Note: The song "Admiral Mike," written by Michael Nesmith, is under copyright and such. So don't go around thinkin' its not!

"Hey, Mabel, what'd ya do to this coffee? It tastes like... almonds..." Mike Nesmith smacked his lips in distate.

"What, dear? I didn't hear you."

Mike looked sharply at the old woman who was efficently dusting his television set. "I said, what did ya do to make this coffee taste so bad? And ya know, it smells kinda funny for black coffee...Hey, did you put any of that creamer stuff in here, Mabel? Oh well. Never mind. Whatever you did to it, I am not gonna drink it smellin' like that..." After glaring once more at the steaming cup for good measure, he regretfully took the coffee to the sink and emptied it down the drain.

"That was the last outta the coffee maker, too, wasn't it?" he asked, looking disapprovingly at Mabel for a moment.

"Yes, it was. Sorry, hon." Her voice suggested a cringe. Mike was fixed on his morning routine: a cup of coffee while he looked over the classifieds. Surprisingly, however, this morning he managed to curb the wrath of his legendarily short temper.

"Oh well," he sighed. "Guess I'll just have to drink a Coke instead."

He stalked into the kitchen and pulled out a bottle of Coca Cola. Mabel hurried in with the bottle opener, which had been capriciously left on the sofa the night before.

"Here you go, dear," she said quietly.

"Thanks, Mabel."

"I'm sorry about the coffee, hon."

"Mabel, it's okay," he said as he gently gripped her arm. "I'm not gonna get angry with you over somthin' as stupid as a cup of coffee. I mean, I know I blow up at ya sometimes, and I shouldn't. But I don't even know why you're here, let alone why you clean my place and all." As he spoke, he felt himself losing control of his emotions. What he had meant to be a reassuring tone emerged as a commanding snarl. He tightened his hold on her arm, and said with disgust, "Can't you just... just stop catering to me! Stop acting like my maid, or my mother!"

"Hon, I--"

"Or some truck stop waitress! Stop callin' me honey or dear or darlin' or somethin'. My name's Mike!" His anger was driven in part by the stress he felt over his latest auditions, and in part by the ambiguity which surrounded his uninvited guest.

~*~

He had come home angry as usual, upset by the results of another unsuccessful audition. Damn them, he cursed silently. Why the hell do they bother holding an audition when they already know who they want? They should just tell us when we go in, "Hey you, dumbass, I guess you can read, but there isn't any point, so why bother wasting your time?" Stupid sons of--

Then he caught sight of the old woman standing in the hall by his doorway, and grumbled cynically under his breath, "Great. First time I get an admiring woman waitin' for me, she's a bag lady four times my age..." He glared at her as he unlocked the door to his apartment.

"Look, lady," he growled. "I'd be more than glad to give ya some money, some food, or some old clothes, but I"m too damn cheap, okay?"

She looked at him, confused.

"Just scram!" he shouted at her.

She stood her ground.

He snapped. "Lady! Leave, all right? Get outta here before I call the police!"

It worked. She turned away from his door and walked slowly down the hall. Mike felt a brief pang of guilt for venting his frustrations on her. He called after her, "I'm sorry, it's just... I'm sorry."

The apology was not accepted, and the mysterious woman dissappeared without even looking back at him.

Although he tried to forget her, his thoughts kept turning to her even stare and sorrowfull face throughout the night. Finally, curiosity got the better of him, and the normally solitary man asked his neighbors if they'd had similar experiences. As it turned out, they hadn't, and Mike succumbed to sleep just as bewildered as he had been when he spotted her at his doorstep.

The next morning found him looking idly through the classifieds in search of likely places of employment. Settling for the actor's standby, bussing tables, he headed down the street to a local restaurant. Halfway there, he belatedly remembered that the place had kicked him out the week before, due to being overly disrutptive. He cursed himself silently. And I wasn't even drunk that time... Grimacing at the thought, he headed back towards home. Much to his surprise, when he returned, he found the old lady inside his apartment, making tea just as if she belonged there.

Panicked at such a blatant violation of his privacy, he cried, "How the hell did you get in here?"

"Dear, the door was unlocked," she answered reproachfully.

"Well, I am a dumbass aren't I?" He paused. "But that still doesn't explain why you're here. Just 'cuz somebody's door's not locked does not mean you can just barge in and--" he cut himself off, and took a deep breath in an effort to quell his rising temper. "Okay, before I kick you out of here, I want to know who you are, and why you're followin' me around."

"My name's Mabel, dear."

"Mabel dear. How sweet. So just why are you stalkin' me, Mabel?" he asked sarcastically.

"I thought you looked like someone who needed help."

Mike grimaced in disbelief at the irony of her explanation. "I looked like I needed help, huh? What about you? You look like you've been livin' on the street since god knows when. At least I have an apartment."

At this, Mabel looked him straight in the eye, and announced, "Well, honey, with an attitude like that, you do need help. At least I'm happy."

"Right," he said icily. "Don't give me any of that poor-yet-happy shit. That's a load of bull and you know it. Look, you certainly aren't threatening, and there ain't nothin' here worth stealing, and I can't seem to get rid of you, so..." He sighed resignedly. I don't need this. Not now. "I guess you can stay as long as you like. Just stay out of my way."

"Thank you, dear."

"And don't call me dear. My name's Mike."

~*~

Although Mabel had been with him for only a month, it seemed like far longer. She surprised him by picking up on his patterns very quickly, and she had molded around them in the most helpful and unobtrusive way possible. Although she had come when Mike was between jobs, her presence seemed to bring him luck, and an advance on his next single, though slim, had brought momentary, unexpected prosperity. The still-shining coffee maker in the kitchen was testament to that. However, during the past few days, the mystery that surrounded her presence had begun to eat away at Mike's subconsious, souring their relationship. Ultimately, he was left wondering if the repellent coffee was her quiet, tidy way of revenge.

"Look, Mabel. I'm sorry about yesterday. I didn't mean to hurt you, all right? I'm... just nervous about this program. It's the closest I've ever got to somethin' like this... somethin' big. I mean, yeah, I've had a couple singles that bombed, big deal. But this... a TV show and albums... It's ...it's indescribable. I have to get in this."

"I know how much it means to you, dear. And I'm sorry about the coffee."

"Don't be, Mabel. It was an honest mistake."

"Thank you, dear. And don't worry so much about the auditions. Of course you'll get in."

"No, I can't let myself think like that," Mike said, shaking his head in dissaproval of her optimism over the show. "I'm not gonna get in, and if I do, the thing's gonna flop, and I'm gonna be a laughing stock my whole life, doin' nothing, just what I'm doin' now. I gotta get a steady job."

