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#10: Ladykiller

There was a weight of expectancy in the air, heavy and silent as the atmosphere at a chess match, with each opponent waiting for the other to make a game-ending mistake.

Three glasses containing clear liquid sat on the table before Diogenes’ folded hands. Across from him, Lucy studied the setup carefully. In front of her sat six unmarked beakers, each filled with similarly innocuous-looking clear fluid. She lifted one and leaned forward.

Diogenes cleared his throat. “Be careful,” he said, just as she brought the beaker lip to the glass on her left. She paused, raising her eyes to scrutinize his face with the keenness of a high stakes poker player, then with pointed deliberation dumped the contents into the glass she had chosen. The liquids swirled together, instantly turning the combined ingredients a virulent, roiling red. Dense white smoke boiled off the surface, spilling coldly down the sides of the glass.

“And?” he prompted, with an unconcerned tone of urgency. Lucy calmly picked up another beaker, added it to the mixture, and the liquid in the glass turned clear once more, subsiding. “Excellent. Most excellent.” Diogenes declared, and Lucy glowed at the praise.

“Lucy, there you are! What’s that you’re doing? It looks ever so interesting.” At the sound of a woman’s cultured voice both man and girl turned to face the doorway, their smiles fading abruptly to be replaced by an expression most often associated with nails being drawn over a blackboard.

Diogenes leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing. “It’s a game, Viola, requiring wit and nerve. While you have an overabundance of the later, I fear you suffer from a substantial lack of the former.”

“Piffle,” she scoffed, waving him off as she came forward. If a child can do it, surely I can manage.”

His eyes widened. “Viola, you mustn’t...”

Lucy slid under the table like an eel and Diogenes leapt back with alacrity, knocking his chair away as Viola blithely picked up a beaker at random and upended it into the middle glass.

The explosion that ensued rattled the dishes in the cupboard and sent a roiling curl of sulfurous smoke toward the ceiling as the adjacent glass and beakers shattered simultaneously, setting off a second miniature explosion with an accompanying poisonous green cloud, and the tablecloth caught fire, the red and white checked plastic melting and curling in on itself and adding a greasy black pall to the air.

Diogenes exhaled sharply.

“Isn’t that pretty!” Viola clapped. “And you thought I wouldn’t be good at this. Didn’t I tell you?! Whatever I put my hand to, no matter how hard it is, it always comes out spectacularly!”

He grimaced. “Viola, I feel compelled to remind you that there are delicate ears in the room,” he said tersely. “Not to mention a young child.”

A pair of unnaturally magnified eyes materialized over the rim of the table, appearing mesmerized behind the flames reflecting in the thick glass. Diogenes stepped forward, lifting Lucy safely away from the fire with one hand and tossing a handful of nearby powder onto the small blaze with the other and covering it with the lid of a cooking pot, smothering the smoldering mess.

“Well, that was fun!” Viola exclaimed. “Can we have another go?”

“No,” Diogenes said acidly, removing his hand from the smoking lid. “Most certainly not.”

“Oh.” She looked momentarily disappointed, then her eyes fell on Lucy and she brightened. “Never mind. I was just coming to fetch Lucy, anyway.” She reached out and snared Lucy’s small, pudgy hand in her strong tanned one. Lucy tried pulling free, to no avail. “Come — you’re going to help your Auntie Viola prepare for her baby shower this evening. If you’re very good I’ll even let you help me do my nails and hair.”

The girl suddenly stopped struggling against the older woman’s limpet grip, and smiled.




Diogenes glanced down at his timepiece, frowned at the arrangement of the hour and minute hands, then knocked on the bathroom door again. “Viola, dear...we’re going to be late.” There was no answer. He tried again. “While I have made my feelings regarding this party quite clear, I despise tardiness even more. Are you...” The door opened suddenly, and Diogenes took a step back. “Oh...my.” He waved a hand delicately in front of his nose to dispel an acrid, burning odor and Viola stepped out, moving stiffly. “Goodness, woman — what happened?!”

“There was an...a bit of an incident with the hairspray and one of my homemade olive oil candles.” she sniffed. “Lucy found this wig in your closet before she went home to change for the party; she said you can hardly tell any difference.” She pushed the lopsided hairpiece further askew and looked at him hopefully. “What do you think?”

“Oh, my,” Diogenes repeated, reaching up to cover an ill-disguised smile with his fingertips. “Good old Menzies. It’s quite...becoming. A pity, though, that you were unable to find a matching eyebrow pencil.”

