At work she moped around a while, tried to stay away from Carl Goodman, tried to wrestle with her guilty conscience for what she had said to Doug.  She did feel bad about not being at home and days had simply whizzed by now that she was working long hours as an executive recruiter.  But she was enjoying her work.  

     Liz called home a third time, got no answer, and decided to try and forget her marital problems and just work.  She had worked long, hard hours in training, a lot of cram courses with Stan, and one-on-one recitals with senior headhunters who had taught her the basics.  She felt comfortable with her progress in most areas but in one session with Bully, she had become flustered, unsure of herself, and said, "I don't know what to say!"  Bully had screamed the standard sales’ response to her:  "’Fake it 'till you make it!’  Just keep talking!"  Joker had agreed with Bully, and had chimed in, "But it’s the 'P' people, 'procrastinators,' who are the most dangerous because a 'yes' answer tells you to proceed, a 'no' answer tells you to stop, but a ‘P’ tells you nothing.”

     “Show Time” in the office was the official rookie headhunter’s ritual, the first time under fire with a company ready to make an offer, an event that could be watched and later critiqued by anyone who chose.   Liz was to close on a candidate in Stan’s glass office, with Stan and Carl Goodman inside, and any other headhunters who wanted watching and listening.   She would be on the speaker and taped so everyone knew what was said for the critique.  It was a nervy time for her.  Talking to candidates had been easy; talking to company officials required extensive training including legal for discrimination on age, race, religion, handicapped and numerous other subjects.  Liz kept her headset on and took her file with her to Stan’s office.

     "Show time!" Red Neck yelled from behind Liz.

     Liz ignored him as she continued walking toward Stan's office.

     Red Neck yelled at Joker, who had just entered the opposite end of the Circus area.  "'Bod' is going to 'Showtime'!  Party-time!  Let's go listen!"

     "Yeah?" Joker squealed with delight.  “’Bod' is going to take it all off in public?  I've been waiting to see this a long time!"

     "Gonna do it!" Red Neck declared.  "And, I wanna watch!"

     Several headhunters in the Circus area started clapping in unison.

     Liz was furious that Red Neck had nicknamed her 'Bod' but she knew there was nothing she could do about that nor could she force them to stop clapping, so she stopped, turned, smiled, and curtsied to those in the Circus area.

     "Class," Miss Piggy grunted.  "That Liz has class.”

     "Oink!  Oink!" Joker yelled. "Go for the garbage, 'Pig'!"

     Miss Piggy winked at Liz, saying, “They’re afraid you’ll succeed in their little macho world and make them look like the jerks they are.”

     Liz nodded her appreciation for diverting attention away from herself.

     Stan and Carl set up the speaker box, hooked Liz's headset into the main system, and let Liz make the call to Jack Borkowski, the V.P. Sales for the employer.  Liz's telephone headset was the only "hot" phone:  everyone could hear the conversation on the speaker box but only Liz's voice could be heard by Jack Borkowski.  She greeted him warmly.

     "I like this guy, Harold Rincon," Borkowski began.

     Liz immediately responded, "I like him too, Jack.  He has a professional attitude."  She glanced at the crowd gathered around the outside of the glass to see Red Neck give her a "V" sign.

     “Beautiful,” Stan whispered.  “Perfect regurgitation.  Good tone on the empathy, too.”

     "That's a good assessment," Borkowski agreed.  "We'd like to make him an offer.  Let me run this by you:  forty thousand salary, plus a monthly bonus of three per cent on sales, would give him a gross of six figures, and of course, four hundred car expense and the usual 'benes': health and life insurance. . . "

     "That, my dear, is a legal offer!" Stan whispered.  “Foreplay! 

     Liz put a finger over her speaker tube.  "Foreplay?" she asked.

     "Oh, yes!  'Closing' a deal is the orgasm!"

     Borkowski was still rambling . . . and our retirement plan, which is a four-oh-one-'K'.  It's a dam good package."

     Stan had one finger over his lips for silence.  "Did you pre-close the candidate?" he asked.

     Liz nodded.  She had pre-closed the candidate at forty-three thousand dollars in salary, a figure at which she had the candidate's permission to tentatively accept the offer.  Some candidates chose not to negotiate pay with their future employer and empowered the headhunter to negotiate and accept on their behalf.  She held up four fingers, then three fingers.

