Goodman, Dorsey, Miller...

"All right; hamburger steak and noodles okay for supper?" Chrissy asked, bustling into the kitchen, dressed in a robe.

"Thought y'all were going to Vermillion," Steve said nastily.

"Uh huh, but figured it'd be better if I fixed your dinner before taking off," Chrissy said, hurriedly assembling the meal. "I mean, after what happened last time, Jesus."

Steve was enjoying his meal until Chrissy did suggest he might want to learn how to cook. The food turned sour in his stomach and he demanded to know why he would need to know how to cook.

"Steve, suppose something happens," Chrissy said calmly. "I get sick? Oh, maybe I need to go somewhere on business? There's the Commission conference every year in Washington, you know. Or..."

"You ain't going to no conference," Steve ordered.

"Whatever, still wouldn't hurt for you to learn how make yourself some stuff without making such an ungodly mess like last time," Chrissy shrugged.

"What the fuck ever," Steve grumbled as Chrissy put her dish into the dishwasher.

"I mean, got more on the wall; how'd you get eggs on the wall anyway? Got more on the wall than in your mouth," Chrissy said as she again bustled from the room.

"Aw hey, uh, nuh uh," Steve objected a few moments later as Chrissy hurried past.

Her skirt just reached to her mid-thigh and the silky top was a filmy material. Her pale flesh and her dark bra were visible through the translucent material of the blouse. On her feet were five inch stiletto heels.

"Bye," Chrissy said cheerfully as she left the trailer.

"Hey! I said, damn it! Chrissy, you ain't going out dressed like that," Steve thundered, getting up from the table.

He was not quick enough to stop her. Steve watched as his wife backed her small car out of the trailer park. When she reached the asphalt road, she put the car in 'drive' and rapidly left the trailer park behind.

"Uh huh, think you so fucking smart, huh?" Steve chortled twenty minutes later, remembering the 'find my phone' app.

Steve searched his pockets but could not find his phone. Rooting around in the couch cushions, Steve did find the phone. Steve pulled up the 'Find My Phone' app and was puzzled when it showed that she was in the trailer with him. He even looked around.

Calling her cell phone, Steve heard it ringing in the bedroom. Entering their room, Steve saw her phone hooked up to her charger. He fought down the urge to hurl her phone against the wall.

Another beer later, Steve decided to drive out to Vermillion and 'surprise' his wife. She'd complained in the past that they never did anything together. Well, drinking and listening to music could be done together.

Chrissy was not in Vermillion. Steve searched the parking lot after verifying that Chrissy was not in the ladies' room. There was no sight of her car anywhere.

A few hours later, a very happy Chrissy entered the trailer. She was humming a tune as she tottered on her heels.

"Where. In. The. God. Damned. Hell. Where. You?" Steve snarled, gripping Chrissy's arm tightly.

"What? Shit! Told you. Girls night out," Chrissy whined. "We were listening to their band; Steve, you're hurting me. Stop."

"No, you fucking were not," Steve thundered, shaking her. "I went there. Looked all around. No, you were not at Vermillion."

"I know! We were at Foxtrot's; Steve, let me go. You're hurting me," Chrissy whined.

"Oh. And real smart move, leaving your phone home so I couldn't find your ass," Steve snarled.

"What? Its right here," Chrissy said, opening her purse. "I, it's, shit! I left it on the charger?"

"Uh huh, no shit you left it on the charger, bitch," Steve spat.

"I don't deserve that. I, I've done nothing for you to call me that," Chrissy said, voice hard. "You hear me? I've done absolutely nothing wrong."

Steve refused to apologize; alcohol fueled his sense of entitlement. Chrissy knew if she locked him out of his bedroom, Steve would simply break the door down. And of course, he would blame her for the whole ordeal. So, she decided she would be the one to sleep on the couch.

On Monday, the bruise on Chrissy's arm was plain to see. Robbie tried to ignore it, but morbid curiosity forced him to ask.

"He couldn't find me," Chrissy murmured. "I left the phone at the trailer, so..."

"Trailer?" Robbie asked, genuinely surprised. "Trailer? I, but Steve, Steve's old man had buttloads of money."

"Steve's old man had butt loads of debts," Chrissy corrected, smile tight. "Then when Andy ran off with his nineteen year old girlfriend and left Steve's mom to deal with the bills?"

Huh," Robbie couldn't help the smirk of satisfaction that crossed his face.

Monday night, Chrissy tried to teach Steve the basics of frying some andouille sausage in a cast iron skillet. Cheerfully, she chattered as she diced the onion and bell pepper while the spicy sausage sizzled and spat. Steve ignored her.