He sighed and picked up the classifieds once again.

"Hey, Mabel, here's one for you," he announced after a moment. "Escort service seeks polite, friendly girls. I could give you a real good recommendation."

When Mabel failed to respond to his jest, he looked up and drawled, "Well, if you can't take a joke, they probably don't want 'ya anyways." He looked at her in mock seriousness, then smiled and re-focused on the paper.

"If you don't mind, hon, I'll go to the store and get some more coffee," Mabel offered.

"Yeah, that sounds great."

She left, leaving Mike alone with only his misgivings and the classefieds. I don't know why she keeps on callin' me dear and hon. It's just too... well... I guess I always thought the first girl to talk to me like that'd be a girlfriend, not some bag-lady turned surrogate grandmother...

His thoughts were interruped a few minutes later by the ringing of the telephone. Mike leapt off the sofa and raced across the room to answer it. "Please, please be the studio," he pleaded under his breath.

"Hello, Michael Nesmith here," he said as he picked up the receiver.

"Hi... um... this is... Peter."

Mike's mind raced as he attempted to put the name to a face.

The caller seemed to sense his difficulty. "From the auditions."

The auditions... like I'm gonna remember one guy out of hundreds... hmmm... is this an executive? Better to play it safe, Mike decided. If he's not, then that's okay, but if he is... wait a minute. If he is, then why is he so hesitant? No, he can't be an exec. Damn.

"Do I know you, Peter?"

"Um... sorry... Peter Tork? I did a scene with you Friday. I've got light hair, a birthmark over my lip...um..."

"Have you heard anything?" Mike asked bluntly.

"What?"

"About the show?"

"No... I... I just wanted to talk to you about... something."

"Oh." Mike's interest dwindled at Peter's obvious lack of importance in the heirarchy of the studio.

Peter paused, then said suddenly, "Can you meet me at Rico's Cafe in ten minutes?"

"Why?" Mike spat back testily, sure that the meeting, like this phone call, would be nothing but a glorious waste of his time.

"I'll explain when you get here. Please, hurry."

With that, the phone clicked off, and Mike was left holding a dead receiver. "Peter... what did he say his last name was? Fork? Oh well. Guess I'd better see what he wants... just in case. Maybe I'll recognize him when I see him."

~*~

Luckily, Rico's Cafe was only a short walk from Mike's apartment. As he approached the place, he scanned it and then snorted with disdain. It was definitely not somewhere he'd have chosen if left to his own inclinations. The atmosphere was entirely too... bohemian. Reluctantly, he walked into the dimly lit restaurant, and looked suspiciously at the doped looking patrons. Across the room, someone waved at him. He peered through the darkness at the dim shadow.

Oh, him. Peter, huh? Seemed pretty strange. Mike shrugged, and headed towards the seated figure.

"Hi!" Peter said brightly, as if their meeting was simply a routine social call.

"Why did you want to see me?" Mike asked bluntly.

"What are you in such a hurry for?" Peter asked in a hurt tone.

"I've got an interview," Mike lied. He couldn't pin it down exactly, but something about Peter bothered him.

The announcement clearly distressed Peter. "For the show? But, but..."

"No, not for the show," Mike snapped. "For a real job. One I can live off of. Now, what did you want me here for?"

"Well... it's kind of hard to explain," Peter said, suddenly becoming extremely interested in his silverware.

Mike rose from his chair. "Fine."

"No, wait. It's about ... do you know anyone named Mabel?"

Mike sat down as suddenly as he had risen. "What about her? How do you know who she is?" he demanded accusingly.

"So you do?" Peter asked.

"So what if I do?" Mike retaliated.

"Have you been reading the papers recently?"

"No. I've only got time for the classifieds. Not for things goin' on in Washington that don't effect me."

"My, you sound awfully busy for someone without a 'real job'," Peter smiled.

Mike glared at him. "For your information--"

But Peter stopped him. "No, I'm sorry. And anyway if you know Mabel, then this definitely effects you."

Mike continued to glare.

"So I can assume you don't know about the guys that didn't come back?" Peter queried.

"What?"

"The guys in the auditions. Not all of them came back."

This man is insane, Mike thought. "That's right. It's called a call back. And they didn't get one."

"No, that's not what I mean. I mean guys that did get called back. They got killed. That's why they didn't come back."

"Excuse me?"

"Really. Nearly fifteen people associated with the show have been murdered."

"By who? How? I mean--"

"They were poisoned. In their drinks."

For the second time that day, Mike's thoughts ran faster than he would have liked. The coffee...?

Peter continued, "the studio fired a secretary about a month ago. Her name was--"

"No," Mike interjected. "Look, I don't know what you're on, but--"

Peter's innocent look failed to calm Mike's sudden rage. He shoved back his chair and stormed out of the restaurant.

He was alone for only a moment, then he heard Peter call from behind him, "No, you need to hear this!"

Mike could feel his temper rising. He tried to calm himself. This idiot's just drunk, or high, or something... he doesn't know what he's talkin' about. "Just leave me alone," he growled as his antagonist ran up beside him.

Peter pulled some scraps of paper out of his pocket. "Here, read these," he said as he thrust them at Mike.

Mike stopped walking for a moment to quickly flip through the newspaper clippings. "They're obituaries. So?"

"All those people have died in the last few weeks. All of them auditioned for the same show we did. All of them had potential to be cast. All were poisoned. With cyanide. In coffee. Coincidence?"

Coffee... no... no! "Look, Peter. I don't care," he lied, as he thrust the clippings back. "It can't be Mabel... not my Mabel. No, no, it... You're just... no. No. I refuse to believe it."

Mike turned away and walked as fast as he could back to the apartment building. When he arrived, he turned to see if he'd been followed. To his relief, he hadn't. He walked quickly up the stairs, still trying to get what Peter had insinuated out of his mind. As he looked into his apartment, he found, not surprisingly, that he'd gotten home before Mabel; the store she favored was on the other side of town, and was a half hour ride by bus.

Although he returned to the classefieds, visions of steaming cups of poisioned coffee floated through his imagination. Insenced at his own lack of concentration, he thrust the paper away, and scowled at the wall while he waited for Mabel to return.

~*~

Twenty four hours and one call-back later, Mike was once again leafing through the paper. This time, however, curiosity got the better of him, and he was searching not for employment, but through the obituaries. Suddenly, one caught his eye. "Steven Stills," he read quietly to himself. "20. Died of cyanide poisoning. Supposed suicide attempt. Succeeded by his parents, blah, blah, blah..."

