Idle Hands

Sometimes life is more like a slap in the face than a gift. Mike Boyle found this out three years ago when he won the lottery. Ever since that day the feeling of exhilaration has dwindled down to nearly nothing and had left him in a pit of despair with no clue in what to do with the rest of his life. During the first year of his winnings he bought a twenty-five room mansion, two high end restaurants and some commercial property downtown, but none of it has made him happy and he could not stop believing that he was lost and completely alone on the top of the world.

Every single relationship he had before winning the lottery has fallen apart. People that he had known for years are now too overcome with disgust and envy to even look at him. His family had abandoned him. When they did call it was only because they wanted something. Like everybody else they didn’t know how to handle his new found fortune.

Mike’s love life wasn’t in much better shape. For romance has always been a hit or miss ordeal for him, but nowadays with millions in his bank account it has only gotten worst. The women he meets always learn about his wealth and when they do it is the only thing they want to talk about. How much do you have? How many cars do you drive? How many homes do you own? They were always with the questions about his money. They never wanted to know anything about him. And ironically they always seem too busy with work while Mike spends most days alone in his mansion walking the hallways and lounging in his vaulted living room sitting in front of a big screen television, which had become tedious - all the shows had lost their appeal and all the decent movies he had already seen in the theater.

If only he could remove his money from the equation while conjuring up some more time to spend with these sedulous women Mike was certain he could get to know them on a more fundamental level and end his lackluster lifestyle.

The problem pestered him endlessly. In the end he found boldness was the answer. He needed to whisk his future conquests away before the dating nightmare begun and deliver them somewhere secluded where he could have some undivided time alone with them. It was so simple. It wouldn’t take that long. Maybe all he needed was six or seven days, perhaps a couple of weeks at most. He had a warehouse on Jefferson Avenue that would be perfect. In a month’s time he could really bring the whole project together. It seemed like a wonderful idea. He had the time. What could go wrong? Mike had a knack for interior design – he could use that to his advantage. With a little extra help he could do some real magic and he was sure that any number of women would love the chance to spend some quality time there with him.

While Mike tenuously planned for the future he knew there was something seriously wrong about him he needed squared away first. He had always kept it buried ever since he was a teenager and thought that scratching more than the surface of this ailment was a luxury he previously could not afford. So one of the things he did with his money after of course buying his first home was to start seeing a psychiatrist.

He got the best one he could find. Dr. Robert Bartholomew had come highly recommended, both Harvard educated and at the top of his class. After evaluating Mike for several sessions over a couple of months Dr. Bartholomew was able to tell Mike his diagnosis. What Mike heard was a revelation that would have woken him up out of a dead sleep. Dr. Bartholomew had been adamant that Mike’s condition was abnormal.

Mike had always wondered if that was the case. The doctor reassured him that the uncomfortable feelings he had whenever he walked around in public was symptomatic to his disorder. Mike had explained to Dr. Bartholomew he did sense people staring at him. He thought it was his superhuman ability. The thoughts sometimes drove him into a state of madness - the feeling that there were people always watching him and thinking about him, constantly talking about him behind his back. Sometimes he would turn quickly around to catch them in the act of spying. He would often fail to notice anything, but other times he would be certain he caught the offending person in the act and confronted them only to be faced with their denials, yet he knew they were lying. He didn’t trust them. He didn’t trust anyone.

When he was not surrounded by people he would repeatedly hear these whisperings that suggested he do things. Like the poking of telltale murmurs giving him the impulse to steer onto oncoming traffic or smash a potted plant vibrant with color onto the floor because the idea of its beauty could be no longer tolerated. And when he felt like the walls were closing in around him he would sometimes have the compulsion to just throw things away. Cheap keepsakes. Expensive gadgets. It didn’t matter. Clutter made him nuts.

Dr. Bartholomew would sit and listen to Mike’s rants about the injustices of life and afterwards the doctor would talk about particulars of his illness. Dr. Bartholomew broke it down into great detail. Mike understood it to be a form of dissociate identity disorder with paranoid delusions. That was the cusp of it. There was talk about Mike being committed at first to a psychiatric facility to get his illness under control. Dr. Bartholomew suggested this place in California that resembled a five star resort. The good doctor had fears that Mike might be a danger to himself and others. Mike didn’t like the idea. His illness has gone unchecked for years. How much harm could he cause? He didn’t want to be locked up.

“How about we change my appointments into bi-weekly appointments instead?” Mike asked with a lopsided grin. “That should do it.”
The doctor thought it over carefully. He didn’t make it a practice to see patients on a weekly basis and a couple of weeks of hospitalization could do Mike some good, yet he put away his steely eyed resistance and agreed.