"One cup of rice, two cups of water, 'bout a half teaspoon of salt," Chrissy went on. "I know you say I never put enough salt, but Baby, you can add salt. You can't take salt out."

"I am trying to watch the news here," Steve finally interrupted Chrissy's monologue.

They ate the red beans and rice in silence. Steve wondered why his wife was being silent; usually he couldn't get her to shut up. But he wasn't curious enough to ask.

Tuesday, she again tried to show him how to do skillet chicken with a cream gravy. Again, Steve demanded that Chrissy cease with her inane chatter.

On Thursday, after a delicious lasagna, after Chrissy pointed out where the leftovers would be, after Chrissy told Steve how to microwave the portion of lasagna she'd set aside, Chrissy finally left Steve to enjoy some peace and quiet. A few moments later, Steve heard a blood-curdling scream come from their bathroom. He raced down the hall to their bathroom.

"Son of a bitch!" Chrissy was grunting, hopping around in the bathroom.

"Jesus Christ! What? What the fuck happened?" Steve demanded.

Chrissy sucked in a lungful of air and turned to face her husband. She wore her tee shirt, but from navel down, was completely bare. She pointed to her crotch.

"I, ow, oh God, I, I knew it would sting, I mean, a little bit," Chrissy panted, showing Steve the wad of tape with a profusion of blonde hairs stuck to it. "But shit! I mean, OW!"

To Steve's amazement, and excitement, Chrissy reached down and gave a savage jerk to the remaining tape, ripping the hairs from her anal region. With a squeal, Chrissy again hopped around, grunting.

"Oh, oh, oh," Chrissy gulped and used the hem of her sleep shirt to wipe the beads of sweat from her face. "I, oh, God, I hope that cream does the trick, you hear?"

Chrissy grabbed the tube of cream from the vanity's counter and squirted some into her hand. Steve developed an erection as he watched his wife rub the cream into the newly waxed flesh. Her shudder of pain did not quell his erection.

"Oh, hey, wait a minute," Steve suddenly blurted out. "I, I been asking you do that for what? A year now? Why you all of a sudden..."

"Jesus, all right? Been begging and begging and I finally do it and what I get out of you?" Chrissy snapped, wiggling into very loose legged flannel shorts.

She marched from the bathroom, strips of hairy tape in hand. She paused in the doorway of their bedroom and glared at him.

"There anything? Huh Steven? There anything I can do make you happy, Steven? Huh? There anything, Steven? Or you just going bitch and whine about everything?" Chrissy shrilled.

The next morning, Steve was still groggy with sleep when Chrissy reminded him where his leftovers were. While he looked over at their refrigerator, Chrissy dashed out of the trailer, leaving for another Friday at work. Then Steve's sleepy brain registered that Chrissy had a very nice dress slung over one arm, her FM shoes in the other.

"Aw, hey, nuh uh," Steve said. "No! No more of these girls nights out, bitch."

Chrissy's cell phone was turned off; Steve's angry rants went to her voice mail. At lunch time, Steve expected a phone call; he knew Chrissy usually checked her phone during her lunch break. At one thirty, he left her a few more angry rants and sent a text message demanding she call him. Immediately.

At six thirty, Steve managed to turn his leftover lasagna into a brick; where the fuck was the 'Fifty Percent' button on the damned microwave? Chrissy had said do it for five and a half minutes and if it needed a little more, then do it in twenty second increments. Whenever Chrissy served leftovers, she always served them lukewarm. So, Steve figured six minutes would be adequate.

Steve threw the hardened slab of lasagna into the trash. Putting the large aluminum foil pan into the microwave created squeals and buzzes and other strange sounds. Finally, he tired of hearing the ungodly sounds and reached in to grab the pan. The pan burned his hand and Steve screamed in pain. The large slab of lasagna was still quite cold, though.

At ten minutes after nine that evening, Steve checked the 'Find My Phone' app and saw that Chrissy was still at Foxtrot's Lounge. The Eight beers on an empty stomach helped Steve decide he'd had enough of this farce. There would be no more of these 'Girls Nights Out' and it would end now.

Chrissy and Robbie had just finished an energetic and very clumsy Lindy Hop, one that had caused Chrissy's skirt to whip about, flashing her scarlet thong panties. The final notes of the previous song died down and' the clarinetist began the notes of a sweet waltz. Robbie pulled a happy Chrissy in close to begin the familiar steps of the dance. Chrissy did not object when Robbie's hand dropped to her firm backside.

"Mother fucker get your fucking hands off her," Steve drunkenly bellowed, punching Robbie with a savage right cross.

