreaker catches the eye of one of the handsomest and youngest actors.  She winks secretively at him.  He spends a good deal of time re-arranging his Speedo bathing trunks, trying to expose as much skin as legally possible.  He's known as Mr. Speedo.  He waves to her in a slightly effeminate manner.

         Upon reaching the other side, Mrs. Stonebreaker opens another gate, walks through it and stops at the foot of a staircase.  "Right here's the laundry room," Mrs. Stonebreaker points but doesn't enter.

         Roger peeks inside.  Standard issue laundry room that comes with many apartment complexes, only this one is contained in a separate building.  Roger turns back to Mrs. Stonebreaker.

         Mrs. Stonebreaker speaks over her shoulder as they climb the stairs.  "Now this one I'm showing you is a junior suite.  It's $250 more per month, but the extra room is worth it.  Especially with all your ..." she says overly delicately, "Equipment."

         Inside, the apartment is quite spacious.  Well furnished.  It's like a hotel room with all the comforts of home.  Signs on the counter announce "Maid service available" and "Cable TV available".  "Maid service and cable television are included in the Junior Suite package."

         "I never watch it myself.  And I do my own cleaning.  Does that include all utilities?"

         "Gas, electric and local phone service.  Long distance you pay yourself."

         Roger wanders around getting a feel for the space.  His eyes sweep the room from top to bottom.  He looks squarely at her.  "Who lives below?"

         "That unit is currently vacant."

         "Excellent.  When can I move in?" Roger asks.

         "Don't you want to see the rest -- the bathroom or the bedroom?"

         "I'm sure they're just as they should be."  Roger flashes a satisfied smile. "You've sold me.  I'll take it."

         Mrs. Stonebreaker throws a questioning glance in his direction.  She lights another cigarette with the lighter hanging around her neck.  The smoke obviously bothers Roger but he says nothing.  He exits, leaving her standing in the middle of the room, perplexed.

         Once back inside the rental office, Mrs. Stonebreaker hands Roger all the necessary forms.  "A copy of California Tenants' Rights and our house rules.  Hours of vendor operations such as U.P.S., FEDERAL EXPRESS, POSTAL SERVICE."  She points to a row of mail and package receptacles just outside the front entrance.  Finally, "Some rent payment envelopes."  She starts handing him the envelopes, but he waves them off.

         Instead, Roger hands her a check.  "That won't be necessary."

         She looks at the check.  Her eyes first go wide with utter amazement then narrow with suspicion.  In her hands she holds a check for --

         "One year's rent in advance," Roger states.

         For once, Mrs. Stonebreaker is caught speechless.  Only her jowls shake in disbelief.  She just stares back and forth between Roger and the check.

         Outside a corner apartment overlooking the Jacuzzi, pool and laundry room to the west, and Burbank to the north east, a front door stands wide open.  Inside the apartment, a shade-less table lamp sits on the floor, providing the room's only illumination.  Boxes are stacked against the far wall.  Another box joins the rapidly mushrooming pile.  Roger takes a rest break, wipes sweat from his brow.  It's apparent he hates moving, but obvious he's grown methodically efficient from necessity.  He looks around the room.

         At the same time out by the Pool and Jacuzzi area, a throng of men and women dressed in swimsuits and T-shirts lounge around in the frothing, steamy hot-tub.  They sip drinks and laugh.  Not a care in the world.

         Roger struggles inside a large moving van with an oversized bentwood rocker.  He dislodges it after exerting considerable effort.  Carrying it over his head, he plods down the metal ramp, heads for his apartment.  Moving all by himself, for he has no one to help.

         Music from THE FINE YOUNG CANNIBALS ("SHE DRIVES ME CRAZY") originates from a portable CD player.  The throng has dwindled to a few drunken diehards.  They pass a joint through the rising mist, luxuriating in the feelings of drowsiness and calm that the pot, alcohol and hot water produce.

         A refrigerator door shuts with a jangle.  Roger enters the living room.  He plops down into the bentwood rocking chair, taking a load off his aching back.  He scoots rocker to the balcony, puts his feet up on the railing and gazes out at the pool.  He drinks a Bloody Mary, munches on MR. JERKY meat snack sticks.  Laughter rises with the mist from the Jacuzzi.  Roger inhales the wafting smell of burning pot not altogether unfamiliar with its effects, apparently.  His eyes close slightly in some private contemplation.

