How to Start Engaging Conversations on Women's, Men's, or Family Studies with Wealthy Strangers: A Thriller

By Anne Hart

Sicilian-American Women's, Men's, and Family Studies Professor, psychoanalyst, and night radio talk show personality, Anna Falco's dad always told her that the lower our self esteem, the more we want to be someone different from ourselves, and the more we want someone different from ourselves. He made a point that the higher our self esteem, the more we want someone like ourselves.

Anna Falco added something more to that: her belief that couples with self-respect will respect each other. Not one of Anna's clients came from families where the husband and wife or child and parent respected one another. That could be one huge reason why family wars grew into world wars.

Now family wars had become full-blown race wars in the streets of Los Angeles. Skip an octave, and old hatreds of differences fanned flames between the 'haves' and 'have-nots.'

She offered to trade the wisdom of age for the energy of youth. But it all boiled down to honor between family members. Anna explained the difference between self-esteem and self-respect.

Being an older woman reminded Wrenboy (the troubled court-appointed street teen that she had adopted) of a mother hen capable of caging his freedom. Her lined face reminded him of his own mortality at a time when he felt invincible and desperately lonely for a loving family.

Would he fear her strident voice hammering him back into childhood? Or would he accept her globetrotting to repair the world with kindness? In his search for power and autonomy, he concluded it is easier to rebel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Apr 3, 2007
• ISBN: 9781532000478

Anne Hart

Popular author, writing educator, creativity enhancement specialist, and journalist, Anne Hart has written 82 published books (22 of them novels) including short stories, plays, and lyrics. She holds a graduate degree and is a member of the American Society of Journalists and Authors and Mensa.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Women’s Studies Professor, radio personality, author, and psychoanalyst, Anna Falco spoke to the man next to her, discussing religion and why she usually carried an expensive, but miniature broadcast-quality video camera (camcorder) everywhere to sane up the action.

No, I’m not trying to change anyone’s religion, Anna said in a velvety voice. All I want to do is make house calls and videotape their need to make the world a kinder and saner place, regardless of what they believe.

Everyone calls me Mama Sicily on the radio, sometimes Mama Athena because my mom’s Greek and Sicilian. Actually, I should be Mama Mediterranean, because that’s where I’m from, and I like the food on my plate to be healthy extra virgin olive oil saved from the sunlight in a darkly opaque container and drizzled on whole grains with parsley, Anna continued to introduce herself to the stranger next to her.

The island off the coast of Sicily from where my spirit comes is only a few hours from the cost of Tunisia. So I’m mystical as the oracle at Delphi without the bubbling cave floors.

The best day of my cogitated life occurred when I joined all religions that focus on repairing what’s broken in the world with love, peace, and the harmony of health. I have a need for several religions in my life, do you? If so, aren’t all faces of worship, equally supported, a serene sea of sanity and charity? Do you find happiness in embracing all life forms with compassion? Want to see a picture of Lonnie, my yellow Labrador retriever? I’m starting a new hobby as soon as I retire—gently training service dogs. Maybe you’d like one of my legume sandwiches?"

"I knew at once that what the Japanese call the ‘hara,’ or what the Chinese label the ‘silent world of contemplating empty spaces,’ gave me back my own spark of serenity within. The message I received emphasized that life cannot be caged.

We go from energy to matter to energy to matter, forever. Creation is a circle of ‘E equals MC squared,’ but only in this universe. In the universe next door, energy may act very different.

"No longer did I hide my Sicilian identity by tinting my sable-brown tresses Titian blonde or flirting when announcing that my grandfather came from Palermo and my mother from Crete or that her mother lived in the Sicilian quarters in Alexandria for at least nine generations.

That’s me, Professor Anna Falco, chair of the Women’s Studies Department, with tenure, in a small liberal arts college. And by night, I’m the globetrotting psychologist on Internet Radio forums bearing the midnight shift as a woman out to repair what’s wrong with this world.

The strange man next to her on the plane grimaced. So what does all that have to do with me?

Anna turned to the man in back of her and handed him her business card. She handed her card to the man next to her, too, but he waved his hand in her face and shook his head ‘no.’

So I’m telling you that both religions together equally gave me back my identity with such joy. I make house calls, do you? She spoke to the man next to her and the guy behind her seat.

The individual in the next seat remained silent, a twisted smile weakly dropping. She smiled and asked him, Are you into personality testing and matching your traits to the character of corporations?

He lowered his gaze. Still no reply.

Now I design the personality assessments for my detective work as a forensic psychologist and videographer, Falco added.

Even though I’m firmly planted in 1950, the reality-check-camcorders are state-of-the-art technology.

The man next to her closed his eyes and leaned back on his head rest. I need to take a nap. He sniffed with disdain.

Anna Falco’s pictorial words rippled joyously to the young man seated next to her on the plane. I’m putting on the dog, right?