     "Uh-huh.  Uh-huh.  Ask for forty-five," Stan said.

     Liz instantly countered, "I'm not certain, Jack.  I realize your commission structure is higher but he's already at thirty-nine thousand salary and candidates normally expect at least a ten to fifteen per cent bump in base pay for changing jobs.  I'm certain he'd accept forty-five.  I don't think he'd accept forty."

     Stan was nodding as he paced in front of his desk, mumbling, "Uh-huh!  Uh-huh!  Sounded good.   Real professional!"  He turned to wink at Carl, adding, "Modino has the knack!  Modino has the knack, huh, Carl?  A firm rebuttal!  She's sharp!"

     "That's higher than I wanted to go," Borkowski stated.  "What do you think of forty-two?"

     Liz held her ground.  "I know he'd accept forty-five," she repeated firmly.  "I have his permission to accept at forty-three, but he does have another offer, so I think you should offer him forty-four."

     "All right.  What the hell!  Offer him forty-four."

     Stan was raking a finger across his throat for Liz to cut and wrap. Liz immediately summarized and wrapped, re-phrased the offer to review it and double check for errors.    She repeated what she had been told was the most famous paraphrase in selling, "So, what you're saying is . . . "   She reviewed the offer, repeated it, item-for-item, then said, "Jack, I accept your offer on Rincon’s behalf.  I'll talk to Rincon and call you back to confirm."

     "Congratulations!" Carl boomed.  "Your first full deal!"

     "Beautiful!" Stan proclaimed.  "God, that was smooth!"

     Liz was proud of herself.  She had closed the deal on her candidate without a snag.

     Stan produced his trumpet and thundered several blasts as usual in the Circus area while the senior headhunters lined up to congratulate Liz.  One of them, Bully, Bill Richardson, a six-four, two hundred fifty pound muscle man with a blond flattop haircut told her, “That was indeed a ‘bunker-buster’.”

     “Is that good?” Liz asked.

     “No, good is mediocre.  That was outstanding.  You penetrated the walls of sales’ resistance and exploded inside.  You destroyed ‘em!”          

     After the revelry ended, Carl Goodman escorted Liz to his office to critique her performance.  "You made some mistakes," he began.  "The first was not accepting my offer to have dinner some night."

     Liz stood nervously at attention in front of his desk.  “Carl," she began, "you're married and I’m happily married.  I appreciate your help on the job but I'm not interested in having an affair."

     Carl's face turned glum.  "You don't seem to understand," he said.  "Your job and the money you make here are dependent on me, on my evaluation of you.”   He walked around his desk and came over to where Liz was standing.  Before she knew what was happening, Carl reached out for the zipper on her white sweater and unzipped it.  Liz

Was aghast as she looked down to find her bra and bare midriff were exposed. 

     "You are one beautiful creature," Carl declared. 

     As his right hand came forward, Liz stepped to the side, zipped up her sweater and left his office.  She knew that sooner or later she would be forced to quash Carl.  Zingara would have smashed a crippling karate chop to his neck.  But she was in no position to challenge him since one or the other of them would be fired if she did.

     After she called Harold Rincon to inform him he got the job, Liz called Gina to tell her about her first full deal, where she got one half the entire thirty per cent of $44,000, or $6,200. 

     Gina was flabbergasted.  "You made sixty-two hundred dollars?” she asked in astonishment.  “Then I guess I’ll see you at the big party Saturday night.”

     Liz said, “I guess, if Doug’s sober, and at home and I won’t be able to answer either of those questions until Saturday afternoon.  See you at aerobics tonight.”

                                                                  #

      After aerobics Liz followed Gina into Casa del Opera.  They walked along an aisle where fishing nets were woven into and around some booths and tables.  The walls were painted with Neapolitan themes of Mt. Vesuvius and Pompeii, Amalfi and Sorrento, and Capri.  Several mandolins and violins and guitars were hung on the walls.  There was a large bar just to the left of the entrance.  On the small stage, a balding man was crooning the words to “Questa o Quella” from Rigoletto into his mike as he read the Italian words on the karaoke screen.  Gina gave him a thumbs up sign as they passed the stage.  They went on to sit at their favorite booth at the back next to the kitchen.