Out of nowhere, someone patted him comfortingly on the back.

"Aaugh!" he yelped in surprise.

"Sorry dear, didn't mean to scare you," Mabel apologized.

Although he hadn't quite regained his compusure, Mike said, "It's okay..."

"Your coffee, dear."

Mike's breath caught again, and he croaked, "Thanks, Mabel."

"It's terrible about all those suicides, isn't it?"

Mike looked at her suspiciously. So she knows about it... "Yeah, it sure is."

Just then, someone knocked frantically at the door.

"I'll get it," Mabel offered.

"No, I will. It might be someone from the studio."

Unfortunately, it was not a someone from the studio that Mike wanted to see. Upon opening the door, he found himself confronted once again with Peter Tork, and this time, he had brought backup assistance in the form of two other auditionees. One was remarkably short, and the other had strikingly fuzzy hair. Mike glared at them suspiciously.

"What the hell are you doin' here?" he demanded.

"Woah, don't freak out, man," the supporter with the strange hair advised. "We just--"

He was cut off by Peter, who had caught sight of Mabel. "That's her isn't it? You've been housing a murderer!" he accused. Although he tried to force his way into the apartment, Mike hesitated only a second before punching him squarely in the face. It had the desired effect: Peter seemed far less eager to gain entry.

"Hey!" cried the short ally in a British accent. "How's he gonna look in a screen test with a shiner like that?"

At this, Mike slammed the door on them, and sat down next to Mabel, who was sobbing. "Now, Mabel, I don't know what that guy's problem is, just ignore him. Okay? It's nothin' to get upset about."

However, his consoling words rang false in his own ears, and appeared to hold no comfort for Mabel. "I'm gonna go get rid of 'em, all right? Are you gonna be okay?"

She stopped sniffling for a moment, and Mike took this as a positive sign. Although he was unsure about Mabel's role in teh deaths, he had no such reservations about Peter. Gulty of harassment and annoyance.

Mike stalked over to the door and threw it open, stormed through it, then slammed it shut. The group was walking slowly down the hall, with Peter's two cohorts supporting him. Although Mike made considerable noise leaving his apartment, none of them looked back. He followed them quietly down the hall, and ducked into the elevator as they took the stairs. By some miracle of the otherwise agonizingly slow machinery, he beat them to the lobby.

They were not long in arriving. Before Mike could spot them, he could hear someone crying--Peter, he assumed--and the voice of the British supporter consoling him. When they came around the corner at the bottom of the stairwell, Mike was more than ready.

"Well, hello," he snarled. "Fancy meetin' you here."

"Man, just leave us alone, all right?" suggested the supporter with the outlandish hair.

"Me leave you alone? Well, I would like nothin' better in the world than never to see you again. Unfortunately, you seem to want to show up at my door and accuse my company of murder. That doesn't strike me as a non-confrontational way to behave."

Peter spoke up, "No. You don't understand. That... that... woman in your apartment... she... she..." But he could not finish his accusation, and broke once again into choking sobs.

The British supporter glared at Mike, "Now--"

"Shut up. Just shut up," he retorted. "I don't know how Peter talked you into this, but my quarrel ain't with you unless you make it. Who are ya, anyway?"

"I'm Davy," began the short one, "and this is--"

"Let him alone for a minute. How'd a sensible guy like you get into this, Davy?"

Davy paused for a moment, then shrugged and explained. "Well, I was at the auditions for the show, and at call-backs yesterday, I was working with Petah and Micky, here, and Petah told us that someone was killin' people who'd auditioned. Then yesterday he called me and said they'd got his friend, Steve, and he was gonna go make a citizen's arrest or something. So I said I'd go with him, you know, to help out."

Mike thought of the obituary he had read in the morning's paper. "Steve? Steven Stills?"

"Yeah," said the other one, Micky. "Steve was the one who told Pete about the auditions, man. Pete took it pretty hard."

"Did he show either of you those other newspaper articles?" Mike queried.

"Oh, yeah," Micky said. "Wild, huh?"

"Wait a minute... so you saw them, too?" Davy asked suspiciously.

"He wanted me to read 'em."

"Then why are you still housing a murderer in your apartment?" demanded Davy.

"Mabel is not a murderer. She's just a nice old lady who--"

"Who kills defenseless young actors," Davy snarled.

Micky laughed. "And to think, my granny only makes quilts. Man, am I jealous."

Peter regained enough of his composure to swat feebly at Micky.

A crowd of people had gathered around the four, attracted by their harsh tones and Peter's tears. Some were idly curious, some hoped for a physical fight to break out, and others just stopped without really knowing why. Mike glanced up, and noticed the herd for the first time. "Guys, this obviously ain't gonna get cleared up here in the lobby," he sighed. "And we are not goin' back up to my place so you can harass Mabel. We need somewhere private, and quiet."

"Well, we can't go to my place," Davy announced. "Teresa's there, and she thinks I'm at work."

Micky frowned at him. "Teresa? I thought your girlfriend's name was Sandi."

"Oh, no, she's yesterday's news. Me and Teresa--"

"Nevermind," Mike interjected. The last thing he wanted to hear about was the private lives of these three. "How 'bout your place, um... Micky?"

"I live with Davy," he smiled. "I'm really Teresa!"

He laughed until Davy kicked him in the shin.

"We could go back to my apartment," said Peter weakly.

"Oh, no, man. That incense you've got gives me a headache. Sure, we can go to my apartment," Micky offered.

~*~

Micky's apartment proved to be even further away than the store Mabel frequented. During the paralyzingly long bus journey, Peter continued to cry quietly to himself. Davy and Micky spent the time bickering with each other. Mike sat as far away from them as possible, his mind in a whirl. So Peter managed to convince two other people... maybe there's something to his story after all... no, not Mabel... it couldn't be true... but what if it was? What then...

By the time they had reached Micky's apartment, Peter had nearly composed himself, Micky and Davy had determined which of them was the better bow-tie tier (Davy had a spare in his pocket, for some reason, but it was Micky who proved to be the most adept at tying it), and Mike had almost decided to abandon the whole affair.

Micky bounded up the stairs, and eagerly unlocked the door to his studio apartment. As they walked in, he excitedly pointed out various subjects of interest. "That's the bed, and that's the fridge, and that's the rug, over there, and that's the window, and that is--"

"Aaaugh!" yipped Davy. "Keep it away, keep it away!"

He proceeded to dance an ingenious little jig in which he seemed to be portraying a man with one shoe on fire.

"What? What's wrong, man?" Micky asked.