He silently keyed his laptop computer never looking up at her. She continued talking to him as he snapped the lid on his laptop, leaned back, and with closed eyes, began a barely audible snore.

"I’d rather pray, feel, and enjoy my fantasy-prone personality. I can’t describe how Sicilians for Healthy Mediterranean Diets and Good Eating gave me back my identity and my ‘license’ to think freely and to question all authority in my two different forensic and radio personality psychology practices.

"I walked the borderline between a feeling type and a thinking type. Then my mind fired from my fingertips. That’s it. Sicilians for the Healthy Mediterranean Diet Menu. You see I never lost magic, as the young people tell me.

Magical thinking is my creativity, but Sicilians for Healthy Eating helped me realize how scholars think. It’s great to be able to think within my search for self-identity as well as feel compassion and to question.

The man now annoyed to anger, popped open his bulging eyes and nervously brushed his business suit. He grabbed his laptop, and quickly looked for another empty seat.

Anna ducked instinctively when he changed seats. The man’s elbow sang past Anna’s eye and butted her in the teeth.

At first, Anna slid over, glad to grab a window seat. She closed her eyes and drifted off. She dozed, unaware that a tall, Native American man moved swiftly from the back and sat next to her.

When she opened her eyes, he was staring hypnotically into hers. Immediately, she recognized him as the man who had twice before tossed gas bombs at occupied phone booths in San Diego and Los Angeles.

Behind him, Dr. Tanya Azani Tamirova, alias, Dr. Helena Hanbasquette, known from her newspaper photos as the great Russian-Asian-Siberian-Kurd-ish-Khazak, Khirgiz-Icelandic exobiologist, sat propped on one elbow exploring the contents of her attache case. The next time someone tells you to go to hell in a hand basket, tell the poor soul to pay a visit to Doctor Helena Hanbasquette.

Anna slid past the Native American and headed for the restroom, moving past Tanya. He followed her. Tanya gazed into her compact mirror, watching the two walk down the aisle.

They both returned together—he, from the men’s room, and she, from the women’s. Anna looked around to change her seat, but they were all full.

Anna took her seat first. Then the Native American pushed his way back and sat directly in front of Tanya. Anna began to thumb through a magazine as the man silently watched Anna read. She felt his gaze boring into the third eye in the middle of her forehead and swiftly turned to him.

Mister, do you know me from someplace? It’s rude to stare.

The Native American man didn’t blink. Staring into her eyes he motioned a few letters in some kind of sign language.

Oh, do you have a speech or hearing disability? I’m sorry. Anna touched her ears and mouth. He didn’t show a trace of emotion in his face. She returned uncomfortably to her reading.

In the seat behind him, Tanya opened her attaché case and removed a tiny dart gun. The airline attendant walked down the aisle handing out small pillows to several passengers. Tanya flung her free arm in the flight attendant’s path and placed the pillow in her lap.

As soon as the attendant passed, Tanya grimaced and pretended to sneeze. She crushed the small pillow to her face to block another sneeze.

God bless you, Anna responded by habit as Tanya sneezed. Thank you, Tanya responded. She looked up. Tanya pretended to sneeze again.

As Tanya sneezed loudly into the pillow, she fired her silent little curare dart gun through the pillow. It pierced the base of the skull of the Indian in front of her. The dart worked exactly like a miniature animal tranquilizer gun.

The dart’s slimness made a hole no bigger than a mosquito bite. And the poison was deadlier than cobra venom.

The Native American slapped the back of his neck and motioned with his hand to brush away a flying insect. Anna watched him from the corner of her eye.

His eyes rolled up, and his head fell back against the seat’s headrest. As he slumped forward, dying, a loud blast of foul gas escaped his orifices.

He leaned over and fell against Anna’s shoulder. She propped him back up and turned to Tanya who sat in the seat behind her.

Didn’t anyone ever teach you manners? What nerve. Anna turned and motioned to Tanya. She shoved the man back into his seat. Some people are so rude.

Yes. Some people are real deadbeats. Tanya said in a soft lilt.

I used to have a radio talk show on proper etiquette for business women traveling alone.

Really? Tanya said. It’s hard being a female scientist traveling alone around the world. I think manners are so important.

So what kind of science do you practice?

Exobiology—tropical medicine….

That’s odd. My ex-fiancé was a tropical poisons specialist.

Anna turned to look out of the window. Slowly the dead man began to slip, edging toward Anna’s lap. More foul gas loudly escaped his orifices. Again Anna turned to Tanya for aid.

Tanya pretended to be sleeping with featherweight earphones on her head. The pillow half-covered Tanya’s face.

Anna signaled the flight attendant. Excuse me. The man next to me is sick.

Would you like something to drink? The attendant replied.

No, I said this man’s unconscious.

The pretty young blonde took the man’s pulse. She looked up bewildered. He’s dead.