         The next day Roger descends staircase carrying an over-flowing laundry basket.  Lined wall to wall with washers and dryers, the laundry room is clean and well-maintained.  Roger dumps everything into one washer.  Jams it around spindle carelessly.  He examines a particularly nasty stain on a white lab coat.  It's ooks like dried blood.  Lots of it.  He sprays it with stain-remover, shoves it into  washer too.  He closes lid.  Puts coins into slots, pushes plunger.  Machine starts up.

         A little later, Roger gathers up his neatly folded clothes.  Dumps them in his basket.  Picking up the basket, he hurries out where he bumps into Lynn Priestly, young and very attractive, nearly knocking her down.  Her laundry basket is knocked out of her hands, sending a rainbow array of intimate apparel flying into the bushes.

         "Hey, watch it."  Lynn looks disgustedly at her lace panties and teddies and wonder-bras lying helter-skelter on the ground.

         "I'm sorry, I didn't see you," Roger states regretfully.

         "If you watched where you're going this wouldn't've happened," she exclaims as she bends down to gather her lingerie.

         "I said I'm sorry."  Truly apologetic, "What else can I do?"  He sets his basket down, bends over as he tries helping her gather her clothes.  The first thing he lays his hands on is a pair of black thong panties.

         "You could watch where you're going."

         Roger smiles at her high-spirits, looks deep into her azure eyes.  Unselfconsciously, he hands her the panties.  "From now on I will.  I promise," he says.

         She too devours him with a rapacious gaze.  Likes what she sees.  He's her kinda man.  "You're new here."

         "Moved in just last week."

         "Knew I hadn't seen you around."  She continues gathering the sexy lingerie.  He watches with heightened interest, then kneels back down to lift a black lace bra at the same time she does.  They rise slowly and, in unison, stand there holding opposite ends of the same wonder-bra.

         Their eyes lock.  Neither moves or speaks.  Something special is transpiring, as if the bra were an erotic super-conductor of their sensual thoughts.  He forms a mental picture of her wearing only the bra and thong panties.  He grins broadly.  At long last, she notices his expression and looks at him sheepishly, pulling the bra end from Roger's hand.

         Lynn acts unexpectedly bashful.  "I'm sorry I yelled at you."

         "Don't mention it.  I was partly at fault," he demurs.

         "It was partly my fault too.  You see, I was in a terrible hurry and --"
         "Accidents usually happen when we're in a hurry."

         Lynn gazes at his handsome, angular face.  His sharply chiseled features and stoic look make his face inscrutable, as if he were carved from a millennium old block of glacier ice.  She is now captivated by him.

         "I suppose you're right about that," she agrees.

         "Slow down.  You might live longer," Roger advises.

         "Seems I'm always late or in a rush."

         "Sounds like a personal problem."

         "It can be," Lynn admits.  "But I shouldn't be boring you with my life story."

         They stand there a moment, awkward and silent.

         Roger solemnly vows, "Well, I promise to watch where I'm going from now on, if you promise to slow down and not be in such a rush."

         Lynn flashes a coy smile.  "Girl scouts honor."

         Roger stifles a laugh.  He obviously appreciates a woman with a good sense of humor.  Lynn stands there hesitant, not wanting this encounter to end, but not wanting to seem too bold at the same time.

         Roger points to the wonder-bra.  "Perhaps you should put that in with the rest of your laundry."

         She glances down at the bra still in her hands.  He gives her a devilish sideways gaze.  She looks up into his magnetic eyes. 

         "Yeah.  Right.  Excuse me for a moment."  She wheels around, goes into laundry room with her now full basket.  Just a few seconds pass before she returns.  Roger has vanished.  A look of disappointment settles over her face.  She didn't even get his name.

         Inside the Stonewood Garden Corporate Apartment offices, each day is different.  The lobby is bustling as people come and go.  Behind the front desk, Lynn searches through the new resident files.  She locates the one she's looking for, pulls it out.  It reads: ROGER WILCOX, PRESIDENT, THE JERKY WORKS.  Junior Suite 313.