“Yes. Well I suppose all the women in town will want to copy the fashion now, though not everyone can pull off this style — fortunately I have the bone structure and well-bred cheekbones to manage.” She sniffed again. “Frangelico would simply die if he saw my beautiful hair in such a state. He’s the best stylist in all of Rome, and says he’s never seen such naturally beautiful tresses.”

“It’s just as well he can’t see you now, then,” Diogenes said gallantly, and held out his arm for her. “If we don’t leave now you will give new meaning to the phrase ‘fashionably late’, though unfortunately at the moment you are flagrantly neither. Shall we?”

Viola reached for his proffered arm then stopped, as if seeing him for the first time. She looked him up and down, blinking at the sight of him standing resplendent in a wine-colored formal smoking jacket with braided trim and intricately knotted frog closures, perfectly tailored to his lean form.

Her eyes lit up. “Why Digi,” she breathed, “you look positively smashing!”

He lifted a languid eyebrow at her reaction. “Naturally. The very last thing I wish to do is embarrass you in front of everyone on an occasion of such significance to you. We must get there, first. At any rate, I thought it important that one of us look our best.”

“Oh, Digi...”

“Now, now...” He smoothed the front of his jacket with one hand as he held up the other, forestalling an embrace. “You mustn’t muss me, or you really will be late,” he warned.




As Diogenes drove up the Garrett’s long drive they saw nearly a dozen cars already parked out in front of the house.

“It looks like the whole town is here!” Viola said excitedly. “I do hope this means lots of presents. Or better yet, perhaps they all pooled together and bought me something nice. That baby rattle from Tiffany’s was quite adorable. Or the silver spoon. I expect the gift will be something practical like that, anyway. If nothing else, these are very practical and down-to-earth people.”

“Yes; the genuine article will certainly be a breath of fresh air,” Diogenes said dryly.

The door was opened by an elderly woman.

“Mrs. Townsend-Garrett,” Diogenes said at once, inclining his head politely. “Lucy’s grandmother, I believe?”

The old woman held out her hand. “And you must be Diogenes. Call me Adele. Lucy has told me so much about you.”

Diogenes took her hand and laid a courtly kiss against the papery skin. “Adele. The pleasure is all mine.”

Viola glared at him. “And I’m Viola,” she said, shouldering him aside and holding out her hand with a dazzling smile.

Adele’s eyes narrowed on her. “Lady Viola, isn’t it?”

Viola colored prettily and gave a small laugh. “Why, yes, as a matter of fact...but I don’t like to talk about that.”

Mrs. Townsend-Garrett looked her over severely. “I should think not. Very undignified, not to mention difficult, trying to say it with a straight face. You’re right to want to keep that to yourself.”

Viola’s blush turned a deeper, less pretty shade, and she lifted her chin. “It’s very important to me to make people realize that I’m no better than they are, even though my great-grandfather was a master violinist and my great-grandmother was a Duchess,” she said, her tone dripping with aristocratic curlicues.

Lucy’s grandmother stared at Viola, appearing dumbstruck. “Goodness,” she managed at last. “I thought Lucy was fibbing about you.”

“Yes, well,” Viola said magnanimously. “It does take a while to realize that it’s who I am that makes me special, not some silly title or the inheritance and estate in Cornwall or my bungalow in the Tuscan Isles. She did mention that I’m an Egyptologist for a couple months out of the year, didn’t she? I’m very dedicated to my career, you know; nearly as much as I am to nurturing this baby.”

The old woman looked dazed and Diogenes intervened smoothly, steering her gently down the hall.

“Lucy mentioned that you have a fascination with pain,” Adele said faintly, leaning on his arm for support, “but she neglected to mention the great personal tolerance you have for the excruciating. And what is that thing on her head?”

“The style is all the rage among the professorial and law enforcement types in New York,” Diogenes offered. “Though unfortunately the fashion is from last season’s lineup.”

“Well. I don’t approve of people wearing dead animals, even if it’s done tastefully — and that certainly is not. It looks as though it’s been run over by a train.”

As they approached the living room the voices of several women reached them, all chattering in excitement.

“I heard he’s a kindergarten teacher.”

“No, no... A doctor. My hip’s been bothering me; I wonder if he would mind taking a look...”