The attendant looked at Anna as she sniffed the foul air with disdain. Did you bring a cheese on board?

Hell, no!

I’m sorry ma’am.

Can I change my seat?

Do you see any unoccupied seat? No one’s officially dead ‘till the plane lands. It’s the law. I’m afraid you’ll have to sit and bear it.

Where’s the oxygen masks? Anna snarled.

I’ll put a blanket over him, the attendant said.

Don’t you know when people die, their bowels relax?

Here’s a towel.

The attendant left to retrieve a cover for the body. The passengers were asleep or reading papers, and didn’t look up or want to get involved.

In 1964, a neo-sadistic kicked my mother in the spine and called her a dirty Sicilian in a train going from Asbury Park to New York. No one looked up from his paper to help. Anna said to Tanya.

That’s human nature, Tanya replied. People respond to advertising, not real life—black background with beige letters imprint the brain.

Thanks. I needed a slap, Anna sighed.

No one noticed the dead man under a blanket. Suddenly a toddler screamed violently down the aisle. Anna watched the screaming child and the man next to the child holding his ears. The toddler’s mother tried everything to calm the screaming child.

Anna ducked under her seat and retrieved her brown bag lunch. She stood up and gave the dead man a glance as she twisted her legs to pass him. Anna grabbed the briefcase wedged between him and the arm rest of the seat and tucked it into her tote bag.

She fAnnad away the odor around his body into Tanya’s face. Tanya grinned and whipped out a perfume vial, giving the air a spray of lemon-scented cologne.

Care for a lemon spritzer? Anna asked. She slipped the tote bag strap over her shoulder.

Tanya sneered. Anna pulled the two-foot long packages of limburger cheese and salami out of a shopping bag and peeled off the gift wrappings.

Well, here goes the best birthday present I ever bought for my producer. She placed it across the man’s lap to overpower the stench. He softly emitted gas like an auto exhaust pipe.

She walked to the screeching tyke at the back of the plane who swung a shopping bag in his mother’s face. Tanya watched her.

Anna nudged the man sitting next to the child with his hands over his ears. In the window seat the distraught mother tried to calm her child by singing a Lebanese lullaby. She bounced the toddler on her knee.

Anna touched the man’s shoulder to get his attention. Do you want to change seats? I really enjoy sitting next to a child.

Thank God! The man sighed loudly, lowering his hands from his ears. He stood up and offered his seat to Anna . She pointed to her empty seat next to the dead man leaking gas.

Oh, a window seat, the man grinned.

Don’t disturb the man sitting next to you with the big cheese and salami on his lap. He’s sleeping soundly. You don’t mind the smell of limburger and warm beer, do you? Anna gave him a dead-pan face.

With the cold I have, it won’t make a difference. The man shrugged. Any-thing’s better than a screaming Mimi. He hurried down the aisle.

The flight attendant draped a second blanket over the dead man’s body. She put the salami and cheese on a tray, placed it back on his lap, and walked on.

She passed Anna on her way to the back room. Nothing can pass through those two layers of blankets.

The attendant whispered in Anna’s ear. No publicity, please on this short flight. If we call attention to him, the passengers will panic and then sue for emotional damages.

Anna began to play with the screaming child. He stopped crying. Before the plane landed, Anna visited the restroom and removed the Indian’s attaché case from her large purse. She rolled thick wads of paper towels around her fingers just in case some poison needles darted out from a booby-trap lock.

Anna squatted on the cold, wet restroom tile and slowly pried the lock. The case opened in the usual way with no tricks. A small, ancient Indian gold and clay relic rolled out of the briefcase along the restroom floor. Anna studied it a few minutes. She tapped it, and it sounded hollow.

Nothing else was in the briefcase. Anna cut up the lining with her nail scissors, then the outside leather. She found no other contents and put the case back in her purse.

The plane landed in San Diego a few minutes later. Anna stopped at the airport telegraph office to pick up the money Garanwyn had wired. She hurried to a waiting cab and struck up a conversation about her work.

What I don’t understand, the taxi driver shouted over the blaring of a truck’s horn, is what goes through a woman’s mind when she dials a radio psychologist.

She’s looking for an emotional connection, and her husband’s probably yelling, ‘Give me a break!’ Anna said.

She leaned forward. He’s really looking for a breakthrough. Instead, he says ‘break.’ So he cuts off his wife in mid-sentence.

He glanced over his shoulder in conversational emphasis. And she cuts him off in the bedroom.

Every wife acts out her husband’s hidden feelings, she said with a smile.

The driver pulled up to the curb and flipped the meter flag. You wanted the Anthropological Museum?

I worked here in my college days, Anna said. She handed him the fare. Don’t spend it all in one place. He laughed and pulled away.

Anna paused before the entrance. She wondered whether her producer had set her up and whether this new part-time private investigator, Garanwyn Wright, who worked nights as a telephone company switchman and days as a private investigator, could be trusted. She froze around outsiders.