Mike left that afternoon with a prescription in one hand and an appointment card from the receptionist for next Friday in the other.

A few days later Mike met with Cindy Stevens, a tall woman with an athletic build. It was clear that she visited a gym on a daily basis. Her arms were more toned then any women he ever met. Mike guess that she was in her late forties and was somewhat surprised to learn she ran her own construction company. It was a family business that was taken over from her father who had taken it over from her grandfather. Mrs. Stevens had seen her share of odd jobs and was familiar of the stories told by her father and grandfather around the kitchen table.  She thought she had heard everything – all the strange and the bizarre jobs - until she crossed paths with Mike.

After perusing his blueprints she couldn’t understand why he wanted to build a number of what were to be permanent rooms inside a warehouse. Wouldn’t it be far more realistic to build them in an actual house somewhere? Why do you want the walls to be made of solid steel? Mike offered to pay her double her usual rate and her questions slowed to a crawl. When the project was done there were nine rooms completed. All the rooms were completely sound proof and had safe size doors that locked from the outside, except for the largest one.
The final step was to slap some paint onto the walls and ceilings. Add the furniture, install the fixtures, and get a plumber to mount toilets, sinks and bathtubs - the basic design work.

Each room had its own unique flare.

The first room had Victorian style trappings, complete with authentic tables and chairs from the period and a very large and elegant canopy bed that set the mood for the room. Being historically  accurate the bed was so high off the ground little wooden steps were needed to get on top the six mattresses that were stacked one on top of each other like in the children’s story “The Princess and the Pea”. An aqua and rich forest green wallpaper covered the walls and museum quality artwork hung over it. One large TV screen was built into it the wall. Elegant cream colored drapes hung on either side bookending the screen like a window.

A ten minute scene of people dressed in Victorian costumes could be seen walking and carried in horse drawn carriages up and down a cobblestone street on the screen. Upon completion the film stopped and seamlessly began again, creating the illusion that the screen was really a window into the past. Mike had traveled to Hollywood and formed his own production company, Indigo Films, paying a pretty penny to film this short film. People in Hollywood he discovered didn’t work on the cheap.

Another smaller screen was placed in a fireplace to display a crackling fire complete with the sound of wood popping. Mike bought that film online. On the mantle there were three glass vases filled with wildflowers accompanied with an assortment of six inch ceramic figurines of lords and ladies. And a quaint bookcase stood about five feet tall on another wall. All the books on its shelves were written no later than the Victorian period.
The second room resembled rustic aspects of a hunting lodge. The furniture that was used consisted of pieces of rough wood; the craftsmanship that made the king size bed, for instance, used thick logs that were pieced together in large jointed sections. Four short log sections were cut for the legs, two long logs were used for the sides and one medium sized log was used for the foot of the bed. The headboard was a simple rectangle frame of natural wood with the carving of a brown bear on the front of it. A blue and white antique quilt covered the bed, yet underneath this surface was a modern memory foam mattress. A large wagon wheel table with a glass top was situated with three chairs in the center of the room.

Wood paneling covered the walls and various painting of cowboys and Indians surrounding the room. A Montana rocking chair rested in the corner with a cotton corduroy cushion. On either side of the room a television screen was built into the walls to make it appear as though you were looking out two different window. From the rocking chair you could see the purple, orange and reds of a sunset at the end of the day and from the bed you could see the warm radiant brilliance of a sunrise in the morning. The screens darken at night and if you were quiet you could hear crickets chirping and owls hooting. During the day you could hear the sweet sound of blue jays singing. 

The third room looked like the penthouse suite of a Las Vegas hotel complete with a bed that looked like a giant record player. Above the bed was a massive circular mirror. On one wall was a sixty inch high definition flat screen television with a Blu-Ray player, cable box with unlimited pay-per-view, xbox 360 game system with an ample selection of games next to a collection of a hundred of the most popular Blu-Ray movies.
On the adjacent side of the room was an even bigger screen that was built into the wall and continuously played footage of the Las Vegas Strip from the vantage point of an actual Las Vegas hotel. White shag carpet covered the floors and a combination of black leather sofa and reclining chairs filled the room.  Nettled in the back of the room was a kitchenette and a long table that would sit eight people with two huge Waterford vases filled with red roses.

The fourth room was the least spectacular. It resembled something you would expect in a cheap motel that charged sixty-five dollars a night. The small room was cramped and you had to squeeze by the few pieces of furniture. There was a queen size bed that rested against one wall, but the mattress was extremely lumpy. Adjacent to the bed was a small wobbly table and two white wicker chairs that were wedged against the far wall.