"The...the... ack!" Davy spluttered, then fainted dead away, very nearly falling on the small black cat which had been entwining itself around his ankles. The cat sniffed at Davy's paled face perfunctorily, and meowed plaintively at Micky.

Picking up the cat, Micky announced, "And this is Shorty Blackwell."

"Cute," Mike admitted, as he patted the cat between its ears.

Peter had turned his attentions to the stricken Davy. "What happened to him?"

"I have no idea," Micky said. "Shorty isn't dangerous... maybe Dave's allergic."

Mike and Peter manhandled Davy onto the sofa, and listened to Micky's mile-a-minute whirlwind description of the apartment.

"And it's got real running water and a working toilet, and it's so trippy, the water swirls down the drain if you push the lever, and..."

By the time Davy awoke, Micky had not yet budged from the topic of the wonders surrounding indoor plumbing.

"Oooooh," moaned Davy.

Peter turned to him. "Davy? Are you okay?"

"I think so," he answered weakly.

"That's good. I'm glad," Micky announced. "Shorty's glad, too, aren't you Shorty?" he asked the cat on his lap. "Yes I am," he replied in a squeaky voice. "Hi Davy, I'm glad you're okay!" Micky waved the cat's paw at Davy.

"Get that... away...!" pleaded Davy.

"What? Shorty? She's not gonna hurt you, man."

Mike smiled for the first time all day. "Oh come on. You're afraid of that cat?"

"No!" protested Davy. "Of all cats," he added quietly.

"Well, I'll keep her here on my lap," Micky offered.

"Put it in the bathroom."

"Oh, no, man, she's scared of the bathroom. She fell in the toilet once," he protested. "Shorty'll be good, won't ya Shorty? ...See, she'll be good. She's even purring!"

As Micky petted the cat, Davy edged over to the far end of the sofa, putting as much distance between himself and the dreaded feline as possible.

Mike looked at the faces of the others and sighed. What have I gotten myself into?

Peter caught his gaze. "Are you ready to listen to me now, Mike?"

"Yeah, I guess so. I thought about it during the bus ride, and, well, I guess maybe it could be true... but she always seemed so sweet and harmless..."

"Yeah, just like that cat and see what it did to me?" interjected Davy.

"Shut up about my cat, will you?" yelled Micky, frightening her. She leapt from his lap and ran to hide under the bed. Unfortunately for Davy, the route she chose was via the sofa. He flung himself forward in an attempt to get out of the cat's path, and sharply hit his head on the side of the low table in the middle of the room.

"Owwwww," he moaned.

The discussion, barely begun, was put on hold while Micky dashed to the fridge in an attempt to fashion a compress from ice cubes and a rag. Unfortunately, he had no ice cubes, and the rags were all dirty, so he offered Davy a damp sponge instead.

Davy glared at him as he announced, "Man, that's gonna leave a nasty bump! What a match for Pete's eye, huh?"

"Bloody cat!" Davy snarled in reply.

"It's not her fault! I've never met anybody stupid enough to be afraid of a harmless little pussy cat!" Micky defended.

It took Peter and Mike ten minutes to restrain them.

~*~

"Okay, so what've you got to prove to me that poor ol' Mabel is a heartless killer?" Mike asked.

Peter began, "There've been fourteen deaths associated with the show. Twelve auditionees..."

"Peter, man, don't do this to yourself. I'll tell it," Micky offered.

"No, I'll do it," Peter assured him. "It's just that... even though Steve and I weren't all that close, he's the one who saw the ad, and we went to the first audition together. I feel responsible for... for...."

"Look, if this is too much for ya, tell me later," Mike said curtly. The altercation over the cat had sparked his wrath, and although he could understand why Peter was upset, the edge of the Nesmith temper was still sharp.

"No...we have to get her before she kills someone else... it could be any of us next." Peter paused for a moment, then continued quietly, "There were twelve actors, all of whom were favored by the management as likely candidates--"

"How do you know how likely they were?" Mike demanded.

Davy smiled. "Hey, it helps if you've got a contact who's in with the execs."

Mike looked at him in curiously.

Davy just smiled, then shrugged and said simply, "Teresa."

"So is that how you found out where I lived? My phone number? I thought Peter met me first. And how did you know that Mabel--"

Peter interrupted him. "I already knew Teresa. And I didn't know Mabel was at your place. I happened to remember your name from auditions, and I asked her for your number. The next day, she told me I should try talking to Davy and Micky. Satisfied?"

Mike frowned, but nodded silently.

Peter finished his long-interrupted statement, "Now, the other two deaths...one was a secretary, and the other one was a gofer. All died from cyanide poisoning. They know the secretary, at least, had it in her coffee."

"But why?" Mike asked.

"Well, man, it's pretty obvious," Micky offered. "I mean, there's this lady, right, and she wants certain people to get in the show. So she kills off their rivals. I think the secretary and gofer were accidents. People who had access to the coffee and drank it when they shouldn't have."

"Oh, come on! That's preposterous! Why should some secretary care so much about casting that she'd kill fourteen people--"

"Why does that old lady stay on with you as an unpaid serving woman?" Davy retorted.

Mike ignored him. "Look, have you guys ever been offered coffee at the studio? I mean, execs, yeah, but us? I haven't even been offered a glass of water."

"You're not dead, either," Micky pointed out.

"She could give it to them inconspicuously when they came in, or when they left," Peter explained. "Anytime, really. She could even give it to them outside, not at the studio at all."

Davy nodded. "That makes more sense to me. If she did just get fired, she'd be more inconspicous outside, right?"

"Who got fired?" Mike asked.

"Mabel. A secretary named Mabel was fired, and people describe her as old, and looking quite a bit like that old bird in your apartment," Davy said.

"No, it can't be my Mabel. Lots of old women are called Mabel," Mike said weakly.

"Don't make it any harder on yourself, Mike," pleaded Peter. "We take her to the police department, and let them handle it. Okay?"

There was a long silence.

"Okay," Mike said finally. "I don't want to, I want to see more evidence, I want to know the alternatives, but I think... even without them..."

"I'm sorry," Peter said quietly.

~*~

Subdued, they took the excruciatingly long bus ride back to Mike's apartment. This time, it was Davy, still cross about the incident with Shorty Blackwell, who sat alone. The others talked inconclusively of motives, means, and methods. Indeed, they were so engrossed in their conversation that only Davy noticed when the bus arrived at their stop.

"Guys! Hey!" he shouted. "I hate to break up your little cat-loving party, but we're here."

Micky glared at him. "Davy, get off of it, man. You are the one with the problem. Get over it, or at least shut up about it."

"We've got no time for that, come on." Peter had to drag Davy away from Micky.