Inside the Anthropological Museum, Anna walked the winding staircase to the physical anthropology laboratory. She drifted through the dark, dusty halls to a small office and knocked on the curator’s door.

Doctor Marz, the curator, half-hid behind his computer. In back of him she noticed a shelf of jars with brains floating in formaldehyde and a few skeletons lying across the lab tables.

Anna smiled in surpise at her old physical anthropology professor. Hello, there. I can’t believe ten years have passed already. What happened to Doctor Gorton?

"Marz screwed his eyes up to an overexposed photograph of Dr. Gorton which hung on the wall.

That’s who I came to see.

Marz laughed fiendishly. He retired maybe three years ago. I started here in physical anthropology right after he left. He was a ceramicist.

Anna circled the small office. She took out a Mayan maze game from her purse and stood it up on his desk.

You thought you switched Mayan mazes, but I have the real one. She unscrewed the hollow game puzzle from the dead Indian’s attache case.

What are you talking about, lady? You need the cultural anthropology office down the hall. Marz lowered his eyes and opened the door for her to leave.

No, Doctor Marz. Her violet eyes flashed. Those ancient Indians were smart. Look inside the false bottom.

Dr. Marz emitted a weird wail. He smiled revealing a row of gold teeth. Surely, you don’t think I want that cheap, clay imitation made by some art student.

Really? I used to build replicas of ancient Mayan relics for Professor Gorton. Take a forty million dollar look.

Anna smashed the maze game on Marz’s glass coffee set tray. A game box with a false bottom and a handful of large diamonds scattered on the desk top.

Go ahead, break my tray. I did.

You’ll pay, you pushy bitch.

Say, do you really enjoy your job?

Yes.

Anna had to figure something else. Is this forty million dollars an inheritance from Dr. Gorton? He’s alive. Every Hannukah he sends me an enameled dreidl with no return address. Why is he hiding? Does it have something to do with this maze box?

I don’t know.

Marz examined the relic. It’s the astronomical jargon that’s priceless. This is a cheap, Aztec copy.

The stuff inside the maze is another maze.

She waited for his reaction. You’re walking rigor-mortis.

A skull-grin bloomed on his face, and a large v-shaped vein throbbed larger with each pulse beat across his receding forehead.

Marz grabbed the maze inside a maze and opened the parchment carefully. It just about fell to dust….

Can you read this Mayan script? Or is it Yucatan Aztec?

Dr. Marz looked at the scroll with a magnifying glass. Those Indians wrote on stone, not scroll.

What is it then?

It’s a fake. The scroll’s authentic. It’s second millennium Akkadian—old Babylonian from the time of Hammurabi. Why did you shove it inside a Mayan maze box?

Me? That’s the way it came in the mail. Is it a Piltdown man hoax?

Perhaps. Someone wants you to think the ancient Babylonians of 1,750 B.C. sailed to Central America.

You mean they enscribed the voices of their gods on this scroll?

Precisely.

Now wait a minute, Anna interrupted. Even Hammurabi carved his words on black stone columns or wet clay tablets. The Greeks wrote on papyrus scrolls and the Hebrews.

I can read Babylonian scrolls.

Your specialty is Central American archaeology. When did you learn Akkadian—on one of your drug and antiquities smuggling ventures in Iraq? Who’s your Iraqi connection? Does he have diplomatic immunity?

You’re having a tantrum in every cell, lady.

I read all about you. When did you study in the Middle East? Everything written about you points to life-long work in Latin America.

I’m familiar with Mesopotamia, Marz insisted. This scroll is written in Akkadian, but it’s not about Babylon. This stuff is ancient Mayan and Aztec astronomy.

What does it say?

Marz translated. Several nations traded crop astrology. The translation shows the genealogy of a Chinese wise man—Loo Ping, the first man who sailed to Central America with a Babylonian astronomer.

Anna thought a moment with her hand on her cheek. Gorton once told me an ancient scroll described Chinese acupuncture points, but it’s from Guatemala.

I know about his theory. He argued the invention of the violin, called the hoo, sailed from China to the new world.

Well, I never saw an ancient New World Indian playing Chinese music on the violin.

That’s because you didn’t live in Guatemala in ancient times, Marz guffawed.

Anna examined the relic. Are you saying all this came to the Mayans in ancient times by Chinese junks carrying Babylonian horoscopes?

They traded with the Near East through the silk routes. Then they plied the Pacific.

Women take a different approach to business then men. Maybe some Malaysian maiden sailed there. Marz rolled with laughter, mocking her. If you believe a word I say, you’re an imposter.

Anna backed out the door. You’re wasting my time.

Read this. He pointed to the cuneiform writing on the scroll.

It tells of the struggles of the Mayans living under the rule of the Chinese in Central America. Marz exploded in side-splitting laughter.