No fake views to the outside world could be seen. There were only two paintings in the room. One was a cheap knockoff of a Thomas Kinkade cottage over the bed and the other one was a scene of some dogs playing poker above the twenty inch television. There was cable available for the television, but no Blu-Ray player or game system and the pay-per-view in this room only allowed one movie choice per night.

The only thing to read on the nightstand was a dog eared Chinese menu and an old bible that had missing pages as though someone had apparently torn them out.  Several other pages had been highlighted and on the inside cover “God Help Me” was scrawled in pencil.

Constant noises could be heard from inside the room despite the fact that the room was completely sound proof. This great din could be heard vibrating as if it were really possible to hear other people on the other side of the walls. The sounds of people arguing could be heard at any hour of the day. When this wasn’t happening horrendously loud rap music or endless hours of really bad reality TV shows could be heard blaring as if the walls were made of tissue paper.

Every room had a double, an exact duplicate that matched its twin in every way, except for the last room. That was Mike’s room. Upon entering this room the first remarkable difference that could be seen was the door. It was made of mahogany and only locked from the inside. The other doors locked from the outside and were made of cold steel. This door was exquisitely craved with an intrinsic design of a family crest with two swords crossed and the head of a griffin menacing behind them. Mike didn’t happen to have a family crest - he paid a local artist to use his imagination.

The room itself was slightly larger than the Las Vegas rooms and had fake window television screens built into the walls. They showed the spectacles of the world, it wasn’t the one cityscape of the Las Vegas rooms or the side street view of the Victorian rooms and not even the dual screens of the cabin rooms.

There were five walls and each wall had its own cityscape. Depending on where the sun was outside it was either day or night on these widow screens, these visages showed the wonders of five different cities from on top of some of their tallest buildings; in New York it was from on top of the Empire State Building, in Tokyo from the Tokyo Skytree, in London from the Heron Tower, in Paris from the La Defense and in Dubai from the Burj Khalifa.
To match the feeling of being on top of the world the ceiling was painted a powdery cloud white and the walls were painted sky blue. Where there weren’t screens there was fine artwork and tapestries decorated the wall costing tens of thousands of dollars. A small partitioning wall was constructed in the middle of the room that housed an entertainment center. It had all the amenities of the Las Vegas rooms plus the bonus of video feeds from embedded cameras inside the eight other rooms.

This surveillance could also be viewed from a high speed internet enable computer station on the lower south side of the room. Three wide screen monitors sat on the desk next to the computer; his made it very easy to see into all eight rooms while surfing the internet and checking email. Each monitor could display the insides of four rooms. A camel brown leather sofa was planted in front of the high definition television and a bianco venatino marble stone coffee table with polished metal legs stood nearby. Organized on top of the table were half a dozen remotes alongside magazines that ranged in genre from film and gaming to current events and the scientific journals.

Satisfied that the first part of the plan was finished Mike embarked into the fishing expedition phase, checking up on this amour.com account that he created the day after he met with his contractor, Cindy Stevens. His preference was for a smart, fun, single woman who was between twenty-five and thirty. A number of women had contacted him, but the one that caught his eye was a bushy haired red head with emerald eyes. Her name was Brigid Howkins. She listed her height to be five feet four inches and she claimed that she weighed one hundred and twenty pounds. She looked it.

Maybe she would like the Italian food at his restaurant, the “Meatball”.  Short and sweet -- that was the trend in naming things. His stylist told him that. Mike certainly paid him enough for his sage advice, but it seems to have helped his restaurant. The Capital Register called it the best up and coming restaurant two years in a row.

Mike wondered what dress size Bridgid wore. She would probably ask questions if he inquired before the date. He would have to simply guess. Always with the questions. He was forgetting something. Did he take his medication today? What would Dr. Bartholomew say about his absentmindedness? Only Mike felt alright. Maybe he didn’t need them anymore. After making his date for Saturday night Mike broke in his new sofa by falling back into its soft leather caress and drifted to a near vegetative slumber as he watched some cable news in his little warehouse away from home.

Mike left with plenty of time for his Friday appointment with Dr. Bartholomew. He usually ran a little on the late side. He checked in with Chloe, the receptionist, before sitting down. Chloe always greeted Mike with smiles that reminded him of a game show host. She told him she would tell the doctor that he was here. The waiting didn’t bother Mike at all. He wasn’t thinking about his visit with Dr. Bartholomew. He was thinking about tomorrow night. His thoughts were racing about Brigid. He liked the sound of her name when it rolled off his tongue. Just about everything was in place for the big night and boy was he nervous. What would it be like when he picked her up for dinner?