A hue and cry arose as they appeared in the doorway. “Here he is! Here’s our mystery man! Oooh, and he’s a red-head!” A blue-haired woman barged up to Diogenes, taking his other arm and batting eyelashes heavy with clumped mascara at him. “My first husband was a red-head. In-satiable! A real tiger in the...” She paused, peering up at him. “You are a natural red-head, aren’t you? The rug does match the curtains?”

“I guarantee, Madame,” Diogenes began, keeping his poise as the other septuagenarian and octogenarian women crowded round and he was jostled, “that I am quite the...”

“This is the father? Where’s the ring?” A severe-faced woman accosted Viola, who had just come up behind Diogenes and Adele. “You are getting married, aren’t you?”

“Well. He hasn’t exactly proposed yet,” Viola said modestly. “I’ve actually been proposed to several times, as you can imagine, but you could say I’ve been holding out for just the right man.”

Diogenes smiled thinly. “I would venture to say that ‘holding out’ isn’t the operative word, nor the general problem.” He turned to the grim woman. “Mrs. Woodard. Might I comment on your own rather stunning ring?”

“What, this old thing?” the matron exclaimed, her hatchet-wielding mien softening. “My late husband gave it to me, God rest his soul, before he dragged me from New York to this social black hole. Died two days into retirement — fishing, if you can believe that.” Diogenes’ eyes gleamed as she allowed him to take her hand. “It’s a blue diamond,” she added, “surpassed in rarity only by red diamonds, or so I’ve been told.” For a brief moment Diogenes’ hands appeared to tremor, then he mastered himself.

Viola cleared her throat noisily and continued in a louder than usual voice, “Yes. As I was saying, I haven’t been given a ring by the right man yet.”

“At least five carats,” Diogenes murmured, “if I am not mistaken. An old Asscher-cut...beautiful. Quite remarkable.”

Mrs. Woodard glowed at him. “You know your diamonds, young man.”

“Digi did offer me a diamond once,” Viola interjected, squeezing herself in between Diogenes and the second woman, reclaiming his arm. “While we were courting. Didn’t you, Digi darling?” She looked down her nose at Mrs. Woodard’s ring. “It was at least six carats. He presented it to me with the most beautiful, romantic speech of how I reminded him of it.”

“Twenty-two carats,” Diogenes said absently. “It was twenty-two carats. As I recall, you hurled it at my head, screaming the most vile imprecations. Regrettably, I was forced to return the stone to its previous owner. The entire experience was extremely — profoundly shattering.” He smiled.

There was a horrified gasp from the gathered women at this revelation, and much head shaking. “You poor man,” someone behind Mrs. Woodard clucked. Diogenes calmly reached into his smoking jacket and withdrew a cigar.

“Now, Digi. You’re smart enough to know that I was just playing hard to get,” Viola cooed, ignoring the hostile stares. “Any man who wants to be with me must pass the test.”

“The ranks of Mensa would be enormously engorged were they to include passing your ‘hard to get’ test in their acceptance criteria.” He trimmed the cigar and pulled out a box of cedar matches, tapping the end open casually as he scanned above the heads of a dozen or so women craning to get a closer look at him. “Now, if you will excuse me for a moment...I have a matter of utmost importance to attend to.” He strolled forward and their sighing ranks parted to let him pass, then sealed once more in his wake.

“Excuse me,” Viola said from behind them, but no one moved.

Diogenes stopped in front of a nearly-bare card table set up in a lonely corner of the room. Lucy stood beside it, wearing a pink satin dress on which sequins and frills competed in a ruthless, garish war for dominance. A pink grosgrain choker around her neck and cubic zirconia tiara perched atop her braided and pig-tailed hair completed the outfit, every bit of it looking distinctly incongruous in contrast to the immaculately drab and colorless room, to say nothing of her expression.

Around the edge of the table a brilliant, hot pink chicken-feather boa had been strung, an apparently impromptu decoration that seemed to be glued on with sagging green bubblegum.

On the table itself sat a single plate of hors d'œvre consisting of little cubes of tofu wrapped in wilted lettuce and speared with anemic celery, topped with melted and re-congealed soy cheese that dripped down the sides like molded plastic. A sparse sprinkling of sesame seeds that had been added while the cheese was still warm had settled into the unnatural-looking surface, glinting like aggregate pebbles in concrete.

Next to the hors d'œvres sat a pitcher of water and a single glass with a note rubber-banded to the side: “Visitors: Please share glass to save washing and conserve natural resources.”