A couple of courses in archaeology can be dangerous to an amateur sleuth like you. Obviously, broadcasting popular psychology pays better.

Those chicken scratches look more like twelve thousand year old petro-glyphs. That’s not the language of Babylon, Anna insisted. It’s a coincidence.

Really, Marz smiled crookedly.

How do I know you’re not making this up to ridicule me? Maybe it’s a four-thousand year-old recipe for pigeon pie?

He placed a colored filter over the scroll to protect it from a flash of light and photocopied it. Two images of the chicken scratchings flew out of his machine.

Why are you trying to fool me? Anna curled her lips back like a chimpanzee and thrust her head forward so she stared eye-to-eye with Marz. I read those ancient Mayan languages. Not well, mind you, but I’m as into this as a lay person can get.

Marz threw up his hands. These diamonds belong to the museum now.

I can’t leave this stuff. I don’t know you.

He pointed to a name plate on his desk. It read: "Dr. Franz Marz, Ph.D. Curator of Central American Antiquities.

That doesn’t prove you and the name plate match.

Good day, Miss … Miss.

Doctor Anna Falco.

Marz shoved her out the door and closed it. She stood there in silence for a minute until he opened it again.

Oh, I forgot. There’s a small reward for returning the scroll that wasn’t yours anyway.

Anna kicked the door in. "Like hell it isn’t. The postman delivered the scroll to me at the station last month.

It disappeared before I had a chance to examine it closely. Then it turned up on some dead male with leaking gas in midflight. That same man hurled a bomb at me, but it imploded.

Lady, you’re rambling. Marz tried to close the door, but she pushed in on it and entered his office. He pulled a gun from his desk drawer and pointed it at her.

She pointed her finger at the pistol. Don’t tell me if one gun can’t go off, the other will? Anna laughed loudly with a wide open mouth. Never mind what you say the scroll says, you jerk. I’ll tell you what it says. Just what Gorton wrote me that it said. Now where’s Gorton?

He fired the gun twice as she ducked behind the door. It jammed. Marz looked down at his gun.

It’ll never go off when you have to perform in front of a successful woman. Anytime a man wants to make war, it’s because he isn’t getting quality in the bedroom.

Make that boardroom. Anna leaned against the door, holding onto it for support. Take me to your Iraqi connection. Is he an American? Is he in Central America? When I’m through with him, he’ll only want peace.

I only wanted to scare you off with an unloaded gun. I’m calling security.

You know as much as I do about the authors of the Mayan Book of Mazes.

Come back in. I’m sorry. He laughed. You’re crazier than the astrologers.

What’s the matter, can’t you picture a time before writing when people toyed with mazes—a time when the right hemisphere of the brain was god?

Marz turned the Mayan maze upside down. Takwatl, daughter of the rising sun, it reads. Does that mean it’s made in Japan?

He hooted a raspberry. Mazes represented the underworld. Now get out of this museum.

The security guard entered and drew his gun. Anna backed away slowly. Marz loaded his gun, and the two pistols pointed at her face.

Don’t you dare treat me like a robber. I came to show you my own relics, you idiots! I’m a collector. Don’t you care who I am?

She sidled past the guard who danced around her. Marz waved his gun, motioning for her to leave. Anna did a high kick, and the guard’s gun flew from his hands into the air, landing in a fishtank on Marz’s desk.

Never point a gun unless you mean to use it. She turned to leave. Marz grabbed her shoulder, and she slapped his cheek. You’re underloved and overweight. What’s even more scary, is that crime pays you less than my advance on three books exposing crime. What a waste of seven years of college.

Marz looked at her startled and off-guard. He nodded to security to back off. Don’t make noise. This is a museum of research. Anna put her finger to her pursed lips.

I always reveal everything I find out to the world.

You need a therapist, Marz said. You’re showing the earliest stages of Alzheimer’s disease.

You’re strange as hell. Anna walked out.

She left the diamonds and scroll on Marz’s desk. He watched her blend into the stream of museum visitors.

At the museum exit, she glanced at the clock and hurried to find a taxi. In a flash she removed Marz’s wallet from her brassiere and lifted a crisp twenty dollar bill.

To the nearest airport, she blurted.

Oh not again, the taxi driver whined. You’re the tenth airport fare before lunch hour.

Anna waited outside the airport entrance as Garanwyn’s car pulled up. Anna hopped in, and they crawled bumper to bumper through San Diego traffic.

Garanwyn put his arm around her shoulders. She looked down at the green waitress’s uniform she still was wearing.

So, tell me about your flight. Garanwyn kissed her on the back of her neck.

Well, the bomb in the airport fizzled. Lucky, huh? She gave him the warmest smile he’d ever seen.

Garanwyn thought she liked to joke, that she enjoyed playing the role of radio talk show popshrink. He didn’t interrupt. He thought about how easily she broke the sexual tension between two strangers with nothing in common.

How do I top that?

She sighed. You don’t have to top me.