His mouth felt like he had been sucking on cotton balls. It was either dry from rapidly talking all day to people who were helping him plan for tomorrow or from a side effect of stopping his medication. He went to the water cooler next to the door and poured himself a drink. Mike could see Chloe through the glass window partition. She was using the photocopier and her back was turned. She looked pretty from that angle. He paused in thought for a moment and then lifted the paper cup to his parched lips and swished the water in his mouth. Satisfied that did the trick he swallowed. What was he doing? He couldn’t go through with it. It was wrong. It was perverse. But he had spent all that time and money. Was it for nothing?

“Mike.”

Why do his plans always turn to crap? Why doesn’t anything go right?
“Mike.”

Well he did do a fine job with the restaurants. That is what his stylist said. But Mike paid the stylist. What else could he say? But the newspaper liked it as well and Mike hadn’t paid them to write a glowing review.

“Mike!”

“Oh, Dr. Bartholomew, I didn’t hear you.”

“I could see that.” The doctor put a comforting hand on Mike’s shoulder. “Why don’t we talk about it?” The doctor lead the way to his office and Mike followed. Upon entering the room Dr. Bartholomew took a seat in the chair he always sat in at the end of the room.

“It all started a month ago,” Mike explained. “I’ve been working on this big project in one of my warehouses and it has been driving me frantic.” Sitting stiffly next to the doctor in a Gordon tufted loveseat.

“The one where you keep your automobiles?” Jotting down some notes into a chart while he talked. Dr. Bartholomew knew Mike owned a fleet of sport utility vehicles, sedans and high performance sport cars in a large warehouse downtown.

“No, not that one. The one that I didn’t know what to do with. The empty one.”

“I see.” Dr. Bartholomew stopped writing and looked up. “And how does this make you feel, being empty I mean.”

“Not me! I know I have felt empty in the past. I was talking about the warehouse. Something needed to be done with the warehouse so I felt like flexing some architectural muscle and interior designing skills and put together some rooms.” Sitting back and relaxing into the sofa for the first time. “I even had the rooms professionally photographed and I just had them submitted to a trade publication.” Mike got out his smart phone and used its four inch screen to show Dr. Bartholomew the five different rooms he had helped build and design.

“Very nice,” the doctor said as he flipped through the photos. “Except for this one,” pointing to smallest room, “this room looks like a dive motel.”

“Yeah -- it is sort of like being punished to be stuck in that room I imagine,” Mike said ruefully. “Don’t forget about the television though. Look at that screen. That is a high definition screen and its brand new. I grant you the bed is plain looking and lumpy, but that is a queen size bed.”

“I stayed in worse.” Dr. Bartholomew said hanging back the phone. “What are you going to do with these rooms now that you have your photos?” He continued writing in the chart. “It is not like you can transport them into a house.”

“Questions. Questions.” Mike started to rub the back of his head.

“Are you hearing voices again?” Dr. Bartholomew asked. “Have you been taking your medication?”

Mike looked towards the table in front of him, closely examining the doctor’s collection of windup metal men that were gathered there and picked one up. “I was feeling better so I stopped taking it.” Mike wound up the toy and let it go on the table. “Beside I feel weird when I am on them.” The metal man marched off the table and mike caught it as it fell, then studied it closely as its tiny metal gears grind to a halt before he placed it back on the table.
“You have a chronic condition, Mike, and if you stop taking your medication you will fall back into a relapse.”

“Really?” he stammered. “No, I am fine. I am in control,” finishing with more confidence.

“What about the voices?” Dr. Bartholomew asked.

Mike leaned forward. “I keep them at bay.” Then he stood up. “These talks with you are what keeps me grounded.”
The doctor looked over to his novelty clock on the far wall that told time in a counter-intuitive way. “We still have a few more minutes left.”
“Keep the change, doc.” Mike said with a grin. “I have a date to get ready for.”

When the job becomes insurmountable it makes sense to break it down, write it up and if it was feasible to delegate it. Early Saturday morning Mike was in the process of doing just that when he met with one of his associates in front of the Jefferson Avenue warehouse. Even though Mike thought of him as an underling he treated him as an equal. That is the way Mike dealt with most people. This man’s position was towards the bottom of the totem pole, there was no question about that, but that didn’t mean his job wasn’t important.

Mike was aware that he lived in a massive machine and if one of its smallest cogs were to come loose and fail the whole mechanism would grind to a halt; much like those metal men in Dr. Bartholomew’s office. This man was such a cog – small and vital. He was the blood flow that moved the plan along. He was a necessary component in getting things moved from place to place. He was Mike’s personal assistant who went the extra mile while working under the radar. Associate was far too grand a title though. He was more like a freelancer that worked from job to job on an irregular basis.