They trudged up the stairs, Mike in the lead. When they reached his door, he stopped in his tracks.

"Oh my god," he breathed.

"What? What's the matter?" Micky asked. "Oh man... that is not good," he added as he looked through the doorway.

"Hey, where's the door?" asked Davy.

"Over there." Micky pointed to a corner of the room. "Along with about a third of the bed, a hatstand, and a smashed coffee maker."

"Oh my god," repeated Mike. He looked around his decimated apartment in a daze. While he hadn't owned anything of material value, he still suffered from the pang of violation that accompanies a robbery. Why would anybody...?

"Where's Mabel?" asked Peter, getting right to the point.

"Just... wait out here, okay?" Mike asked as he walked slowly through the empty doorway. It seemed like nothing larger than a fist had been left in one piece... he gingelry walked through all his rooms, obsessively determined to leave everything as it was. Even most of the sheets had been ripped. Mabel was nowhere in sight, and as Mike ventured through the kitchen and into living room, a sad heap in the corner caught his eye. It proved to be a pile constructed of black shards of vinyl. Mike choked back a sob at the sight of his record collection. The heap looked slightly precarious, though, as if the bits had been heaped atop something else. Mike reached into the pile, driven by morbid curiosity. At the bottom--

The other three, who had respectfully stood watiting outside, ran in when they heard his strangled cry.

"Oh no!" cried Micky, "It's Mabel, isn't it? The Mafia got her, man, and left her in your living room as a warn--"

"Shut up, Micky," interrupted Peter, quietly.

As they rounded the corner they could see that the broken shape Mike was tenderly holding was not that of a mangled human body. Instead, the broken form of a six-string acoustic guitar was cradled in his arms. He sat silently, staring at it in blank incomprehension. Finally, Peter gently pulled it away from him. Holding it carefully, he assessed the damage. Surprisingly enough, it was basically in one piece, although that piece was in admittedly rough shape.

"It's gonna be okay, Mike," he said softly. "I think they can fix her."

Mike took it back from him forcefully. "No, they can't. Just... leave me alone, will you? I... just get!" he yelled, throwing the guitar across the room.

"Wait! Wait!" shouted Davy, as he ran towards where the guitar had landed. "It's got a note taped inside it, I saw it!"

Mike grimaced at him and stalked out of the room. When he got to the bedroom, he tried to lock the door behind him, but it had been pulled from the frame, and the best he could do was to prop it up against a large portion of chair. Being alone, however, provided no solace, no refuge from the surge of emotions that had welled up when he saw the state of his home. He wanted to leave, to go somewhere else, anywhere, but to get out he would have to go back into the living room, past that pile, and past the others, so he stayed put. Is this because of Mabel? he wondered. Did she do this? No... she couldn't have... but then who did? And why? What's going on here, anyway?

A quiet knock on the door wrenched him from his reverie.

"I told you, they can't fix it, all right? I don't want to talk to you--to any of you!"

Peter pushed the door open carefully. "Mike, I--"

At the sight of his face, Mike's turbulent amalgam of emotions swelled into one: rage. "This is all your fault! You and your stupid ideas! If you hadn't come along, none of this would have happened!"

Peter looked hurt for a moment, and then nearly smiled. "I guess everything that's gone wrong this week is my fault," he sighed. "First Steve, now this."

Mike glared at him. "Don't you pull that 'I've-had-it-worse-than-you' crap with me! I don't give a shit about those people!" Even as he said it he realized how horrible it sounded, but he didn't care.

Peter dropped his eyes for a moment. Before he could respond, however, Micky barreled in, nearly tripping over a piece of what had been, until recently, Mike's bed.

"Guys! Oh, man, guess what we found!"

Peter and Mike stared stonily at him.

"Ah... well... I mean... here..." he mumbled, shoving a bit of paper at Peter.

Peter stared listlessly at the crumpled paper in his hand, before slowly unfolding it.

"You're next, Blessing," he read aloud.

"Isn't that trippy? What does it mean?" Micky queried.

Mike stood up. "It doesn't mean anything. Now get out of my apartment."

Micky spluttered, "But--"

"No, Micky, let it go. Come on." Peter pushed the resisting Micky out the door and into the living room.

As they headed out the door, Davy asked, "Where are you going?"

"Away," Peter responded curtly.

"What? After that note? I've never read a more threatening three words in my life, and we're gonna leave this poor guy here on his own?"

"That's exactly what we're going to do."

"Micky, are you gonna let him walk out on Mike? C'mon, we have to help him," Davy protested.

"Peter seems to think we should scram, man, and I don't think Mike wants our help."

"That's right. I don't," Mike snapped belligerently.

"Guys, calm down, please," Davy begged. "I know this is rough for you, Mike, we can all see that. But Petah here hasn't exactly had it great either, and we stood by him when he needed us, even when he told us to leave him alone. Now you're doing the same thing, and I think you trying to get us to leave just proves how much you need our help."

"No," replied Mike shortly. "If you guys stay you're gonna want me to hunt down Mabel with you, and I'm not into that. Just go off and do your thing by yourselves. I want my life back."

"He's right," Peter said quietly. "What are we doing here? The police can handle this better than we can. Let's just go home and forget it."

"Hey, man, no way!" Micky cried. "We gotta at least find out who trashed Mike's place!"

"Yeah," Davy agreed. "I've been through some tough stuff here, too. I mean, let's not forget that I was viciously attacked by a cat. And you don't see me giving up."

"Shorty did not attack you! Man, you are one stupid little--"

"Do you want to get kicked in the shin again?"

"Too bad you can't reach any higher, midget man!"

At this, Davy lept at Micky, and knocked him to the floor, kicking and punching.

"Oh no! The dwarf is trying to beat me up!" Micky taunted.

"No, I am beating you up, man," Davy snarled back mockingly.

"That's right, I'm a man and you're a boy!"

"Oh yeah, Circus Boy? Too bad they didn't give you bigger--"

No one had heard Mike's quiet chuckling until now, when he laughed outright.

"Oh, come on you two, stop it. It's not worth killin' each other over," he smiled.

They stopped, Davy's fist poised above Micky's head, and Micky's teeth bared at Davy's arm. Peter only stared.

"I don't know why, but I guess I like you two. And you, too," he said, looking up at Peter. "If you guys can help me figure out who did this--" he looked around, his eyes falling upon his smashed guitar and albums. "Then we can all go and kill 'em together."

"Man, I think he's gone insane," Micky whispered to Davy. "You know, sudden mood changes. Trippy."

Mike pulled Davy off of Micky. "Now, come on, and let's think about this. You comin', Peter?"