         Mrs. Stonebreaker spies on with interest.  She counts off the points of most interest.  "He's single.  His credit rating is platinum plus.  He's originally from New York City.  He drives a red Ferrari and has all his teeth."  She turns wistful, "And isn't he the handsomest thing on 3 legs."

         Lynn shrugs her shoulders in a "caught in the act" gesture.  "I know I shouldn't do this, Maxine, but there's something very special about him.  He's different than other men.  Very tender and kind."

         Mrs. Stonebreaker queries cynically, "Yeah, but is he gay.  Most of the handsomest men often are."

         "Not him.  I'm sure of it."

         Just then, Roger walks across the foyer.  Lynn is trapped.  He's seen her.  He stops by the front desk.  "Hello again.  I didn't know you worked here."

         "For the last 2 years.  I transferred here from another property."  She leans over desk as she speaks, "How may I help you?"

         "My phone isn't connected yet.  Do I have any messages?"

         Lynn checks the message desk.  "Nothing.  You expecting a message from your girlfriend?"

         Roger shakes his head no.  He leans forward as if he's about to whisper in her ear.  He speaks to her in a barely audible whisper.  "I'd like to have you for dinner some time soon."  His hot breath tickles her ear.

         She smiles, pleased.  Her erect nipples thrust out of her wonder-bra, goosebumps appear all up and down her arms making her excitement apparent.
         Roger sports a dazzling smile then walks briskly away.

         Lynn must take a moment to catch her breath.  She wonders how many other women Roger has had that effect on.

         Roger's apartment a few nights later now resembles an Executive Chef's dream come true.  You could open a restaurant with all the equipment here.  Prominent amidst the culinary equipment is an industrial size band saw, meat grinders and dehydrating racks.  The harsh overhead light glints off its highly-polished and lethally sharpened blades as a chord of chilling and eerily foreboding music sounds.

         Bursts of aromatic steam erupt from a stew simmering in a large crock pot on the counter top.  Roger forks some meat out of a marinade, gently lays the thin slices into a large skillet.  It sizzles with a greasy, mouth-watering hiss.  He arranges the longer, thinner strips onto a tray.  He places the tray into an enormous food dehydrator, flips the switch to high.  The sudden power drain causes the lights to dim momentarily.

         A table in the background is elegantly set for two, resplendent with candles flickering, the flames cast capricious shadows gamboling on the pale beige walls seductively.  Roger looks at his watch.  A bit impatient?  Or just famished?  There's a knock at the door.  Roger walks over, opens it.

         Lynn stands there looking killer in a black, sleeveless, spaghetti-strapped summer dress.  Her eyes sparkle.  There's a glow about her that only a love of life can give.

         "Hello."

         His eyes caress her luscious body.  "You look good enough to eat."

         Lynn blushes with the heat of his stare.  Embarrassed?  Or just terribly excited?  "Am I late?"

         "Just in time."  He steps aside only far enough so she can enter.  Their bodies make contact as she goes by.  We can almost feel the heat of their chemistry being exchanged as if in some primordial, timeless fashion.  The chemistry between them threatens to spontaneously combust at any moment.

         A low hanging, bright yellow full moon keeps a close watch.  Moonlight spills onto the balcony and into the room's semi-darkness.

         Roger pops the cork on a bottle of vintage champagne.  From the way he does it using a towel, we can tell he's practiced in the art of seduction.

         A little while later, they linger over glasses of blood-red wine, their eyes searching out hidden meaning in each other's actions and surreptitious looks.  They are close.  Real close.  But somehow we know nothing has yet transpired beyond dinner.  Rimski-Korsakov's "NIGHT ON BALD MOUNTAIN" plays forebodingly in background.  The pounding timpani and the crescendo of brass and strings provides a tempestuous underture for their unresolved love scene.

         Lynn purrs, satisfied with the evening's progress.  "That was wonderful."

         "I'm glad you liked it."

         "Are you kidding?  I loved it."

         He smiles proudly, nods an embarrassed thanks.

         "What is it?" she asks.

         "My special recipe for stew."

         "That's unlike any stew I ever had."

         "Or are likely to ever have again, I dare say."  Roger's air of mystery piques Lynn's interest.