     Tony stuck his head out the kitchen door to yell at them.  "Ah-h-h!  My favorite Italian beauties!" he roared.  A rotund little man with curly, gray hair, he waddled out to the table and kissed Gina's hand, then Liz's.  He cooed to Liz, "If I'm-a-not married thirty years, and faithful, I swear, I ‘a-marry you right here, Neapolitan style.”

     Gina shrugged.  "Tony, you never make me that proposition!  I'm not busy tonight.  Why don't you marry me?"

     Tony slid into the booth beside Gina and kissed her cheek.  "Me and you have a platonic relationship," he told her, "just like most regular American marriages.  Americans don't know why they get married!  Most American marriages are cerebral because Americans think too much!  Love is a reaction to the five senses.  No thinking is required.  Italians like number five: to touch."  He turned to Liz to wink, saying, "Now, I'm going to bring my favorite Italian opera stars the most exquisite, expensive meal on the menu."

     "No!" Liz protested.  "No!  Just a 'mayo' sandwich!"  She was an addict for mayonnaise on crisp, hot toast.

     Tony grimaced.  "Sh-h-h!"  He put his forefinger on his lips.  "Mayonnaise sandwich?" he whispered.  "You got to stop eating that in my restaurant.  You'll ruin me!  Nobody will want my Italian specialties for fourteen ninety-five!"

     Liz insisted on the mayo sandwich, adding, “A buon mercato, grazie.”

     "Cheap?  My lovely opera star wants a cheap meal?"

     Gina nodded. "Your opera star has money problems, Tony."

     "Ah, money!" he shouted.  "Cerebral Americans are so greedy they ignore life and love and good food.  Italians don't care about money!  Vino and pasta are the staff of life!  Add a little musica, a little sesso and amore, and you got life--vita.  Now, to prove it, I'm going to give you my scampi alla Tantalo and a new vino, Montepulciano D’abruzzo.  It’s free.  By the way, where is the Big Ugly Devil?” he asked Liz. 

     "Doug's home, still recuperating," Liz replied.

     Tony grinned.  "I knew a few bullets couldn't hurt an Italian that ugly.  Ugliest Italian man I ever saw!  Did I tell you he's too ugly to be the husband of my Neapolitan beauty?"

     "Yes, Tony.  You told me and I appreciate your concern."

     "Tell him Tony said, “Salve.  And take him some scampi.  Won't help his wounds; maybe it will help his looks!"

     Gina squirmed in her seat, slid over close to Liz.  "Tell me what's happening with Doug now," she said.

     Liz sighed as she toyed with her water glass.  "He didn't get the job he interviewed for last week.  That’s why he’s been on a drinking binge and staying out all night.  He's moody and irritable and sometimes he goes out at night, says he's with Rags, which I doubt, and doesn't come in till late.  No explanations!  No discussions!  I don't know how to describe him. Let’s talk about something pleasant.  Tell me about your new guy.”

     "He's a computer geek, into Lotus and Fortran--“

     "Are you describing a man or a computer?"

     Gina grinned.  "Betta, you know I have exacting requirements for males who enter my world.  I told you, intelligenza is numero uno.”

     So you slept with him.  “Sesso, right?”

     Gina held up her glass to touch Liz's glass.  "I love it when you old married women speak wistfully about sex in the past tense like you wonder where it went.”

     “Gina, it’s been so long I’ve forgotten.  Fammi una schizza.”

     “Draw you a picture?  Well, we were in bed reading this great computer book together--“

     “Scusi,” Tony interrupted. “I got a full house.  Betta, I want you to sing ‘Arrivederci Roma’ now.“

     “That’s a sad song, Tony.  How about ‘Scapricciatiello’?”

     Tony shook his head.  “No.  Grown men cry when you sing ‘Arrivederci’.  Make them cry.”

     “All right,” Liz said.  “’Arrivederci Roma.’  Make them cry . . . maybe I’ll cry, too.”

                                                                    #

     “Your father loved the Navy, and Italy, and you very much,” Balla declared.