“Let me get this straight,” his freelancer said. “You want me to break into this girl’s apartment and pack a suitcase of her clothes.” Mike was holding a plastic clipboard. Fastened on the clipboard was the list of tasks he needed to complete. He checkmarked the next item on the list and dropped the clipboard to his side.

This freelancer standing before him was a man that was just a few months shy of reaching the day where he could legally drink his first beer. Mike was an equal opportunity employer and his lax dress code allowed this freelancer to be outfitted in his unusual fashion, dressed in an alternative rock band T-shirt, baggy blue jeans which hung low enough to reveal a pair of green and red striped Tommy Hilfiger boxers and on his feet were a pair of high-top sneakers. He liked to be called Bounce.

He claimed that the reason for his nom de plume was because he could get into a place and out quickly and completely undetected. Outside of the “breaking and entering” racket Bounce was known as Hector Knipper, a hodgepodge name than spanned two cultural backgrounds. His mother was Mexican and his father was German. Mike got Bounce’s contact information from Nick Trotter, a drug dealer he met last year. He was a friend of a friend in his last life. Trotter was a man who knew how to get things done and he didn’t care that Mike had more money than God. Trotter referred Bounce to Mike and supplied him with all the GHB he needed. Before Mike paid Trotter he asked about the surcharge to his asking price for the GHB. He was just curious. Trotter simply explained that he was including a finder’s fee for Bounce.

“Don’t worry about getting into her apartment, Bounce. It shouldn’t be a problem because I will be giving you the key. You have the address.” Mike was happy that Hector was getting up to speed on the plan. The front of the warehouse had been deserted for over an hour, but just the same he thought he heard something, possibly one of his whispers. He didn’t know. “Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” Hector said turning his head from side to side.

“Never mind,” Mike said rubbing his temples with his right hand. “Meet me here tonight and I will get you the key. When you get to the apartment don’t make it look as if it were a break in and don’t take anything other than the clothes and a few knickknacks. No big ticket items like stereos or TVs.”

“Who do you think you are talking to?” Hector asked. Based on his startled look of confusion it was obvious that Mike had really hurt his pride. “I’m a professional. I am not known as Bounce for nothing you know.” He let that spiel sink in and then as if it were an afterthought he added “Are you paying me now?”

This time Mike who looked hurt. Of course he was paying him. He had the money. With a lopsided grin he walked over to the trunk in the front of his white Ferrari Enzo and pulled a backpack full of Ben Franklins out of the trunk and tossed it over to Hector. “There is three thousand dollars in that bag and you will be getting another three thousand dollars when I have the suitcase.” Hector zipped open the backpack and thumbed through the cash, checking every bill. “And when you pack it think about all the things that your girlfriend would take on a long vacation.”

Eight hours later Mike picked Bridgid up outside her apartment building. She wore six inch orange heels and had on an open back floral dress with orange, black and white flowers. Around her neck hung a modest gold cross and except for a Japanese Quartz stainless steel bracelet watch she wore no other jewelry. In her hands she held tightly to a dark green and silver hand purse, sewn with patterns of flowers and ribbons. When Mike opened the passenger side door for her he noticed that she was only slightly shorter than him. Once they were both inside the sports car it only took a few minutes before the subject of money to come up. That is when Mike started to hear the whisperings again.

“Nice ride.”

It was a nice ride, but did she know she would be eating at a restaurant that he owned? He told her that he borrowed the car from a rich friend. Maybe she didn’t know that was a lie. Maybe her friends didn’t know who he was. Stupid. It was stupid to have done this with a reporter. Won’t her colleagues go looking for her when she went missing? There was always the possibility that they might discover he was once known as Josh Needelman.

“You didn’t have to do that. I’m not too impressed with money.”

Not impressed with money? That was refreshing. He wondered what room she would like to stay in. Has she read Jane Eyre or Wuthering Heights? How did she feel about Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland? Being a reporter she must do a lot of reading. He told her about the restaurant.

“Meatball? That is a strange name for a restaurant, but I do enjoy Italian food.” She straightened her dress which had bunched up when she put her seatbelt on. “How did you hear about it?”

He told her he read a review in the local paper. Doesn’t she read the paper? This is a very good restaurant. She works at a paper for chrissakes. How could she not have heard about it?

She laughs. “It was reviewed in my paper. I’m so busy that I barely have enough time to do my work or go out to eat to care what is written in that section of the paper. My job teeters from Hollywood gossip to the advice column. I mostly concern myself with that part of the paper, but lately I’ve been given the opportunity to write some lengthy pieces about events that happen around town. Like the festival in the park last week.” Bridgid opened up her purse and began searching inside. “I think I saved a clipping of the story if you care to read it.” Finding what she was looking for she pulled it out and held it up like a prize she won out of a crackerjack box. “Here it is.”