         "Don't tell me.  It's an old family recipe, handed down from Father to Son, generation after generation, for time immemorial?"

         Roger's smile would melt any woman's resistance.  And Lynn isn't putting up any.  "Nothing as dramatic as all that, I assure you."  Roger displays a creator's pride, "It's my own creation."

         "What's the ingredients?"

         Roger places a stiff forefinger against his pursed lips.  "I'm sworn to secrecy."

         "What's the big mystery?"

         "No mystery really.  I call it MULLIGAN STEW."

         "Who's it named for?  A friend of yours?"

         "No, not really."

         Roger muses on how Mulligan Stew originated.  "It's named after a guy I once knew.  HARRY MULLIGAN.  I don't believe he had any friends, for he was the most unsavory gentleman you'd ever care to meet," he thinks back as he relates the story.  "Everything about him was hard to swallow.  He drank too much.  Talked too big.  Laughed too loud.  Lived too long."

         "Then why did you name this recipe after him?"

         An ironic smile steals across his face.  "Mulligan was, however, great with spices."  Roger smiles at the private joke then further evades the question by changing the subject.  "So you really liked it?"

         "Really, it's terrific."  She seems perplexed.  "But it had a strange flavor.  I never tasted anything like it before.  What's in it?"

         "Special ingredients.  A good cook never gives away his best kept secrets."

         "Do you have to go off to some far¬away island for all those "special ingredients"?"

         Roger contemplates a moment before answering.  "No.  Everything you need for Mulligan Stew is in the supermarket everyday."  Then he adds almost as an afterthought, "Like beer or wine, it's an acquired taste."

         Her digital watch beeps twice on the hour.  She glances at her watch, reacts with frown.  "It's late.  I have a conference to give in the morning," she says, rising from the couch.  "I enjoyed myself very much."

         "Moi aussi," Roger answers back.

         They exchange quick, tentative looks, as if each expects the other to do or say something about what's really on their minds.

         "Thanks for the dinner ... and the conversation."

         "And I thank you too for making a stranger feel at home in unfamiliar surroundings."  He walks her to door.  Like a gentleman he opens it for her then stands off to the side.

         "Well ..." she hesitates on the threshold of the front door.  "Maybe I'll see you at the Jacuzzi.  Or around the office."  She waits for him to make a move to kiss her.  He doesn't.

         "Yeah," is all he says.

         "Right."  She walks out.

         He shuts the door, turns away, walks to table where he quickly removes the dirty dishes.

         Lynn shakes her head, uncertain of what just occurred and mildly perturbed that he didn't try anything or, at the very least, didn't try kissing her.  She raises her eyebrows perplexed.  Something is amiss.

         A moving van is being loaded with someone's personal effects by a couple of movers who don't seem too concerned with the havoc they are wrecking on the belongings, as if the owner won't miss them.

         A beautiful, sunny day.  But the pool area isn't as crowded as we have seen it before or might expect on a day like this.  Mr. Hollywood, in his usual gaudy attire, smokes his cigar and reads the trades.  But Mr. Speedo is not at his usual spot.

         Lynn lies on a chaise lounge.  If ever there was a perfect body, she has it and displays it to good effect.  She glances around expectantly while alternately pretending to read a book, but is really keeping an eye out for Roger.  She looks up towards Roger's apartment.

         Roger lies atop the made bed fully clothed and motionless. His eyes are closed tightly.  In fact, he's rigid as a week old corpse.  The only movement is a slight up and down motion of his chest as he breathes.

         Later on that day, Lynn, towel draped over her back, book tucked under her arm and dressed for a workout, knocks on his door.  There's no answer.  She tapes a note to his door, then leaves.

         In the afternoon at the complex recreation room, Lynn leads a small but disorganized group of men and women in aerobic exercises to HALL & OATES singing "Oh oh here she comes -- watch out boy she'll chew you up ... Oh oh here she comes, she's a MAN-EATER".  Lynn moves with the feral grace of a jungle cat.

         That same night, Lynn knocks on Roger's door.  She's still dressed in her workout clothes.  Patches of sweat darken the small of her back, under her arms.  Even sweaty, she's exceptional.