Chrissy screamed as Robbie lurched from the force of the blow. Robbie flailed but was unable to stop his fall; he'd had four or five St. Elizabeth Premium Whiskey on the rocks since their arrival at Foxtrot's.

The band stopped playing when Robbie struck his head against the raised platform of the bandstand. The Musicians looked at one another, unsure of what they should do.

Steve then grabbed his wife and began dragging her toward the door of the popular nightclub. Chrissy fought, trying to pull her arm from Steve's crushing grip.

"Someone call an ambulance!" a woman screamed, seeing that Robbie was not moving.

"Don't bother," a nursing student said, checking and finding no pulse.

"Sir! Take your hands off her," a tuxedo clad bouncer demanded, confronting Steve.

"I called the police, Whitney Simpson, the front desk receptionist of St. Elizabeth's Public Utilities called out as Steve and the bouncer tussled.

A second bouncer and the bass player helped to subdue Steve until the Bender Police could arrive. None of the Foxtrot's employees were surprised that Matthew Anders, the manager of Foxtrot's waited until the police showed up before leaving the safety of his office.

On paper, Matthew Anders was a good manager. The Lounge turned a handsome profit each quarter and employee turnover was minimal. But the male employees knew that the scrawny man was easily intimidated. The female employees knew, unbutton one or two buttons and lean forward over his desk and anything they requested would be theirs. Even though Matthew was married to Leslie Anders, formerly Leslie Webb, most of the female employees joked that Matthew was probably a virgin.

In truth, Matthew's wife Leslie often found reasons to deny Mattie any sexual favors. Leslie found plenty of reasons to coo and giggle and make sweet promises, so long as Mattie gave her what she wanted. But Mattie rarely got what he wanted from the former high school cheerleader.

"But, but, I I'm the designated driver," Chrissy protested when Sergeant Darren Richards stated she would have to come to the Bender Police Department to give her statement.

"I, uh, oh, oh I, I'll make sure your friends get home," Lieutenant Mike Stevens said, unable to look up from Whitney Simpson's impressive cleavage.

"Yes ma'am, we will," Officer Brian Jochet agreed. "Ma'am, I know you must get this all the time, but you have got the most beautiful eyes."

"I uh, I, no, no one's ever said that," Whitney gushed, light gray eyes peering into the handsome police officer's warm brown eyes.

"What about me? I got beautiful eyes?" Helen Mouton teased the smitten police officer.

"Yeah, they're fine," Brian said, not looking away from Whitney's eyes.

"Ooh, Whitney!" Joy teased as Brian led them toward the door.

Seeing that he would get nowhere with the large breasted woman, Officer Mike Stevens did attempt to flirt with Jill. With a smirk, Jill told him he was barking up the wrong tree; she was in a committed same-sex marriage.

Joy Decker was not attracted to the African-American police officer; he was in his mid-fifties. But Joy's already frail ego still took a severe bruising when the lecherous police officer completely ignored her.

At twelve thirty, a bone-tired Chrissy let herself into the trailer. Locking the door, she staggered to the bedroom and fell across the bed.

It was after ten o'clock the next morning when Chrissy woke up. After a hot shower, she made herself a pot of coffee, then sat to drink her coffee. After her second cup of coffee, Chrissy called her mother in law and let Edna Guillory know what had happened.

Edna asked Chrissy what she had done, how had Chrissy coerced or manipulated her son into this latest bout of trouble?

"Miss Edna, you even hear yourself?" Chrissy spluttered. "I, how I got him into this mess? You for real? He. He's one popped up, killed my boss. I ain't done nothing."

"Likely story," Edna snarled and ended the call.

"And I ain't 'bout do nothing neither, hear?" Chrissy said, pouring her third cup of the morning. "You want your precious boy out? Going have be you bails his ignorant ass out, hear?"

Edna was unable to offer any collateral sufficient to secure bail for Steven. Chrissy flatly refused to put her trailer up, or her vehicle up for any collateral. Grinding her teeth and uttering a harsh prayer, Edna called her ex-husband, Steven's father. Andy ground his own teeth, but offered to post their son's bail, if Edna would sign away any rights or claims to Andy's 4O1K plan.

"That is your son. Your son," Edna snarled hatefully.

"And my son, supposedly, is a grown man," Andy retorted. "Edna, you called me. You called me. You're the one asking for my help."

Monday morning, Steve Guillory was arraigned and a hard-faced Edna posted his bail. Wearily, Steve hugged his mother then mother and son drove from the St. Elizabeth Parish Courthouse to his trailer.

"Oh, hey, wait, my truck, my truck's over at that Foxtrot's," Steve remembered.