     Liz sank into the rocker and silently nodded agreement.  The operation to remove a one inch benign tumor had been successful so she concluded that Balla wanted to reminisce.  But Balla was talking about San Diego after her father had died.  Balla had skipped twelve important years, difficult years in which they had moved from one Navy base to another, Norfolk to Charleston, South Carolina, to Newport, Rhode Island, the moves always being interspersed with moves to Naples every time her father got a sailor in the Sixth Fleet to swap duty stations with him.   Each move had been a traumatic experience for Liz as far back as she could recall.  She remembered the first time another Navy brat had called her "S.C.", told her she was just a suit case, part of the luggage in a move.  The older Navy Brats she met had informed her that she was supposed to be tough and patriotic, pick up and move in silence without a whimper, to any duty station the computers at the Pentagon selected and that human needs were not considered, such as her father's desires to stay in Italy, or her own severe depression, as a child, at leaving each life and friends she had barely established for a new, unknown life, wherever it happened to be, with strangers.

     There had been three separate tours of duty when she and her mother were with Ricardo in Naples.  On the last, when she was thirteen, her Italian urchin street gang, the Vespas, or Hornets, had named her Zingara, Gypsy, a high honor and a big promotion from being a soldata, a foot soldier.  Maria, one of the gang leaders had socked Liz in the stomach, and followed with a solid smash to the face that had sent Liz crumbling to her knees on initiation.  Six weeks later, after a Navy Seal’s son had instructed her, Liz had returned the favor with a karate chop to the throat that had floored Maria. 

     Balla had been a beautiful hooker who was rarely around because she commanded big prices from other men when Ricardo was at sea for weeks at a time, and when he was in port, Balla and Ricardo took off to be by themselves, which left Liz unsupervised for days at a time. 

     Liz’s notoriety, especially with the Mafia, came in the summer of 1985 when Vespa discovered unprotected truckloads of cigarettes and liquor passing through Fleet Landing, where the big merchant and American Navy ships docked to unload and load cargoes onto trucks that passed from the International Zone into the country of Italy.  Carlos, the handsome leader of the Vespas planned the attack meticulously for Vespa to utilize fifty to sixty urchins to attack in their swarming, noisy, wolf pack tactics as soon as the truck passed into the country of Italy.  There was one major problem: the single driver of the truck had to be killed to keep him from identifying the Vespas, since they knew the Mafia were involved and would demand revenge.  That chore was assigned to Liz by Carlos, who was sixteen and knew that Liz had fallen hopelessly in love with him.

     “Tell me about the robbery in Napoli,” Balla requested.  “You never really told me why the Mafia was searching for you.” 

     After her horrible experience with Balla in San Diego, Liz had never told Balla the Mafia story, nor had she ever confided in Balla.  She decided she might as well tell her the story.  She and Carlos had slipped through the fence at Fleet Landing to watch the trucks night after night.  They knew the guards would walk away from Gate One at precisely midnight, and that a truck would drive through into the country of Italy without stopping for inspection.  Minutes later, the guards would return to inspecting trucks.  Only the Mafia had that kind of power.  Carlos had given Liz a Beretta to use in killing the driver the moment Vespa swarmed around the truck and brought it to a stop.

     “Everything went exactly as planned,” Liz said.  “With one exception.  We did not know the Mafia had a car trailing the truck, so that when the urchins swarmed the truck, the Mafia car rolled up and two men started firing.  It was a massacre.  I started shooting back as the urchins charged the two Mafioso and swarmed them.  I clawed one of them in the eyes--“

     “My God!  My own daughter.”

     Liz ignored Balla.  “By the time we chased the men away, the driver escaped.  We unloaded the cigarettes and liquor into our truck and left.”

     “It’s a good thing we left Naples for San Diego when we did!” Balla declared.

     San Diego had been their first trip west to the U.S. Seventh Fleet.  Ricardo had been transferred to an aircraft carrier home-ported out of San Diego.  He had not been able to arrange a duty-station swap to keep the family in Naples, so he had sent Balla and Liz on ahead to San Diego three weeks before he was to report because he had to return to sea with the Sixth Fleet in the Mediterranean.  Balla had just found a small apartment in San Diego when the Navy officer came that afternoon to notify Balla that Ricardo had been killed.  Liz had wept uncontrollably, bawled for three solid days, and swore that she would return to Naples to live, that she wanted to return to the only friends she had, her gang, the Vespa street urchins.