I’m sorry. He looked straight ahead at the traffic as he drove. I’m not a controlling man. My mother gave me enough rope.

But …

Oh, here it comes, he said in a cartoon character falsetto. Let your feelings out. Have a good cry on my shoulder. You can cry, can’t you? You’re the first woman I met who never cried in front of a man.

There’s nothing worse than a dead male with leaking gas.

Something happened to the engine? His eyes widened as he turned to her. What happened? Did your plane nearly run out of fuel in mid-air?

There was plenty of gas.

Then what? Come on, spill your guts.

You really wouldn’t want me to do that in your car.

Garanwyn said impatiently. I thought you’re too pooped to joke with me. Where to first?

Anna shook her head in confusion. A dusty corner of my old university library, and then back to work at the radio station.

Chapter 2

FRIDAY, MIDNIGHT, LA JOLLA, CALIFORNIA

Garanwyn Wright, Garanwyn Wright is an introverted sports-fan and telephone company switchman. He tells the world he’s shy by usually taking a sudden interest in his sneakers upon meeting a new person.

As Anna Falco spoke on the radio, Garanwyn instantly knew he was falling in love with voice of San Diego’s most popular radio talk show psychologist working the midnight shift.

You’re hired, Garanwyn Wright, Anna bellowed joyfully. You’re officially station K.W.I.N’s part time and temporary private investigator.

Why a moonlighter? Garanwyn asked with a tight smile across his lips.

I always wanted a private investigator with a sense of humor and an electronics background. And you’re the station’s most frequent and funniest midnight caller, Anna Falco said with her usual cutting humor. Go ahead and tell the people what you did for me."

Garanwyn’s eyes reflected mirth. I wired the station’s phones to a computer sZyxbot at the phone company so the radio station could trace threatening callers. As back up, I put a trap on the station’s phones to view the harassing caller’s number and record the time of the call.

Thank you, Mr. Garanwyn Wright at the phone company, Anna said.

Garanwyn glanced at his watch and felt he desperately needed more of her, but he was already five minutes late for work. Only a mile away from the radio station, he turned up his radio louder and drove his 17-year old V.W. Bug too fast.

Anna replied in a tormented voice to a caller, unable to hold her raw emotion in check. He leaned forward to catch every word of his favorite radio show talk hostess.

This is Anna Falco, the hound of the bitch box getting in touch with your inner bitch. That’s what they pay me for—to be obnoxious. Don’t worry, folks. I’m really a genteel lady at home. I’m lonely tonight folks, desperately lonely for mental intimacy. Nothing to do but go home and watch a hockey game.

A hockey game? Garanwyn laughed. Why would a female doctor of psychology be sitting home alone watching a hockey game?

Garanwyn drove his car with one hand. His other hand held onto Dr. Anna’s latest book which rested on his auto seat.

A close up of her oval, Greek face bled across the front of her book. The dark olive skin, full red lips, waist-length ebony spiral curls, and silver eyes with sunbursts of gold radiating from her pupils were magnetic enough to attract any man. She was funny, funnier than a stand-up comic, he thought.

Make me laugh, Garanwyn shouted at his radio. Go ahead and make me laugh. He stared down at Anna’s picture on the book cover for just an instant too long.

This is your prime motivator, Anna Falco, therapist to the stars. We have a new caller. Hi, Betty. How can I change your life?

Garanwyn tried to tape record the radio program and drive. Oh, my God I’m late, Garanwyn thought, as he studied her photograph with his enigmatic gaze.

The caller’s silent pause was too long for Anna . Are you still there, Betty? There was a loud sigh and a bit of stammering.

Will you please take a deep breath and speak into the phone? You’re drifting away on me.

Betty’s voice cracked. I’m afraid my husband is having an affair with his bookkeeper and wants to throw me in the street after thirty years of marriage. He doesn’t believe in alimony, but I’ve never worked. I’m afraid of failing at fifty, if I even try.

So you’re finally realizing change never changes, I said in a silky voice.

I want to be a motivator, just like you, Dr. Anna.

All of a sudden a streak of anger whipped my words. I channeled that anger like a lawyer, pointing my words like finely aimed needles at the hole in Betty’s heart. You’re a manipulator with low self-esteem! The other woman’s always more feminine.

Are you as ugly as you are rude? Betty answered quickly in tear-smothered words.

I’m as beautiful as I am smart. Anna cut her off.

I could hear her pounding heart kicking brutally at her voice. I’m sorry. You need this for your own good. Anna sighed with exasperation.

I’m going over your head to complain. Betty slammed the phone down, cutting off Anna in mid-sentence.

I kept speaking to all the listeners. I get paid for being obnoxious. That’s why this show has the highest ratings.

Garanwyn turned his radio up louder so he could hear every one of Anna ‘s words. He began to laugh again as she was stirring up the K.W.I.N. listeners. The hound of the bitch box went to twelve-thirty traffic break and a commercial.