The only thing of color on the table was a cigar box full of yellow and green bubblegum cigars, clearly marked “SUGAR FREE” and proclaiming “IT’S A _______!!!” The word that had been penciled in had nothing to do with gender. With the exception of two green cigars missing from the box, everything on the table appeared to be untouched.

Diogenes’ eyes roved over the entire scene, finally settling on her. “My, don’t you look lovely, Lucy,” he said, looking down his nose at her with a staid reserve fully befitting his formal attire. “Cute as the little urchin you are.” He paused expectantly. “Aren’t you going to offer me a refreshment?”

“Bite me,” she said.

Amusement flickered in his good eye as he narrowed his gaze on her. “Oh I would, yes,” he drawled smoothly, “but you’re such an overwhelming confection, and I fear I’ve left my insulin at home.”

Lucy folded her arms over her chest. “I’m not speaking to you.”

“Ah, but you obviously are speaking to me,” he pointed out, “though pushing your lower lip out like that does little to improve your diction.”

“This is all your fault,” she scowled. “You...you touched her. You made a...a...thing with her!”

Diogenes looked mildly taken aback. “All my fault! My dear Lucy. Such hero worship, while not undeserved, is slightly overstated. And as for touching her...” His lip curled in genuine disdain. “I did nothing of the sort, though I admit it is sometimes necessary when searching for a vein.”

Her expression remained stony and he sighed, eyes straying to a small table just behind her, set against the wall. The hand-lettered sign above it proclaimed “GIFTS”. Below the sign a single package lay, no larger than a small Tiffany’s gift box, neatly wrapped in white paper and tied with a silver ribbon. “A gift,” he said, sounding surprised.

Lucy’s nose wrinkled. “Mum made me get something for her. I’m at your house so much she said I had to.”

“Indeed!” Diogenes’ eyebrows rose higher. “From you? I’m sure Viola will be driven to tears by your thoughtfulness. I hope it’s returnable.”

She shook her head, her look turning crafty. “Can’t,” she said cagily. “I found something I thought she would like while I was helping her fix her hair earlier.”

Diogenes grunted at that, his own expression darkening. “Ye-es, regarding that... What a resourceful little creature you are, rummaging through my personal belongings without permission.”

“I took all the necessary precautions,” she glowered back at him, ignoring the humorless, almost dangerous edge to his voice. “You shouldn’t worry about me. By the way, you need a better lock. A child could pick it.”

He batted an eye and started to say something in response, then caught himself and stopped, closing his mouth. For a moment his face was a deadly blank as he stared at her, then his serene mask slipped back into place and his lips twitched ruefully. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said mildly. “Might I add, you have a particular talent for improvisation in the face of disaster. Have you ever considered a career as a make-up artist, or perhaps a plastic surgeon?”

Lucy smirked in spite of herself and he tilted his head at her in response. The air seemed to warm between them again. “Shall we call it Pax?”

“You’re not stuck wearing this dress,” she countered.

He smiled. “A valid point. Here,” he murmured sympathetically, leaning closer. He held out his hand and she deftly plucked the car key out of his fingers. “There’s a sack for you in the back seat of the car. Fortunately Viola took a convenient little nap on the way here, so I didn’t have to explain the redolent odor of French fries and hamburger.” Lucy snorted and he straightened, composing his face once more. “And do try not to look so cheerful;” he admonished dourly, “it is especially unbecoming on an occasion such as this.”

“Extra ketchup?” she asked hopefully. “You did remember to ask for extra ketchup?”

He raised an eyebrow. “But of course. Off with you now, before the delicacy coagulates completely.”

Lucy scampered out, escaping by the nearest exit almost before the words had left his mouth.

With one last, baleful look at the beautifully wrapped gift on the table, Diogenes visibly girded himself, then smiled grimly and turned around to face his clustered and whispering gaggle of admirers. He stuck the cigar in his mouth and paused to light it, eyes crinkling at the corners as he surveyed the room and its inhabitants like a cat measuring brand new, unmarked furniture. “Ladies,” he purred.

Viola had managed to squirm her way through the press of women and stood panting before them from the effort but as Diogenes approached the women swarmed forward, amoeba-like, and she was sucked to the back of the room once more.

“Mrs. Halverson,” he said, handing the first woman a cigar. Another appeared in his fingers as if by magic. “Mrs. Whitman. What a lovely diamond necklace! Adele. Shall we all retire to the...ah, hermetically-sealed furnishings while we wait for the festivities to start?” He continued to hand out fragrant cigars as he made his way to a white sofa and matching side chairs, all of which were wrapped in a double layer of thick protective plastic, and casting a disdainful look at the lampshades which were still wrapped in their cellophane packaging from the store, settled in the center of the couch.

