The Checkered Fritillary

When he was young and still dancing, it was sometimes rumored that Hastings heeded the advice of St. James and went forth to visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, or failing that, encouraged them to visit him. Though a possible injustice, never actually charged, the rumor seemed to be good for business. The dance studio's client list contained a bulging imbalance of females.

Now, in Forrest Dismuke's Griffin Lounge, stood a tall fat lady of the type whose body seemed pneumatic, a shell of lipides blown outward by forces buried in foggy genetic codes. She wore a cashmere hound's tooth jacket rich in shades of blue, a dark velour vest and spotless beige trousers. Soft gray Florsheims shod feet as dainty as a ballerina's, and her pouty face still contained the leftovers of beauty. Her name was Rose Prochnow, and she had discussed with her therapist the benefits of screwing the man she wanted for her dance instructor before informing her husband of her intention. Once accomplished. she reasoned, there would be no need to tell him at all since what is past, is past. Her therapist, a disciple of the non-directive school of counseling, merely echoed her assertions: You're saying there's a benefit to screwing your dance instructor before you tell your husband? Since this was not a rebuke, Mrs. Prochnow took it for affirmation. She liked this therapist so much more than those whose dogma insisted she take responsibility for her own decisions and actions.

Rose Prochnow was Forrest Dismuke's mother, four marriages removed from her son's biological father. She said, 'You don't often do things right, Forry, but you did the business a favor when you hired that sexy what's-his-name-- that high-stepper.'

'Boone Hastings. Right now, he's the late shift manager, Mother. I think he may have a line on why the bar is losing money.'

'I've seen him dance and I read his file card. You hired him to do dance contests and lessons and all that. He's not a detective to find out what's with your bar. You want a detective, go hire a detective. I want him to teach me dancing.'

Forrest Dismuke shook his head and whined, 'You've had dancing lessons every year since I was thirteen-- '

'Not from him. From the others, I always forget. From him, I won't forget.'

' --and that's-- what, thirty?-- no, twenty-nine years ago.'

'That long?' Rose Prochnow paused, and her eyes lost focus as she pondered and frowned, 'So how come you're not married?'