Peter looked at him, hurt and confused. "No, I don't think so." He turned and quickly walked through the vacant doorway, and down the hall.

"What's gotten into Petah?" asked Davy.

Mike followed Peter outside, and called after him. "Hey, wait a minute!"

"Look," Peter snapped, "I don't need to deal with people like you. I don't have to take this kind of shit from anybody. I tried to be understanding, God knows I'm trying to keep my composure and my sanity, but you just-- let go of me!"

"No, I won't let go of you," Mike said, holding Peter's arm in a vise-like grip. "Not until I tell you somethin'. You ready?"

He waited for Peter to nod, which he did.

"All right. Here it is: I'm sorry. Okay? I. Am. Sorry. I have a nasty temper, I know that, and I lashed out at you when I shouldn't have. I'm sorry. That's all I can say. Now, you can stay here, or you can go. Your decision." He turned, without waiting for a response, and returned to his apartment.

Much to his surprise, Micky and Davy had not taken their time alone as an opportunity to start fighting again. Instead, Davy seemed to be piecing some of the albums together, and Micky was attempting to fix the coffee maker.

"What're you guys doin'?" Mike demanded.

Davy jumped in surprise, and Micky's eyes got very big. "Man, don't scare me like that, man! I'm just tryin' to see if I can fix this, do a little good, you know?"

"I was... just looking at your albums," Davy said innocently. "Thought maybe one or two of 'em might be okay. Where did Petah go, anyway?"

"I don't know. He's pretty upset right now, I don't think--"

"Maybe you should start," said a soft a voice from the doorway. "Thinking can do you a world of good sometimes."

"Peter! Man, I thought you'd gone forever!"

Mike looked Peter squarely in the eye. "Thank you."

~*~

The group spent the rest of the day in an attempt to tidy up Mike's apartment. Although Peter and Mike were silent, absorbed in their own thoughts, Micky and Davy carried on cheerfully, talking about whatever happened to cross thier minds. They seemed to be restraining themselves a little, though, and thankfully no mention was made by either party of the dreaded Shorty Blackwell.

Finally Mike spoke. "Thanks, guys. I think that that's enough for right now. I for one am dead tired."

"Yeah, we've all had a long day," Davy agreed.

Micky offered, "If you want, Mike, you can spend the night at my place."

"No, I'll be fine here."

Peter looked around, surveying the situation as well as the damage. "Then we're staying with you. Whoever did this might come back, and you shouldn't be alone if they do."

Mike began to protest, but his weariness took advantage of him, and he succumbed, for once, without a fight. "All right. First, though, if Mabel comes back, you wake me up immediately, and don't scream at her," he said, looking directly at Peter.

"Why?" he responded. "If she comes back, we should--"

"Look, I don't want to argue about this, I just want to go to sleep. If you're going to stay here, then don't harass her. You guys can sleep out here, I'll find some blankets..."

~*~

Mike awoke to the sound of shouts in the living room. He quickly sat up, but before he could get up to see what was happening, he was grabbed from behind. When he struggled, someone hit him on the head, and he lost consciousness.

The next thing he knew, he was in jail. Micky, Peter, and Davy were outside the dimly lit cell arguing with a policeman.

"Why can't he have bail?" Peter asked.

"Could you kids afford a bail?" demanded the cop. "Anyway, we don't post bail for his type."

"What?" Mike moaned. "What type?"

Davy turned and smiled halfheartedly. "You're not gonna believe this, Mike, but they think you killed everybody and trashed your own apartment to cover it up."

"But-- you guys were with me all day yesterday... how could I have..."

"They think you hired someone, man," Micky answered.

Mike stared blankly at them, and lost consciousness again.

This time, he awoke to the sound of a gavel.

"Order in the court!" yelled the judge.

"Permission to explain to the defendant?" asked Peter.

"Denied!"

"Thanks," Davy grinned. "Glad you woke up on your own, Mike. For a second, I thought I was gonna have to wake you just so you could give your testimony!"

"What? Where am I?"

"You're in court, charged with murder," replied Peter.

Davy smiled again. "But it's okay, we're defending you."

"That's ridiculous." Mike frowned. "You're not lawyers! They could... they could put me in jail for life! They could kill me!"

"That's right. They want the death penalty," Peter clarified.

"It really is too bad if you lose," Davy agreed. "You'd miss callbacks."

"I'm not gettin' called back. Not after this, and not anyway," Mike replied crossly. "Hey, wait a minute, what have I been charged with?"

"With killing those people and hiring someone to trash your apartment," Davy explained.

"How is hiring...?" Mike paused. "Never mind. What proof do they have?"

"That's not the point," Davy said. "They want to finish this, and you happen to be a very convenient scapegoat."

"What chance do I have of gettin' away?"

"Zilch," Peter predicted. "The judge is Mr. Dobolina, Mr. Bob Dobolina. He's one of the meanest judges ever... nearly always convicits."

Mike glared and looked around the courtroom. I don't have a real lawyer, and I've got the hangin' judge... wonderful... how the hell did I get mixed up in this? "What are we gonna do?"

Peter smiled halfheartedly. "I have no idea."

Mike grimaced at him. "Great. That's just-- Hold on... what's Micky doin' up there?"

"He's questioning a character witness in your defense," Davy explained.

Sure enough, Micky was pacing up and down in front of the witness stand. "So, how long have you known the defendant?"

There was no response.

"The witness will answer the question!" the judge bellowed.

Mike peered around Micky to see who the witness was. "Oh my god," he breathed in disbelief.

"Yeah, I know, the jury's never gonna buy the testimony of that evil cat," answered Davy.

"Hold on, what was that?" Micky was asking, "You've known him two days?"

"Objection!" the prosecutor yelled. "That is hardly long enough to have formed an accurate opinion of the defendant's personality!"

Micky turned and protested, "Hey, it's a long time to a cat, man."

"Sustained!" the judge cried. "Get the cat out of the box!"

"Out of the bag, you mean," Micky offered.

"Sit down, and shut up, or I will hold you in contempt of court!"

Micky grimaced at the judge, collected Shorty, and moved to sit down.

Davy immediately stood up after eyeing the cat suspiciously, and approached the bench. "Our next witness is Mike."

"Call the next witness!"

"Michael Nesmith!"

Mike got up and slowly walked to the stand. I can't believe this... this is a farce... what's going on? He was sworn in, and then Davy quickly began asking him questions, all the while, looking back anxiously at Micky's cat.

"Mike, could you tell us in your own words why someone would break into your apartment and not steal anything, but just trash it?"