Anna was the only woman who could make him laugh, he thought. Garanwyn whispered to his radio grille, I love you, but you probably wouldn’t give a telephone switchman the hour of night. Or would you?

Garanwyn fondled his new car phone. He had it installed the day he received his private investigator license. He thought about how much more exciting moonlighting before work as a P.I. would be. What am I saying?, he thought. I haven’t even had my first case yet. Garanwyn had the same VW bug for the past 23 years. He kept it in good repair. He expected to keep the same wife a long time too, like he kept his one and only economy car.

Garanwyn Wright’s James Bond stance in the car mirror dissolved. He studied his large, black eyes, his wavy dark brown hair, his profile. Garanwyn even practiced arching one black eyebrow until he could get it right. I look more like Spock from Star Trek than James Bond, he said to himself. He touched his ears to see how they’d look pointy.

Garanwyn Wright’s mind wandered even further as he began to talk to himself in the mirror. I look like a real P.I. more than a typical night shift telephone technician. What’s a switchman supposed to look like?

He gazed in the mirror and twisted his lips. Then he spoke to himself in a voice that was velvet-edged and strong. The name’s Bond, James Bond.

Garanwyn studied his face in the mirror and repeated the phrase in a voice even more low and smooth. Then Anna Falco distracted him as she came back to the microphone from traffic break.

Anna’s voice sounded tired. So don’t listen to K.W.I.N. if you don’t want to hear about responsibilities. This show’s for winners who want to make their successful lives terrific. How come only human garbage calls this station? That’s all you are—zombies. Quit calling. Change the station. You don’t. You listen. You always listen.

She imitated a very old lady with a quivering voice.Oh, Doctor Anna, your internal thinking doesn’t match your external experience. Men don’t buy books on how to fix relationships. Let’s hear from men in Southern California. Why don’t men call me after midnight? Okay, we have a new caller from Beverly Hills. Hi, Rowena.

The woman’s cool voice broke into her reverie, Fortunately I can live my dream without your advice. Doctor, have you ever closed a sale? If so, then what was your best business deal?

I once traded virginity for prime California real estate. Anna cut that caller off quickly.

Her assistant signaled to her. Garanwyn was interviewed as the first male caller of the night.

Anna pressed the button, now suddenly aware of cage-like surroundings in the box. As soon as Garanwyn spoke, she recognized his voice. He was one of her most frequent callers. Anna let out a sigh of disappointment. Jim Mc Cor-mick and the engineer stared back at her from the other side of the glass wall.

Hello, Dr.? Am I on the air? This is Garanwyn again, your telephone switchman.

Yes, I remember. You told me you were good-looking, thirty-five, single, stable, and a gentleman. Have you found the right girl yet? If I remember correctly, you told me you had problems meeting women because you work the night shift.

Anna heard his full and masculine laugh. Garanwyn’s voice had depth and authority that unlocked her soul. You haven’t met me yet, but I did buy your book and read the chapter on how to find your heroine.

Anna wondered what Garanwyn really did look like. She pondered whether there was any depth to him outside of his job that made her feel pulled down to its level.

She thought of my own father, and how hard Anna tried to raise herself above the level of his job. Her dad sold his New York men’s hat manufacturing business. He told everyone it gave him too many headaches. After three years of unemployment, he took a job mopping floors at night in the Navy Yard.

Did you ever date an ambitious woman?

Yes.

Were you afraid everyone would judge you by your job? Or did your last partner leave you because you weren’t responsible or a good provider?

Would you let me get a word in edge-wise? Garanwyn’s lips puckered with annoyance. Don’t interrupt me.

Anna jerked to her feet. You’ve cut me off in mid-sentence, and this is my show. Did you know statistics reveal that men are eighty times more likely to cut women off before they’ve finished speaking?

Garanwyn took a deep breath. I’m a private investigator now. I work days as a P.I. I just wanted to tell you I’m only a phone switchman at night.

Anna hated to admit how much his admiration cheered her. Don’t you ever sleep?

I’ve always had insomnia, since I was twelve.

So now, you’re this suave, private detective? I was glad of the dark studio that concealed the flush in my cheeks.

Would you ever go out with a telephone switchman? Garanwyn looked down at her photograph on the cover of her book in his lap. His hands trembled.

Of course, if he makes me feel good about myself, if he makes me feel important over the long run.

Garanwyn sighed and went as silent as an introverted sensor trapped in an elevator by an extraverted intuitive talking nonstop.

"Last time you called you were desperately seeking a job, right? So somebody finally did give you the illusion of control. I played a tape segment of cAnnad laughter.

Her voice was alarming as she basked in the knowledge of her power. Relief filled her as Anna played a recorded raspberry.

Call this station again and tell me how you solved your most important case. Anna was only looking for a way to get closer to the caller by talking about relationships.

