Michael K. Williams

Her legs were thick and shapeless, but she wore -hot pants regardless. They always did far some reason. "Oh, yes," he answered, consulting his clipboard. "Yes we do, Mrs. -" "Barclay," she said. "But you can call me Madge." She smiled seductively at him, running her pink tongue across the edge of her lips. Jesus, he thought bitterly, feeling the trap closing over him again; the never-ending cycle of making love to rich, middle-aging women was beginning again. "Well, Madge," he said, resigning himself to his fate, "I think you and I are going to get along together just fine. I'm always available for private lessons…" The sleek forest green sedan slipped like a blur down the endless ribbon of highway, weaving in and out of the sparse Pennsylvania traffic. Following diligently behind, trying to keep up, was a small gray compact; scurrying like a. summer bug across the countryside. "Are they still behind us?" Eileen Graham asked, leaning toward Michael as he steered the big green car. She looked in the rearview mirror. "Yup," Michael Williams answered, nodding distractedly, taking his eyes from the road for an instant to consult the mirror. "They're right behind us ...»