"Well, it is of my opinion that the people were intending--"

"Objection!" yelped the prosecutor. "Heresay!"

"Sustained," declared Judge Dobolina.

"And furthermore--" Mike began.

"Never mind the furthermore!" shouted Micky from where he sat, cradling Shorty Blackwell. "The plea is self-defense!"

"What? But--" spluttered Mike.

"So, Mike, did you do it?" Davy asked.

"Of course not!"

Davy leaned in close to him, and explained in a whisper, "You're supposed to say 'yes'. We can't get you off on self-defense if you didn't do anything."

"But I didn't--"

Davy leaned back out, and announced to the courtroom, "Thanks. No more questions."

"What? Hey--"

"The witness will be quiet unless answering a question!"

Mike decided to play it safe, and remained silent. After a short pause, the prosecutor approached the stand.

"Mister... Nesmith, is that correct?"

"Yes."

"Just a minute, please," Davy interrupted. He pulled a phone out from under the table and deftly dialed a number. "Hey, babe! Yeah, this is China Clipper calling Alameda," he crooned into the reciever.

"The defense will please refrain from making personal calls during the trial!" screamed Judge Dobolina.

"I think it's business," Micky said.

Davy sighed. "Gotta go, babe. Bye."

The prosecutor glared at him, then retuned to questioning Mike. "Mister Nesmith, isn't it true that you have used the psudeonym 'Michael Blessing'?"

"Yeah. It was my recording name."

"Oh, so you recorded songs?"

"Yep. I had a couple of singles."

"A likely story," sneered the prosecutor. "The only reason people use false names is for nefarious deeds!"

"No, I swear, I only recorded under it."

"That proves it," the prosecutor decided. "Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, the fiend you see here before you has admitted that he has recorded songs. He has even tried to corrupt an innocent pussycat into purjuring itself under oath by giving false testimony! We all know that long-haired rock-and-roll freaks like him are scum and criminals of the highest degree! Why, it must have seemed like child's play to such... filth... to execute fourteen innocent people in a shady attempt to get himself cast in a wholesome television show in order to corrupt young minds!"

"Guilty!" screamed the members of the jury.

One of the jury members climbed out of the box, brandishing a gun.

Mike shouted and looked up at the judge, but he was nowhere to be seen. Just as he heard a loud noise that could only have been the shot of a bullet, he blacked out.

To his surprise, he woke up in his apartment. To his even greater surprise, not only was he clearly alive, but the sound of Micky's voice was issuing loudly from the living room. He blearily looked around and realized, a tad belatedly, that it had been nothing but a dream.

~*~

Peter and Davy had awakened to the sound of Micky banging the irreprable coffee maker on the floor.

"Work, you stupid thing! Man, what is your problem?" he demanded of it.

"What?" asked Davy sleepily, "What are you doing?"

"I'm fixing it."

"Micky, leave it alone," suggested Peter. "You're gonna wake up Mike."

"Too late," Mike said from the doorway. "Anybody hungry? There're still some waffles in the freezer."

~*~

As they ate their breakfasts, they discussed the break-in.

"What I don't understand," said Peter, "is why did they write, 'You're next, Blessing' on the note? That's not your name. Maybe they meant to get someone else."

"What do you mean that's not his name?" asked Davy around a mouthful of waffle. "Isn't it?"

"I thought your last name was Nesmith," Peter said, confused. "Right?"

Mike grimaced at this, reminded of his dream. "Yeah. It is, but I used 'Michael Blessing' to record under."

"Blessing?" Davy asked, laughing. "Wait! I've got an idea for your stage act... you get a little halo and angel wings and you play the harp and you make a sweet little face... I mean, you made that up? If I ever went by a fake name, I sure wouldn't make up something as corny as Blessing! "

Micky replied, "No, man, you don't have to. You're real name's corny enough all ready."

"Hey!"

Peter interrupted the blossoming argument. "But I don't get why they wrote 'Blessing' on the note. Don't they know it's not your real name? I mean, if Mabel had written it, she'd have known it wasn't your name, right?"

"Mabel did not trash my apartment," Mike stated flatly.

"I know, I know. Just for arguement's sake."

"I don't think she knew my last name. She never even called me by my first name."

"So, the question seems to be, who knows you by the name of Blessing," Peter decided. "Once we know that, we have a list of people to suspect."

"It's not gonna be that easy," Mike chastized. "First off, the entire recording company knew me as that. As do most people."

"You go by it in real life, too?" Davy gasped. "You can tell people with a straight face that your name is... Michael... Blessing?" He laughed at length.

"Yeah, well... Anyway, it'd be no good tryin' to figure out who all knew me as that," he retorted lamely.

"Wait, man, who did you record for?" Micky asked.

"The record division of the studio we're auditioning for."

Peter grimaced. "Well, that brightens my day. You and Davy've recorded for the studio, Mick had a show, and then there's me..." he sighed, then apologized. "Never mind. I'm sorry, I'm just tired and irritable this morning, I guess."

"You recorded for them too?" asked Davy. "What a coincidence. But they didn't get me under some corny fake name."

"Davy, man, leave it alone. You're gettin' more annoying about this than you were about Shorty," accused Micky.

Davy glared at him, but declined to respond.

"So it could have been someone at the studio," Peter declared. "Someone who wanted to make sure you didn't get a part, someone who knew you from when you recorded for them, but doesn't know you so well now."

"Yeah, I guess that makes sense, but still, that's a lot of people. Are you just gonna walk into the studio and point to a picture of me and ask how many people think my name's Blessing?"

Peter paused, then smiled slyly. "Not quite."

~*~

"I'm tellin' you guys, this is not gonna work," Mike protested as the group stood outside of the studio.

"Sure it will!" Davy enthused. "We just have to hope that nobody recognizes Micky, that's all."

Micky glared out at the group from under the brim of his nautical cap. Although none of the costume that Peter had designed--including a thick false beard--bothered him, the fact that he'd had to cut his hair irked him considerably.

"Nobody's gonna recognize me without my fuzz, man," he lamented. "They're gonna call me back, and they're not gonna think it's me, and there I go... right out. Man, I hope you appreciate this."

"Micky, no respectable admiral has fuzzy hair," Peter explained. "Fuzzy beard, perhaps, but not hair. Anyway, we don't want anybody to recognize you, that's the point."

"Here're your glasses," Davy offered.

"Now, run through your thing one more time," directed Mike.

"No, man. I've done it five times perfect this morning already. I can do it, just let me go," Micky protested.

"One more time," insisted Mike . "I'll be the secretary."

"Oh, can I be the secretary?" begged Davy. "I haven't gotten to do it yet."