     "The funeral was a dignified, military burial," Balla said.  "Yes, very professional, fitting for a military hero."

     Liz shook her head.  Balla knew how her father had died because Liz had told her.  Her father had not been killed in the line of duty, but in a bar incident in Athens, Greece.  The "Banger,” as he was known, had banged a Greek hooker in the back of a bar, had not received the usual satisfaction to which he had become accustomed, and tried to skip without paying.  The Athens’ police had found his body in a squalid alley next day with over twenty knife wounds.  Liz had opened the mail the day the letter came and read the report herself, something Balla could not do, because Balla had been unable to read English at that time.

     Liz was tiring.  She went to stand beside the bed and whispered, “Do you want to sleep a while?"

     “No,” Balla said.  “We talk so rarely, my child.  God knows, I gave you almost nothing while you were growing up.  I know I was a horrible mother.”

     Liz did not dispute Balla's statement.  The afternoon of her father's funeral in San Diego, Balla had swallowed half a bottle of bourbon, painted her face with her standard war paint, ruby red lipstick, rouge, and mascara, and doused herself with some cheap perfume, before she headed out to search for the sea of white hats, which, on Friday afternoons, at any Navy base, always led to the nearest bar.  Balla had reappeared home later that night with a sailor who took her to bed.  Liz had later heard her cry as she told the sailor, "What will I do now?  My husband is dead and I have nothing!  Nothing!  And, I'm stuck with this teenage brat!"

     Balla squirmed in bed as she stared up at Liz.  "You never forgave me, did you?” she asked.

     Liz took a deep breath.  There was no reason to lie any more.  "No," she replied curtly.  "You tried to get me to be a hooker at the age of thirteen.”

     Liz recalled the scene as if it were yesterday.  Balla had returned to their apartment in San Diego the next day with two sailors.  She had been drunk.  "One of the guys, Georgio, wants to be my steady," Balla had told Liz.  "Provided we find his wealthy friend, Stevie, a girl.  I want you to be Stevie's girl."

     "No!" Liz had snapped.  "I'm not like you!  No man can buy my body!"

     The two sailors had left, leaving Balla in a rage.  She had slapped Liz and cursed her.  “Stevie would pay handsomely for you!  I don't know anyone else in San Diego!  We need the money!  Don't you understand?"

     Balla was sobbing now, pleading for forgiveness.

     Liz dried her eyes as she walked back-and-forth beside Balla's bed.    "You were drunk," she declared, finally.  "It's over.  I forgive you.  Let's never speak of this incident again.  Agreed?  There's nothing either of us can do now except, perhaps, I can avoid the mistakes you made in life and not treat my son the way you treated me.”

     Balla wailed uncontrollably. 

     Liz sat down in the rocker with a towel and bawled.

                                                                       #

     Saturday night, they quarreled the moment they left for the party at Joan and Harvey Caldwell's.

     "Command performance for the unemployed wounded!" Doug snarled as Liz backed their car out into the street.  "But, not to worry!  We're driving our four year-old Ford right into that den of Mercedes and B.M.W.'s and Rolls Royces!"

     Liz glanced at Doug.  "How many drinks have you had?" she asked.

     "Not enough!" he replied.  "Not nearly enough to survive these sharks!  Sharks don’t swim in alcohol, do they?"

     "They're friends," she said.  "They do want to see you."

     "Yeah.  They want a new conversation-piece, something to use in next week's sales presentation, like, 'I've got a friend who was shot in a car-robbery and he's so devastated he can't find a job.  Poor man!'"      

Doug glanced over at Liz.  "Love the low cut dress!" he added.  "Just don't lean over!"

     Liz steamed.  "I wasn't aware you noticed such things any more!"  Even though she wanted to talk about their relationship she drove in silence the rest of the way to Pacific Palisades.  He was drunk.  She would have to wait to have any in-depth conversation with Doug on Sunday morning after he sobered up.  She had worn an old cocktail dress, a silky white top with a chiffon black skirt, because she couldn't afford a new one.  The skirt was a little short and the top did have a deep "V" but she knew it would be mild compared to some of the lavish skimpy fashions she had seen from some of the movie and TV, and wealthy real estate people at previous Caldwell parties.