Can’t read it now! What does she think he is doing here?

“Of course you can’t read it while you are driving,” Getting her head out of her purse and taking in the flashing lights of the nighttime traffic as if she was seeing it for the first time. “I will show you later.”

When Mike got to the “Meatball” he handed the car over to the valet and escorted Bridgid to the front of the restaurant. Looking through the glass doors Bridgid could see the tomato red tablecloths matched with the black wood chairs. From inside the restaurant various oil paintings of Italy could be seen decorating the burgundy walls. And below her feet the floors were checkered like a chessboard with brilliant black and white tiles.
The maître d' was paying close attention to Mike and his date, but he was acting like he was paying no more than the usual amount of concern he would give a costumer. Mike had given out explicit directions to his staff that they were to pretend like they have never seen him before. The maitre d’ was playing his part so well that it appeared as though he was unaware that his boss had reached his station until the very last moment.
“Reservations for two under the name Boyle,” Mike told the maitre d’.

“Right this way, sir.” the maitre d’ said leading the way to a little round table set for two on top of a raised dais in the corner of the dining room. There were two flickering candles on short brass candlesticks at either side of the table. This aesthetic glow of candlelight became a necessity in this section of the restaurant. The overhead accent lighting didn’t provide nearly enough lumination. The effect caused couples to sit close together in order to see their dinner and each other. Mike could tell from Bridgid’s expression that she was impressed.

“This is a cozy spot.” Bridgid said

“All I did was tell them not to sit us next to the restrooms.” Mike said pulling out a chair for Bridgid to sit in. “But I did arrange something special for dessert.”

“How so?” Bridgid asked taking a seat at the table.

“I just so happen to have prepared the dessert myself.” Mike said taking a seat in the other chair. “In another life I worked as a pastry chef.”
“Really? What do you do now?”

This was awkward. What lie should he tell? “I am a day trader.” Mike Said. “I’ve been doing it for a few years now. I do alright. It’s not like I make millions of dollars, but the hours are great. I just get up early, make my stock picks and then it’s off to the gym.”

“Mr. Boyle!” The waitress said with a hint of shock in her voice. “No one told me that Mr. Big was going to be dining in my section tonight.”

“Mr. Big?” Bridgid questioned looking over to Mike and then to the waitress.
“That’s what we call our boss.” The waitress said with a wink. “We hardly ever see him these days.” Clearly Rachael didn’t get the memo that he was playing it incognito tonight.

“Rachael is just joking around,” Mike explained with a laugh. “She knows that I talked to the owner and he said to act like I own the place. Rachael here is just playing along.”

“Rachael was here when you made that dessert you were just talking about?” Bridgid asked.

“That’s right,” Mike said. Then he turned towards Rachael. “Rachael would you be so kind to bring us a good bottle of merlot and while you are at it get Tad to bring us a basket of bread.”

“Right away, boss.” Rachael said with a wink.

“You seem quite familiar with this place to have been here only a couple of hours.” Bridgid said with a knowing smile.

“I’m a quick study.” Mike said.

After Rachael came back with the wine the meal started to click together in a steady rhythm. Mike asked for the osso buco for his main course and Bridgid picked the vegetable lasagna. They selected two appetizers: the caprese tomato bites and the asparagus bruschetta. Bridgid agreed that they should share a Caesar salad after Mike told her the salads were generous here. When the main course came Mike was able to finish his meal, but Bridgid left her plate half finished. She was claimed that she was saving room for dessert. The truth was she always left her dinners half eaten because she saved the leftovers for lunch the next day. Once Rachael had Bridgid’s meal wrapped up in a dainty box Mike went to the kitchen to collect the dessert. It only took him a couple of minutes to plate them with fresh raspberries and to squiggle on a few letters with chocolate sauce.
“Tiramisu,” Mike said presenting Bridgid with the dessert. “This is my own personal recipe. I modified it from a recipe I had taken from a pastry chef who use to live in Florence.”

“It is very good.” Bridgid said after she took her first bite. “Were you the one who wrote out my name in chocolate?”

“That was me.” Mike said taking a spoonful of his own dessert. “I use to do this sort of thing for a living.”

“I might just eat it all.” Bridgid said with a satisfied grin.

“It only takes a small sample to cause a desirous affect.” Mike said. “There is no need to finish it.”