         Roger answers his door.

         Lynn stands there, awkward and more than a bit heated.  "Are you avoiding me?"

         "No.  Not particularly."  He stands silent a long beat.  "What makes you say that?"

         She has a ready answer.  "You won't return my calls.  I've stopped by and left you notes."  He parries her searching gaze.  "I left a note on your door"

         Roger glances at the door.  "So I see."  Roger peels the note off his door.  He doesn't look at it.

         "Can I come in?"

         He begrudgingly steps aside.

         She enters, walks into the center of the room, turns on her heels.  "Why are you ignoring me?"

         Roger leads her over to the couch.  They sit.  "What do you want?"

         "You haven't called --"

         Roger interrupts her, "I've been busy."

         "What's wrong with me?" she demands genuinely upset.

         "Nothing's wrong with you.  How could you think such a thing?  It's ludicrous."

         "Listen buster, every girl knows that when a guy doesn't call -- something's wrong."  She's very beautiful as well as extremely vulnerable at this moment.

         "I didn't call because ..." Roger, after due consideration, says, "To be quite honest, I can't get involved."

         Lynn is not understanding.  "Can't or won't?"

         He regards her tenderly but with willful resolve.  "Does it really matter?"

         "Maybe.  Maybe not.  How can I know unless you tell me?"

         "My job requires that I be free and unencumbered in case the company wants to transfer me.  Something that inevitably happens every 6 months.  That's why I live in corporate apartments -- I'm never in one place for very long.  Not long enough to get involved.  It wouldn't be fair.  To you or me!" 

         He seems most sincere, but Lynn stands her ground,
unconvinced.  "Men ... that's just an excuse for not getting involved."

         He winces slightly, stung by the veracity of her statement.  "You may be right about that.  But that's the way it is."

         "And you're not willing to do anything about it, are you?"

         Roger stands rooted to the spot and his position.  "Lynn, you're a beautiful, intelligent woman.  Any man -- myself included -- ¬would be proud to have you as his woman.  But you see ..." his words trail off.  There's no way he can explain his reasoning.  Leastways no way he can that she would understand.

         "Bullshit."  Lynn turns on her heels and walks away, leaving Roger sitting on the couch more than a bit baffled.

         A small crowd is gathered at the barbecue grill a few nights later in the early evening.  As the last rays slowly fade, the sky changes from bright yellow to soft pink to violet blue.  The group is composed of a dozen or so casually dressed men and women who drink beer and carry on overlapping conversations.

         Steam rises from the grill's surface where long, thin strips of lean red meat sizzle, hissing and spitting as grease hits the hot coals beneath and vaporizes.  Roger is the chef du jour.  He turns the charbroiled fillets with a skillful touch, savors the aroma of cooking flesh, smothers the meat in thick, rich barbecue sauce.  Like a conductor, he orchestrates the six different grills and related service.  A born host.

         "Okay, who's ready for the best steak you'll ever taste?"

         "I'd like some of your special meat."

         Roger turns, beams a broad smile at Lynn.

         "Music to my ears."  He selects several well-done strips, lays them on top of her hamburger bun.

         "Haven't seen you around much."

         Roger's answer is very non-committal.  "Haven't been around much."

         She looks at him questioningly.  "You haven't called ..."

         "Said I'd call.  I didn't say when."

         "What about some time next week?"

         "I'll be out of town all week.  Some other time, perhaps," he says.  He returns his attention to a different grill in order to serve some other guests.  When he turns back, she's nowhere in sight.  He's perplexed; women are still somewhat a mystery even to him.

         All around the pool and Jacuzzi area people chow down on Roger's special meat.  Everyone gnaws on the succulent lean ribs and steaks.  They smack their lips, all the while making ravenous animal eating noises in the process of licking the grease from their fingers.  A chorus of UMMMMMMs coming from all around the grills.

         Again the ex-World Wrestling Federation movers with the van are busy destroying someone else's personal property.  From their actions we surmise they don't get many repeat customers.  Nor do they much care either.