     The house was off Sunset Boulevard, up in the hills near Will Rogers' State Park, where she and Doug had gone to their first polo game one Sunday last year, in happier times, and to tour Will Rogers' house and have a picnic on the grounds during the polo game, which was being filmed for a movie.  Out beyond the Caldwell’s mansion, Santa Monica Bay glittered in the clear night.  The Pacific Coast Highway, where they had started their fateful drive that day of the shooting, wiggled in and out of the Malibu hills like a glowing worm.

     "Brings back memories," Doug said as he stared down at the winding road far below them.  "Terrible memories . . .  God!  Look at all those Mercedes."

     The view from the Caldwell's back yard was even more spectacular.  The Pacific Ocean seemed to weave its way through the hills and mountains and flow into the ivy walls and Malibu lights surrounding the Olympic pool.  A wood parquet floor had been laid over the concrete apron between the pool and the spa, and several couples had already started dancing to a five piece orchestra.

     "Nine-point-five, maybe ten 'mil'," Liz heard one man whisper to a woman.  "This place is fabulous!"

     Doug said, "The Caldwells could have bought our house for a paltry five hundred ‘thou’ and saved nine ‘mil'!"

     Doug darted away when Gina came to talk to Liz.

     Gina winked.  "Nothing Neanderthal about your outfit,” she declared.  “Wow!”

     “Love your dress!" Liz told Gina, returning the compliment.  But Liz had to admit that Gina did look homely in the glitzy atmosphere of thousand dollar dresses.

     Gina winked.  "A gal should be able to make a connection when there’s fifty or sixty handsome, wealthy, horny—men around, I hope!  Problem is, I don't know if I should look for a handsome man or a wealthy man.  Which do you suggest?"  She turned to look at Doug, who was chatting with a stunning blonde. 

     Liz shrugged.  "Doug's already drunk."

     "I hope he doesn't gobble her up right here in front of the pool and a hundred people," Gina quipped.  "Not that anyone would notice in this mob.  God, he's a boorish ass!  Divorce him!"

     Liz pulled Gina along.  "Let's get a drink," she said.  She noticed that Doug had a drink in his hand as he wandered away from the blonde into a group of men at the far end of the pool where he started shaking hands.  Liz thought Doug looked like his old self, confident, witty, a big, handsome, chatty Italian, even though he was tipsy.  She could hear the men asking him about the shooting, hear him revel in his new standard spiel, "We were field-testing guns for the National Rifle Association!  South Central 'L.A.' is where everyone practices—on each other!"

     Liz spoke to several other friends, some of their usual gang, the Richards and Webers from Woodland Hills, the Prescotts and Weinsteins from Encino, the Burkes from Tarzana, along with several UCLA friends Liz hadn't seen in a long time.  Sue Gigham and Lonnie Frenchow, from her aerobics class came by to chat.  She met several actresses, one on a TV show she hadn’t seen, one making her third movie.

     Harvey Caldwell, the host, ushered Liz away from the group to kiss her cheek and talk privately with her.  Harvey was a stock broker, had made millions in the boom markets of the late nineties.  He was tall and dapper, with round brown eyes and straight brown hair swept back over his head.  "I know you've had a rough time lately, Liz," he began, "and I want you to know if I can help in any way at all please let me know.  Tragic!  Just tragic!  If you need a loan, come to me.  That's not idle party-chatter, either.  I'm very loyal to my friends.  How about lunch some day next week?  Maybe I can use your headhunting services."  He squeezed her hand several times. 

     Liz was certain Harvey was "hitting" on her, that he would have made her a firm proposition if his wife Joan hadn't arrived to speak to Liz.  Harvey looked upset that Joan had intruded.

     "I heard you have become a headhunter," Joan said.

     "Yes," Liz answered politely.  She had always liked Joan, a petite blonde with striking green eyes, but she wondered how Joan tolerated Harvey.  Rumor had it that Harvey slept around.  Joan had inherited a huge fortune, and now, in her early fifties, was a demanding, difficult woman who was known around the world as a jet setter.  Several men overheard Joan's remark and came to talk to Liz.  One of them asked, "Are you really a headhunter?"