Grumbling, Edna drove Steve to the lounge where Steve retrieved his pickup truck. Then Edna drove to her small Kimble home and Steve drove to his Kimble trailer park.

"Hey, Steve, stopped by earlier and you wasn't home," Richard Boudreaux said cheerfully as Steve stepped up onto the small wooden platform in front of his trailer.

"I uh, yeah?" Steve asked, squinting at the smiling man.

"Yeah, got something for you. That, that one of them hybrid trucks? Bernie keeps saying that's what we need to get, but I don't know 'bout that," Richard said. "Oh, you are Steve, right? Steve Guillory, went to St. Thomas, right?"

"I uh, yeah, I know you?" Steve asked.

"And you've been served," Richard said, handing Steve a manilla envelope. "No, no, I see it now; that's a diesel. They don't make a diesel hybrid. They don't, do they? I'm going have look that up."

Steve stood, startled as Richard snapped a digital photograph of Steve Guillory holding the manilla envelope. Still chattering about diesel and hybrid automobiles, the smiling man gave Steve a friendly wave and backed his Ford Taurus out of the parking lot.

"Well, see that little Miss My-Shit-Don't-Stink didn't waste no time, huh?" Edna snarled angrily when Steve called to let her know Chrissy had filed for divorce.

An attempt to call Chrissy's phone told Steve that the number was no longer in service. Stupidly, Steve tried to use the 'Find My Phone' app and was told the number he was attempting to find was unavailable.

"You've reached St. Elizabeth Public Utilities. If you know your party's extension, you may enter it at anytime during this message..." Steve heard the pleasant announcement.

Not knowing the extension of the department Chrissy worked in, Steve was sure she'd told him, but he didn't remember, Steve listened to the directory. Even after the directory repeated, Steve had no idea what button to press. On a whim, he hit 'zero,' hoping this would switch him to the extremely homely girl that worked the front desk.

"Fuck!" Steve barked when he was told that this was an invalid key right before the phone call was terminated.

"You've reached St. Elizabeth Public Utilities..." the pleasant sounding voice intoned.

"Scheduling!" Steve suddenly remembered and when the pleasant female voice announced extension 331, Steve rapidly pressed those buttons.

The same pleasant voice announced that Steve had reached Scheduling and Services. The announcement gave the weekly hours of service, then gave an emergency number if the caller had called during non-business hours. Finally, Steve was prompted to leave a message at the sound of the 'beep.'

Steve let his anger get the best of him and left an angry and very threatening tirade when the 'beep' sounded. After disconnecting, Steve again tried Chrissy's phone number and again was told that the number was no longer in service.

Looking over the paperwork again, Steve could not make much sense out of the legal mumbo-jumbo. He decided to call his mother again.

"Jesus God Joseph and Mary, Stevie," Edna shrilled. "That, who cares about that? Stevie, you, you're looking at homicide; a man died. That divorce can wait. And, young man, I, I don't, I can't afford get you a lawyer. You need call your daddy, hear?"

"Ah! What a surprise! Hey Juliette, look! It's my son!" Andy Guillory said cheerfully. "I'm sure he's calling to let me know he's so sorry for missing my birthday and Father's Day. Isn't that right, son? You wouldn't be calling just because you need something, would you?"

Sarcasm was not Steve's strong suit, but even he could recognize his father's message. Swallowing the immense amount of bile in his throat, Steve did attempt to make amends with his estranged father.

"Okay, so now, which is more urgent, Stevie? This divorce? By the way, sorry to hear about that; Chrissy is a really beautiful young lady, inside and out. Or the legal quagmire you're in?" Andy interrupted his son's poor attempt at an apology.

"What you mean?" Steve asked.

"Jesus Christ! Really? You did, I know you graduated high school; I went to the graduation. All right son, what's more important? This divorce? Or keeping you out of a prison shower?" Andy squawked.

"Well, the prison thing," Steve said.

"Okay then. Let me call Eric; he's a friend of mine," Andy said. "I'll call you and let you know."

Even with Eric Greene giving Andy the 'Family & Friends' discounted legal services, Andy balked at the cost. Eric did let Andy know the best he could hope for was to plead down to involuntary manslaughter. But Steve had drunkenly stated to Sergeant Darren Richards that he had gone to foxtrot's Lounge with the intent to cause bodily harm to whomever his wife might be dancing with. Steve had further stated that, yes, he had strongly suspected it was Chrissy's boss, Robbie Robertson. Even though they'd been members of the same high school clique, Steve knew Robbie had not liked him. What better way to stick it to Steve than to seduce Chrissy, Steve's wife?