Garanwyn took it wrong. I’d obviously humiliated him. You used me as the stooge. Entertainment’s money. Keep listeners awake. Keep up the ratings. I’m the show.

Well, I hope you keep calling me back.

You know what you made me do last week? Garanwyn laughed.

"I drove his car too fast around a sharp corner. Your new book slid off my lap. I Wrenboyt down to pick the book up from lying on my gas pedal. Another car came swaying almost head on, and he swerved to avoid just missing it. I realized then that I’d turned my company’s car phone off by mistake.

"Frantically, I tried to dial you back again. On the radio there was another caller you didn’t like. You gave her that ugly noise which you always use to chase away unwanted callers.

I don’t take no for an answer, he said with a tightening jaw.

Sir, it’s only a show. Lighten up. Don’t take life so seriously. Anna tried to calm him down. Then she went on to the next caller.

I’m going to write a letter to the station, Garanwyn protested.

I’m a private investigator…. Garanwyn talked to the dial tone. He dialed again but heard a recording that repeated: Thank you for calling K.W.I.N. Radio. All our lines are busy. Please hang up and try again.

Garanwyn plucked his cassette tape recording from his machine and tossed it in his pocket. He looked down once more on the face of Anna Falco. As he drove into the telephone company parking lot, he placed her paperback in his pocket. She loves me, he thought.

Garanwyn hurried through the interior of the West Hollywood telephone company switching room. He was more than forty-five minutes late for work.

Garanwyn brushed by and greeted his co-worker, Bob Stanton, who presented Garanwyn with a small wrapped gift. An angelic smile spread across his thin lips as he whispered, Happy thirty-fifth birthday, you lucky playboy bachelor.

Lucky? Maybe. Garanwyn shot Bob a twisted smile as he pulled the present from Bob’s hands. Thanks. He hurried by, shouting, The supervisor’s on my tail.

Bob turned to the photos of his own wife and two grown children posted above his work station and grinned. Bob shoved the previous shift’s trouble report at Garanwyn’s workstation and resumed testing the telephone lines for static. There was an ambient hum and the flickering of colored lights at the consoles as Garanwyn brushed past the supervisor’s angry stare.

As Garanwyn began his three-second testing of each line for voice quality, Joan Cooke, the supervisor, a thirty-eight year old Sicilian American beauty, tapped him on the shoulder.

Where have you been? Joan shuddered. Carmel’s got trouble calling Sacramento.

Garanwyn scooped up the trouble report and read it. Immediately, he began to test the phone lines listening for garble. Joan tapped him again because he didn’t answer her.

I’ve been working the four-to-midnight shift when I don’t have to. Joan leaned forward and lowered her voice. I mummified waiting for you. You’re late again.

I know, Garanwyn whispered, continuing to test the lines with a one-eared headpiece.

Joan put her hand on his shoulder and dug her fingertips into his polyester shirt. He winced to listen to the line, not her.

Not static again, he complained, ignoring her messages.

You’re late! Joan tried to get Garanwyn’s attention, but he touched his forehead lightly in a mock salute.

The Anna Falco segment went to newsbreak. At radio station K.W.I.N., producer, Jim Mc Cormick shuffled papers from one end of his desk to the other. The station engineer relieved him of a stack of fan letters.

Jim followed Anna into what radio stations call the box. Are you sure you don’t want to talk about that boyfriend trouble? Jim Mc Cormick asked. Your listeners are complaining about the excess of repeat taped shows.

Anna took a sip of herbal mint tea as she smiled her werewolf smile to Jim and spoke through the microphone. Did you ever notice that women feel more important if they get married, but men feel diminished?

Jim threw me the California two-fingered hand sign for hang loose and twisted his lips slyly. Do I have to give you permission to be happy?

Well, at least you have a day job, whatever it is. What is it, anyway? Your violet-gray eyes are shining like silver lightning. Anna brushed a spiral curl of raven hair from unplucked brows as Jim watched her set up the microphone.

Pest control. He ground the word out between his thin lips. Why don’t you just stick to giving those seminars on how to avoid a controlling man?

Anna ‘s extraverted intuitive mind refused to register the significance of his extraverted sensing (ESTP) words. After all, sensing was her inferior function. Her feelings for Jim were becoming confused.

Notice how you always think out loud, Jim? She watched the rainbow of lights blinking down the radio engineer’s control panel like lights dying down a Christmas tree. That’s just like an extraverted sensor. You’re an extraverted, sensing, thinking and perceiving man, J.M., a man who works here and there and now and then for fun and play who wants to take in every sight and sound. You don’t miss a thing, and you won’t miss me.

So how’s that going to make me as rich as I am restless? Jim laughed. You can be replaced by a tough, female lawyer who loves to argue. Anna adjusted her microphone once more as the engineer signaled that she was on the air in five seconds.

"You’ve got to be crazy to see a psychiatrist, folks. So