     Liz assured the man she was but that she had just started with SAW and was specializing in the placement of sales people and sales managers.

     The man nodded.  "SAW is well known. Give me your business card.  I've got a friend who's looking, a sales manager, and I'll tell him about you."

     Liz opened her purse, pulled out a handful of cards and started handing them out.  She knew she had twenty-five in her purse and was shocked, later, when she ran out of cards.  Men she had barely known came to talk to her like they had known her all their life, to tell her intimate details about their job and their lives, how much money they were making and how much they should be making.  One of them told her, "Everyone wants to know a headhunter.  In this day and age of layoffs and downsizing and mega-mergers and 'off-shore' operations, headhunters are essential people to know."  He took her off to the dance floor to get her away from the crowd so he could talk, tell her about his asinine boss and ask her if she had any openings that fit his background.

     Another man came to the dance floor to break in and talk to Liz, and then another, and when a fourth appeared, Liz begged off, saying that she was tired even though she wasn't, even though she loved to dance.  Off the dance floor, she was again encircled by a group of men talking about jobs.

     Doug came up behind Liz as she was talking and smiled when one of the men asked him if Liz was finding a job for him. 

     "Haven't heard anything about it yet," he said.  He whispered to Liz, "I didn't know you were holding court or I would have come to join the worshippers!"

     Liz gritted her teeth.  Twice, during her conversations, and once on the dance floor, she had seen Doug return to the stunning blonde, had heard one man say that Cheryl was her name and that Cheryl was going through a divorce.  "Perhaps you should bring Cheryl over," she said icily.  She turned away from Doug and excused herself.  As she started to walk away, Doug grabbed her arm and pulled her back.

     "Wait a minute!" he yelled, as he followed her.  "What the hell was that all about?  All I did was talk to Cheryl.  You had a whole stable of men over here drooling all over you, dancing with you, courting you, asking you for a job.  Harvey Caldwell was almost on his knees--or your knees--when Joan arrived like the cavalry."

     Liz continued walking toward the redwood fence, as far away from people as she could get.  She stopped and turned, regretted the remark she had made in anger.  "Doug," she began, "you are very drunk.  Can we talk after we get home?”

     He stopped, gave her an indignant look, as he put his hand on his chin and rubbed it.  "Don't you think I know that you're the Belle of the ball, and that I'm the laughing stock of the party?"

     "No," she replied.  "I was not aware of either."

     "C'mon, Liz!  You're the gorgeous headhunter finding people jobs and you can't find one for your own husband, who can't find a job for himself.  Don't you find that ironic?  A little twisted?  Like there must be something wrong with me!"

     "There is!" she snapped.  "You're drunk!"

     He squeezed her arm hard.  "You bitch!  You were probably laughing with them at me."

     "Stop!" she demanded.  "You're hurting me!"  She jerked her arm free.  "That hurt!  You're paranoid, Doug."

     "Paranoid?" he shouted.  "Don't you understand that we've switched places?  You're now the 'Man' of the house!"

     “And you’re not the woman!” she snapped.

     Gina quickly came to the rescue, to try and help calm Doug down.  She told him he was making a spectacle of himself and asked him to dance with her but he refused, saying, "She's the head of the house now.  She's the bread-winner.  She's the one who's saving my ass!"  He turned to Gina.  "You really don't want to dance with me, 'Penguin'!  You've always hated my guts!  Anyway, I'm just an unemployed, unemployable homebody.  Nobody wants 'ole Dougie'!  We might as well start the divorce proceedings.  I'm leaving!  I'll stay at Rags' house tonight!"

     Gina backed away, put both hands on her hips and stood staring defiantly at Doug.  "Doug," she said, "I feel very sorry for you for what you've been through, but I feel even worse for Liz because she has to live with you!"

     Doug charged off.  He turned to glance back at Liz and crashed into a table loaded with hors d'oeuvres.  Doug tumbled down, sprawled onto the ground as the table collapsed, the chips and crackers and cheeses and the shrimp and cocktail sauce pouring down on top of him.

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