He was immediately surrounded on all sides by the bevy of powdered, perfumed and bejeweled older women maneuvering and pinching like schoolgirls to get closer or claim a seat beside him, the competition made more interesting by the presence and discreet yet viciously skilled use of canes. Diogenes, for his part, proceeded to trim and light cigars all around as they settled into their pecking order, as sanguine as if he were on a private yacht entertaining the most elite and cultured of glitterati. A cloud of smoke quickly accumulated around their heads.

“Do please be careful of that ash, Mrs. Pirini,” he remarked to the woman standing behind him. “It takes a terribly long time to get the smell of burning out of one’s hair.”

“Digi...” Viola had once again worked her way to the front, and stood before him looking slightly more bedraggled than she had when she first arrived.

“Ah, Viola — may I offer you a cigar?”

“Oh, no, I mustn’t. The baby, you know.” She turned to the other women and gave a conspiratorial wink. “He does so like to kid me about there being no baby at all. Preposterous, really. Doesn’t he have the most wonderful sense of humor?”

Diogenes sighed, turning his cigar over in his fingers as if inspecting it. “I suppose now is as good a time as any to mention that I took the liberty of obtaining a blood sample and it returned a negative for pregnancy?”

The woman surrounding him gasped.

She waved his words away. “Oh, Digi — don’t be ridiculous! Of course I’m pregnant! What about all those pickles I’ve eaten?”

Diogenes winced. “Viola, dear — delicate ears,” he reminded her in a pained tone. “Not to mention there are ladies present.”

“And all that peanut butter?” she went on heedlessly. “Mixed with marshmallows and mayonnaise? You simply can’t tell me I’ve been suffering through eating all those vile combinations for nothing! And what about the weight I’ve gained? I’ve been following the magazine instructions of foods pregnant women crave to the letter!”

“Now, now, Viola, there’s no accounting for taste. Case in point is your affection for my brother. Shall we be plain? I was never more than your second choice, and rather dismally further down the list than that if you look at your history.”

A dozen heads swiveled toward her.

“Digi...you aren’t trying to embarrass me in front of all these people, are you?” Viola laughed demurely. “What an absolute card you are!”

“Embarrass you?” He appeared momentarily weary. “A more monumental undertaking I have never faced, I assure you,” he said, then sighed and waved a hand through the haze of cigar effluvium, a spark lighting in his good eye as he drew on his cigar. His brow puckered. “Has anyone seen our hostess, the redoubtable Mrs. Garrett?” he asked hopefully, sending another stream of smoke toward the kitchen, where the clashing and banging of pots could be clearly heard. “Viola, dear, perhaps you would be so kind as to ask if she would like to join us for a cigar?”

She brightened. “What a brilliant idea!”

Before she could move however, the imposing frame of Mrs. Garret loomed in the doorway as if summoned, skillet in hand. “WHO is smoking in my house?!” she roared. She lifted the heavy pan higher as she spoke, then swung it in Diogenes’ direction with a shriek. “You! This is a baby shower — no men allowed! Don’t you know that it’s bad luck when a man attends a baby shower?!”

“I can’t imagine worse luck,” Diogenes intoned drolly as the women surrounding him shrank back.

Viola raised her nose and turned on him. “Yes. Everyone knows men aren’t supposed to attend baby showers,” she spoke up primly, echoing Jeanette. “How can you do such a thing to me, Digi? Here you are, offending our wonderful hostess when you know how special this day is to me!”

“You’re to sit outside on the bench with George — he was supposed find you when you arrived. Boy, when I catch him I’m going to give him holy what-for!” Jeanette waved the already dented frying pan ominously and Diogenes found his feet with alacrity.

“Mrs. Garrett, my most profound apologies.” He addressed the glowering woman with a studied expression of cool chagrin. “I assumed the plastic-wrapped furniture and lack of ashtrays was to allow the ashes to fall freely. My mistake. Ladies...” He bowed graciously to the gathering of disappointed women. “I take my leave of you. Viola.” He nodded. “Perhaps now would be a good time to open the ah...gift?”

“Oh, yes!” Viola exclaimed excitedly. “Gifts!”

“Not while he’s here, you don’t. OUT!”