“No.” Bridgid said playfully as she scooped up another bite. “I want to.” Blissfully swallowing down the dessert. “What’s in it? I don’t think I’ve ever had it before.”

“Lady fingers cookies, coffee, mascarpone cheese, bittersweet chocolate, a liqueur and my own special ingredient.” Mike said.

“What is the special ingredient?” Bridgid asked lifting another spoonful up to her lips.

“I will never tell.” Mike admitted.

Three minutes later Rachael came back with the bill book. Mike paid the bill and left a two hundred dollar tip for Rachael in the book. By this time Bridgid was starting to look a little tired around the eyes.

“Are you feeling alright?” Mike asked getting up from his seat.

“Yes.” Bridgid said sheepishly “Just a little woozy. It was probably the wine.”

“Well I better get you home.” Mike said helping her to her feet. “Don’t forget your purse and doggy bag.”

“No. I am fine.” Bridgid said taking a few unaided steps. “I don’t feel like dancing, but I can walk without a problem.” She more or less floated like she was in a dream through the dining room.

“Let me get the door for you.” Mike said reaching for the front door of the restaurant. “Just a little bit further and you will be back inside my Ferrari.”
“Don’t you mean your friend’s Ferrari.”

“Yes.” Mike said nodding his head. “You’re right. The car really belongs to my friend.” Mike handed his ticket to the valet and within a few minutes his car was idling at his side. After leaving a generous tip Mike opened the passenger side door and helped Bridgid into her seat, which she fell back into like a sack full of potatoes. But she was able to fasten her own seatbelt with some trial and error. Once Bridgid was secure Mike headed for the freeway. Hector should be at the warehouse waiting for him. Mike was making some great time on the road. When he did stop for a red light he checked up on the girl. “How are you doing?” Her eyes were closed. Maybe she was sleeping.

“Are we home yet?” Bridgid asked opening her eyes just enough to get a good look around. The instantaneity of her reaction startled Mike.
“Not yet,” Mike cooed her. “Do you have the keys in your purse?”

“In the purse…”

Mike took that as a “yes”, but he didn’t find it practical to ruffle through her purse while he was driving a stick shift and then he remembered the cell phone. If the phone had a GPS chip it could be tracked to it last known location. That could spell trouble. He had better get rid of her phone before he hit the freeway. In-between shifting gears he felt inside the purse for something that could have been a cell phone. Mike latched onto it right away. It was the largest object in there –one of the newer models he guessed. When he threw it out the car window he promised himself that he would buy her another one.

As Mike drove up to the warehouse he could see Hector smoking outside. Judging by the number of butts on the ground he has been there awhile. Mike got out of the car leaving the engine running and walked over to Hector. He was holding the keys that he fetched from Bridgid purse in his right hand.
“I hope you haven’t been waiting long.” Mike said as he handed the keys over to his freelancer. But Mike didn’t really care if Hector was there all night though. He was being paid for his time after all. “These are the keys that I promised.”

Hector grimaced and then glanced down at his wristwatch. “I have been here about two hours. You didn’t really give me a timetable. I thought I ought to be here early just in case.”
“Smart thinking,” Mike said. He knows his place. “Now get the door open so I can drive inside. I got some special cargo that I want kept away from prying eyes.” As Hector unlatched the large metal door to the warehouse and opened it up, retracing it into the ceiling, Mike got back into his sports car and crept inside like a rat into a rosebush. Once Mike parked he quickly exited the car finding Hector turning down the door and locking it into place. “You better get going. It would be best if you got done before daylight.”
“Don’t worry about me, boss. No one will see me coming or going.” Hector said with confidence. “Remember who you are talking to.”

After Hector left through a regular size door next to the larger one they entered from Mike dead bolted the door and rushed over to car to see to his guest. Bridgid appeared to be completely comatose. She barely answered to her name. Mike unbuckled her seatbelt and got her to her feet."

“Am I home?” Bridgid muttered holding onto Mike’s shoulder with both hands. “I don’t think I can make it.”

“That’s alright. I can carry you the rest of the way.” Mike said taking ahold of Bridgid by the waist and lifting her over his shoulders. She wasn’t that heavy. “It is not that much farther.”

Bridgid exhaled a short moan as she swayed on top of Mike. He carried her to one of the Victorian rooms keying the electronic door open and walking inside. On the bed was a Victorian dress.  It was cream colored with long sleeves, bows on the bodice and trimmed with lace ruffles. Mike decided to undress Bridgid on the floor. The bed was just too high off the ground to do it properly. He removed her floral dress like he was unwrapping a Christmas present. To his surprise he discovered she wasn’t wearing a bra. It was a long moment before he could take his eyes away from her beautiful round breasts. They were mesmerizing – small enough to be firm and large enough to be supple. It made perfect sense why she wasn’t wearing a bra.