         That next week is a scorcher.  The sort of day where tempers flare and air conditioners work overtime if at all.  Roger is not home.  The constant hum of the refrigerator shoots up an octave or two as the electricity spikes to increase the cooling effect.  On the balcony hidden from view, a silent yet powerful generator that powers the wall-to-wall refrigerator units shorts out with a smoky fizzt.  The ubiquitous humming of the units halts.  The clock on the wall stops dead in its relentless march of time.  All is deathly still.  Quiet.  Perhaps too quiet.

         Mr. Daniels, a nebbish little man wearing a beat-up hat, with beady eyes and a pencil thin mustache, passes by Roger's apartment door.  He scrunches up his nose.  Stops dead in his tracks.  Retraces his steps.  He eases towards the door.  He pinches his nose as if smelling the foulest of odors.

         Lynn stands at her desk behind reception.  The phone rings. She answers.  "Front desk, Lynn speaking.  How may I help you?"  She listens intently.  "Yes, Mr. Daniels.  Really?  That bad, huh?  I'll send a maintenance man up right away.  Thanks."  Lynn hangs up the receiver.  She picks up a hand-held walkie-talkie, keys it.  "Grover, please call Lynn at the front desk.  We have an emergency repair in Building L, Suite 313."

         Mrs. Stonebreaker enters.  She carries a walkie-talkie and a cellular phone.  "What's up in L 313?"

         "You know Mr. Daniels, he's always complaining about something."

         Mrs. Stonebreaker stubs out her cigarette.  "So what is it this time?"

         "He said it smells like someone's been dead for a week in there."

         "That's Mr. Wilcox's."

         "He's out of town," Lynn asserts.

         Mrs. Stonebreaker gives her a "how do you know that" look.  "We better go and check it out."  Heading for the door, they pass by the complex schematic where now most of the board is covered with red.

         Mrs. Stonebreaker jangles her keys as she searches for the master among an endless array of different keys.  But Grover, a lanky, maintenance man, is there already.  He uses his pass key.  They enter.  Mrs. Stonebreaker's pinched, screwed up and scrunched down face is as though she's gotten a whiff of a rank stench.  Lynn also reacts to the smell of decay that permeates the room.

         "My God.  It does smell as if someone died in here awhile ago," Mrs. Stonebreaker comments.

         Lynn walks over towards the kitchen.  With each step, the oppressive stench deepens, forcing her to hold her breath until she rushes outside for some fresher air.  There she runs into Mrs. Stonebreaker who gasps for air like a whale out of water.

         "Honey, take my word, something's definitely rotten in Burbank."

         Police and coroner's assistants scour the apartment for evidence of what's transpired here.  It seems that, the reek of decay not withstanding, nothing has been found that would indicate something is amiss.

         Roger enters amidst all this hullabaloo.

         Mrs. Stonebreaker, sure that some foul deed has been covered up, points at Roger.  "That's him, Officer.  Roger Wilcox.  He's responsible."

         Roger stands there taking everything in without giving his thoughts away.

         Detective Mallory approaches him.  "Your name Roger Wilcox?"

         "Yes, Officer."

         "You live here?" Detective Mallory inquires.  Roger nods.  "I'm Detective Mallory.  Homicide.  This lady, Mrs. Stonebreaker, called and said someone had been murdered here."

         Stone faced, Roger raises his eyebrows at the statement.  "Murdered?  Here?  You're kidding aren't you?"

         "That's what she claims."

         "Detective Mallory, I'm afraid Mrs. Stonebreaker suffers from either an over-active imagination, poor digestion or both."

         The glimmer in Mallory's eye says he's considered that very possibility.  "When a citizen files a complaint it's department policy to check it out."

         Roger waves his hand indicating apartment being searched.  "Have you found any evidence of "foul play"?"

         Detective Mallory looks long and hard at Roger before answering.  "I've been a Homicide detective for 20 years.  When I arrived on scene, I would have sworn there were several bodies rotting in here.  But what we did find is saws and knives that seem suspicious."

         "There's a very simple explanation.  I'm a specialty meats salesman," Roger says as he points to refrigerators.  "I sometimes must store the meat here until it's picked-up by the packers.  My backup generator malfunctioned and the last batch of meat spoiled just before I left town on other business."

         "Where's the meat now?"

         "It was picked up and destroyed."

         "Do you have proof of that?"

         "Just a pick-up order number."