“Madame, I am leaving,” Diogenes said, touching his fingertips gracefully to his heart as the pan twitched in Jeanette’s hand, “before my presence overtaxes your most generous desire to further extend your hospitality toward me.”




Diogenes walked across the small clearing, his manner relaxed, yet his head was raised and alert. He adjusted his course slightly to head directly into the light breeze, which led him to an old wooden bench on the bare ground beneath a singed-looking tree. A man was sitting on it with his hands clasped tightly around a green bubblegum cigar, looking extremely nervous.

“Good evening, George,” Diogenes said, approaching with the quietness of a cat not wanting to startle an already petrified mouse into flight.

“I heard the yelling...I’m sorry,” he stammered, as Diogenes’ shadow loomed closer. “I was supposed to tell you not to go in, but...I wasn’t allowed to go within a 100 yards of the house during the party...”

“Pray don’t mention it.” Diogenes held up a hand. “It is a brave man who will put himself in harm’s way to spare someone an agony he himself fears; shrewd men, like rabbits, do not mind the appearance of cowering cravenly upwind.” He lifted his head again as if testing the direction of the wind then gave a satisfied nod and settled on the bench next to Mr. Garrett. “No hard feelings.”

George appeared to relax and Diogenes leaned back, eyes narrowing on him as he drew on his cigar. The fat tip flared briefly, then he blew the smoke out through pursed lips. “Cigar?” he asked, the offering appearing in his fingers.

George’s eyes widened again. “Oh, no, no. I can’t.” He shook his head emphatically. “Janette would kill me.”

“Preferable to abstaining from life, such as it is,” Diogenes said lazily, shrugging as he slipped the cylinder back into his jacket. “But to each his own.”

George turned his bubblegum cigar over in his hands morosely, then ventured, “That Viola — she’s ah...quite a woman. Quite a Lady,” he amended hastily. “Whenever she’s over here for tea with Janette she won’t stop talking about the baby, and how she hopes the baby has your eye color. Well, the blue one, anyway — she says the other one makes you look unbalanced.”

Diogenes grunted, releasing another cloud of smoke into the evening air. “How perceptive of her. However — I feel it only fair to enlighten you, that Viola is not in fact pregnant.”

George stared at him. “She’s not pregnant?”

“I took the liberty of acquiring a blood sample during one of her naps, which negated the ‘pee and see’ test.”

“Oh, well, that’s a relief! I mean...” George stammered to a halt and Diogenes raised an amused eyebrow at him.

“Yes?”

“Well, I mean...” George cleared his throat gruffly. “That is... I came over one day a while back when you weren’t there, and Viola was just waking up from a nap. I asked to borrow a cup of sugar and...well, one thing led to another and before I knew it...” He paused, looking dazed. “I hardly had a choice in the matter. I just...she was like a...an animal. I hope you won’t tell Janette. It was just the one time.” He shivered. “Janette never does anything like that. I mean, I didn’t know it was even possible to...” He stopped, looking suddenly self-conscious.

“Sorry,” he went on, “she’s your woman and all, but — well, no offense, a woman’s got needs too. She sees how happy Janette is, it’s only natural she would be curious.” George puffed out his chest, surreptitiously inspecting Diogenes’ long, lithe frame like a stringy, pot-bound rooster measuring itself against a peacock.

“Of course. I’m sure she found the experience — memorable,” Diogenes said leisurely, studying his fingernails.

“Yep.” George sucked in his lower lip. “You satisfy a lady right the first time, and that’s all it takes. Just the once. That’s what Janette says, anyway. Women only keep coming back for more if they think you need to try and do better.” He nodded. “Yessir...George Garrett does things right the first time.”

“Yes...” Diogenes looked amused, almost reflective. “Well, there is Lucy to consider, I suppose.”

At that moment a deep, muffled boom echoed from within the house that shook the ground beneath them, rattling the windows. Screams broke out.

Neither man moved, but George winced slightly at the sound of hysterical pandemonium unfolding inside the house. “Yessir,” he repeated stoically, visibly trying to shut out the sounds of panic. He pushed the coke bottle lenses up on his nose. “Lucy’s a good example. I do things right the first time.”

As the first coughing, wheezing and weeping evacuees began stumbling out into the yard accompanied by swirling noxious fumes and smoke Diogenes chuckled, a low, dry sound that rolled from a place deep within his chest, and he laughed as he hadn’t laughed in a long time.

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