"All right," Mike conceeded.

"Okay, this is my desk," Davy announced, waving vaguely. "You, sailor boy, come in through the doors over there." He gestured again, this time to a section of the parking lot off to his left.

Micky stalked over to the "doors." As he turned around to face Davy, however, his acting instincts kicked in and the anger melted off of his face and became mild irritation. He paused for a moment, then tried his best to look official as he walked to the "front desk."

"Yes, sir? May I help you?" Davy asked in a pretentious falsetto.

"Why yes. I am looking for my nephew, and I have reason to believe he may be here."

"And your nephew is...?"

"Michael Blessing."

To his credit, Davy did not crack a smile. He merely asked, "And you are...?"

Micky drew himself up in affront. "My dear girl, that is none of your business!"

"I can't let you in, sir, without identification."

"What are you running here? A television studio or the FBI?"

"I'm sorry, sir," Davy replied, sounding more delighted than apologetic.

"Hmph," Micky grunted. Although the plan had not, for some reason, covered this crucial bit of information, he was not about to let on that Davy had gotten the better of him. "I am Admiral... Mike."

"Admiral Mike?" Davy smiled.

"Yes, they named him after me."

"Do you have a last name, Admiral?"

"Mike is my last name."

"I see," Davy said, raising his eyebrows. "Hold on a moment while I fetch you a visitor tag."

"Just out of curiosity," Micky said, "have you heard of my nephew?"

"Can't say that I have, sir, sorry. Is he here to audition for the show?"

"Yes. He has also recorded here," Micky announced grandly.

"My, you must be proud," Davy said insincerely as he handed Micky his pass.

"Thank you." Micky waited a few seconds to be sure that Davy had finished, then addressed the group. "So, how'd I do?"

"Great," Peter said. "What did you think, Mike?"

"You need a better name."

"No, man, I like Admiral Mike."

"Yeah," Davy agreed. "It's funny."

"We're not trying to be funny," Peter reminded him. "We're trying to find out who threatened Mike and decimated his apartment."

"Oh, let him keep it," Mike decided. "Admiral Mike... now, Davy, you have to admit that that is worse than Blessing."

Davy just laughed.

"Okay, you look good, and not at all like yourself, so go!"

Peter said as he pushed Micky towards the doors.

As Micky approached the studio, Davy called after him, "Have fun, sir!"

~*~

The group waited anxiously for Micky to re-emerge.

"What's takin' him so long?" Mike demanded after a mere ten minutes.

"Relax," Davy suggested. "Let's sit down, it's gonna be a while."

The three sat resignedly on the curb. As one, they stared at the huge plate glass doors.

"What're we gonna do if this doesn't work?" asked Mike.

"Think of something else," replied Peter.

"Ha ha. I'm serious."

"So am I. There's no use thinking of something else if this works. And if it doesn't, we'll need to know what Micky did find out to think of another plan. So there's no point worrying about it now."

Mike nodded sullenly and studied his shoes in silence. This isn't gonna work. Micky's too recognizable, even without that hair... damn, why are they goin' after me? And where did Mabel go, anyway... she could've been out when they trashed the place, but she'd have come back eventually... unless she was in on it. Unless she heard the other three inside and was too afraid of what they might do to her. Unless she didn't want to see me... Unless...

Mike's thoughts were filled with despair until he finally caught sight of Micky sauntering jauntily out of the studio.

"Hey, guys!" he called. "Let's split, so I can tell you what I found out."

They swiftly walked back to Mike's apartment. Although they tried to get the information out of Micky on the way, he stubbornly refused to divulge until they got somewhere more private. As they were climbing the stairs, they encountered the landlord, who glared at them and said sullenly, "The repairmen'll be up to fix your door later."

Mike brushed past him, eager to hear Micky's news. "Thanks."

They arrived, and Mike hustled them in through the empty doorway. "So, what did'ja find out?" he demanded.

"Well," began Micky, "You should be glad to know that your beloved uncle is now more widely known in the studio than Michael Blessing."

Mike glared at him. "What did you find out?" he repeated deliberately.

"Hold it, man, just calm down a minute. I actually only found one person that'd heard of you. She was a secretary, a real low-level nobody, you dig? Anyway, she said that she'd heard Mabel talkin' about you a couple of times."

"What? Talkin' about me?"

"Yeah," Micky grinned. "Apparently she's a big fan of your songs, man, and it's probably best for you that she is... I think it looks like she was tryin' real hard to get you into the show."

"No," Mike protested. "Not Mabel! The only time she's gone is..."

"Is what?" Davy prompted.

"She shops at a grocery store clear across town. And of course I don't know where she is when I'm gone on interviews or call-backs... " His voice dropped, and he began, once again, to have doubts regarding his steadfast belief in her innocence.

Micky cleared his throat, and once he had reclaimed everyone's attention, he continued, "This gal I found is a secretary to some advertising director, and she thought she may have heard him mention the name a couple days ago. She remembered it becuase it was unusual. So I figure that it was either Mabel, this other secretary, or the ad guy. I didn't get to see him, though, he was at lunch."

"Lunch at nine thirty in the morning?" Peter asked.

Davy smiled, "Maybe he's a slow eater."

"No one else had heard of me?" Mike asked, a tad petulantly.

"Well, they've got a lot of guys running around lately, man. They can't remember everybody's name. So I showed 'em your picture, and some of 'em said they recognized you, but they didn't think your name was Blessing, so I asked 'em if it was Nesmith, and they said yeah. Then I told 'em that you were identical twins, Michael Blessing and Michael Nesmith Blessing, and that Michael Nesmith Blessing just went by Michael Nesm--"

"Micky, be quiet," Davy interjected. "You didn't really, did you?"

Micky looked hurt. "Well, no. I just showed 'em the picture."

Peter smiled, and said, "Either way, we should probably find this ad guy... After all, why would he be talking about you? You're not cutting an ad, are you?"

"No."

"But we certainly can't try to get the Admiral here in. He seems to have made quite an impression... No, wait," he smiled almost evilly. "Micky, how'd you like to go into the fish business?"

"What?"

"You go and tell the ad guy you want an ad for your fish place, and you were looking for your beloved nephew Mike so he could help, since he's more savvy in business, but since you can't find him, you'll just have to settle it yourself."

"But--"

"You could call your fish place 'Admiral Mike's Fish Blessing'," Davy suggested, grinning.

"Fish Blessing?" laughed Peter.

Mike just shook his head slowly; his sense of humor had waned, and anxiety had surfaced. Am I the only one who realizes that this is too serious to joke about?