         "What was wrong with the meat?"

         "It was too fatty and putrefied."

         Detective Mallory raises an eyebrow.

         "Who am I supposed to have killed?  Are there any body parts lying around?  Any human heads in the freezers, Detective Mallory?"

         "No corpus delicti if that's what you mean."

         "Well then, I ask you to please leave."

         Detective Mallory's not sure what to make of any of this.  But he knows that without solid evidence like a body or an eyewitness, there's nothing he can do.  Detective Mallory addresses his remarks to Mrs. Stonebreaker.  "There's nothing else I can do here."

         "But I just know he's killed people.  It's always the strong, silent types -- with all that repressed rage boiling to get out -- that end up as mass murders and serial killers."

         "That's an interesting theory, ma'am.  But without a body, I got no case.  You know what I mean?"

         "For all I know, he's a cannibal and he eats his victims."

         Detective Mallory, exasperated, throws up his hands.  "That does it.  I'm outta here," he calls out to the other officers as he heads for the entrance.

         "I knew when I first laid eyes on him that he was trouble with a capital "T"," Mrs. Stonebreaker says to Detective Mallory as he passes her by.

         "You don't really mean that, Mrs. Stonebreaker," Roger replies.

         Lynn gently admonishes her, "Maxine ..."

         "You bet I do!"  She waves her right forefinger under his nose.  "Ever since you came here, people have disappeared suddenly, abruptly and without as much as a "fair-thee-well"."

         Roger's smile is tinged with malice.  His eyes narrow.  There's a devious mind at work here behind the placid, handsome veneer.

         "Yeah, what about that?" Detective Mallory's interest is once again piqued just before leaving the room.

         "She told me herself that people come and go so fast you can't keep up with them."  Roger looks at her from the corner of his eye.  Detective Mallory is also interested in her response.  "Didn't you, Mrs. Stonebreaker?"

         She doesn't answer.  But the nervous way Maxine lights up her ubiquitous cigarette belies that she's rattled by him.  It shows in her every move.  An unknown fear creeps into her face.  She turns and leaves, quickly followed by Detective Mallory's group.

         Lynn stands there.  Roger looks her directly in the eye.

         "Is she for real?"

         "I don't know.  You tell me."

         Roger appears inscrutable.  "What's that supposed to mean?"

         "Some of what she said is true."

         "And?"

         "I'm just not sure of the rest."

         "You don't really believe what she said, do you Lynn?"

         "Maxine sure as hell believes it."

         "She'd believe anything gossipy, no matter who was involved."  Roger looks directly into her eyes.  What do you believe?"

         "What would you have me believe?"

         "Believe what you want to believe."

         "I'll believe the truth."  Lynn returns his stare unbroken.

         "What is truth?  Everyone has their own version."

         "There is only one truth."

         "Could you handle the truth?"

         Lynn hesitates a moment before answering his question with one of her own.  "Are her suspicions unfounded?"

         Roger reflects on this carefully before answering.  He leans in towards her as if confiding a deep, dark secret.  "Not entirely."  Lynn faces Roger.  "As I alluded to before, Mulligan was a most unsavory man.  But he went well with spices."

         "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

         "What do you think I'm saying?"

         "I'd rather hear it from you."

         "Let me frame it this way: everyone is on someone else's menu.  We're all "food for the worms," as the saying goes.  And as I told you, Mulligan Stew is an acquired taste."

         She regards him with a steady eye, not threateningly, more like she's really seeing him for the first time.  She takes his hand in

hers.  A slight smile creeps across her face.  In a low, seductive voice, Lynn tells Roger, "Consume me."

         Outside the Stonewood Garden Corporate Apartments a short time later, the sign still reads: IMMEDIATE OCCUPANCY -- SHORT TERM EXECUTIVE SUITES -- ALL AMENITIES.

         Two red Ferraris exit the front entrance.  They wait to turn onto Barham Boulevard.  They sport matching vanity plates.  The lead car reads: MANEATR; the second one reads: MNEATR2.

         A break in traffic provides the perfect opportunity for the twin Ferraris to turn right onto Barham Boulevard and descend into Burbank as they meld into the early morning commute and disappear around a bend in the road.

THE END