Bridgid seemed unaware what was happening around her. Mike got the Victorian dress off of the bed and put it on Bridgid. It fit snuggly over her small frame. He tightened the laces on the back of the dress and straightened the fabric on the sleeves. It had taken much longer than he thought it would, but there was no denying the fact that she looked prefect – simply prefect. Just like dressing up an antique doll. The only thing that was missing were the shoes.
“Tomorrow we will try on the shoes. Right now you need to sleep. It’s been a long night.” Mike scooped Bridgid up in his arms and dropped her on top of the bed. Before he left the room he grabbed the floral dress and orange heel shoes and her wristwatch.

The next morning Bridgid awoke to find herself in a strange room. She could hear horses and distant voices of people - otherworldly sounds that didn’t make any sense. And what was she wearing? She didn’t remember putting this dress on. The last thing that she remembered was having dinner with Mike. After that everything becomes fuzzy. Bushing away her confusion Bridgid realized that she was sitting several feet off the ground which gave her a bird’s eye view of the whole room.

There appeared to be only one door and one window. Looking down the long side of the bed she found the wooden steps and dropped her bare feet down onto them. She found the surface was smooth and pleasantly cool; holding onto the bed for support she descended to the carpet floor. The door that she saw from the bed was to a bathroom. There was an old fashioned sink, bathtub and toilet inside with no other exits.

Leaving the bathroom Bridgid turned to the window for help. Maybe she could get someone’s attention or climb out. The closer she got to the window the sooner she realized that she was looking into a television screen that was built into the wall. She saw people who were dressed in costumes having conversations on a street as carriages were being pulled by horses. Someone had a bizarre sense of humor. She felt like she was stuck inside a scene of some movie. There had to be a way out of here.

Bridgid examined the walls looking for any openings and found a hidden door that was made to look as though it were part of the wall. She pulled on the heavy metal latch with all of her weight, but it was hopelessly locked. She banged on the door yelling to be let out. There was no answer. Whoever put her here must have their reasons. Feeling momentarily defeated Bridgid took a seat at the table in the center of the room and couldn’t help but look into the screen. She watched until the film ended and repeated again; then she turned away. She was going to go crazy if she looked out of that window all day. What time is it anyway? She instinctually looked at her wrist and discovered that her wristwatch was gone.

Mike looked down at Bridgid with great satisfaction. “That’s right,” he said to himself smugly picking up her wristwatch off of his desk. “No watch,” rubbing the back of the timepiece with his thumb. “I can’t let you have this. It doesn’t fit the time period.”

He watched her scan the walls as if there was a way to see beyond the room that she was in. Bridgid hadn’t gotten use to the idea that there was no way out for her. Maybe in a few days when she was more familiar with her surrounds she will feel more comfortable there. Once she has examined the artwork and read a couple of the books from the library she will feel like she belongs to the room.

Mike placed the wristwatch back on the desk and turned off the monitor. He still had to go through Bridgid’s suitcase before he could give it to her. He left all the toiletries and underwear in it and then packed in some more Victorian dresses and nightgowns. He was sure she would love wearing them. After Mike was done with the bag he set it outside her door. It was a little too early to say hello just yet so he went inside his room to make himself a cup of coffee. He had one of those fancy capsule espresso machines. The same model was also in the Vegas rooms. He selected a robust blend from a wooden box and popped it into the machine. Within a minute the coffee was ready to brew. Once Mike activated the machine he got the milk out of his subzero refrigerator and added some to his coffee. Did people in the Victorian era drink coffee?

He walked over to the television and turned it on with the remote. The annoying cable girl appeared on the screen (like she always did when you first turned the TV on) talking about why watching TV nowadays is so great. Mike stopped her before she could announce which pay-per-view movies were the most popular by changing the channel. First Mike watched an educational program about eggs and then he watched a cooking program of chefs competing against each other and finally he watched a news program of pundits discussing the events of the day. When that program was over he picked up another remote and switched the screen over to view what the cameras were recording in Bridgid’s room.

Just as he expected Bridgid was settling into the room nicely. She was reading one of the books from the library. There were more than a hundred titles there – that should keep her busy for a while. But now it was lunchtime. Mike got up and went over to the kitchen where he whipped up a fresh mixed greens salad with raspberry vinaigrette in a stainless steel bowl. He arranged the salad on a hand-painted bone china plate and then placed that plate on a silver tray. In the microwave he heated up Bridgid’s leftover lasagna. When the heating cycle was complete he plated the lasagna and placed that plate on the silver tray.