by ROCFanKat

Disclaimers: See Chapter 1.

•••

"This is the stupidest thing I've ever done," Cassie whispered.

It was fairly high up on my list, too, but this wasn't the time or place to discuss it. Shoving blonde hair out of my eyes again, I gave her a warning look. The wig didn't fit right, and one long strand in front wanted to hang straight down, which might have passed in a bad-hair rock band but not at a Family Foundation press conference. The costume didn't fit very well, either. I'd borrowed it from Heather, who'd borrowed it from her mother, who apparently hadn't heard that shoulder pads were out. Uncomfortable, I tried to shift the drape of the jacket, but the cut was just too narrow for comfort. I was trapped in a pink-wool straitjacket for the duration.

Worse, Cassie had pinned her Egyptian-junior-stewardess brooch on the lapel. I wondered whether I could accidentally on purpose lose it. The clasp might be loose, after all, and if it wasn't, I could certainly make that happen. Furtively, I reached for it...

...and got spiked by a stiletto heel. "Ow!"

"Don't even think about it, Devvy. If I have to look stupid, you have to look stupid."

I regarded her critically. "Stupid" was one word for it, all right. Her coloring was all wrong for the brunette wig, and the long ringlets didn't work, but none of that was as bad as the makeup. I'd never seen lipstick quite that color, even under fluorescent light. Neither did I like the giant hoop earrings or the bandanna tied around her head. True, she'd had the good taste to wear my black DKNY jacket, even though it was a bit large for her, but otherwise, she looked like an explosion in Stevie Nicks' closet. In fact, I thought I'd seen that gypsy skirt onstage.

"What?" she asked.

"The whole point was to blend in, Cass."

"The whole point was to be in disguise. I'd say we are. Nobody recognizes us."

Well, she had me there. It had taken Heather and Troy a minute to identify us and then several minutes more to stop laughing. Troy had wanted to know whether my pink-silk shirt was really polyester and had gotten his hand smacked by Cassie for trying to find out. (I had one of my own shirts on under that shirt, so it wouldn't have mattered, but she said that wasn't the point.) Thank God the suit skirt hadn't fit; if it had, I'd have had to find pink shoes, too. Cassie didn't think the charcoal trousers or the shoes I was wearing instead went with the jacket, but I wasn't taking any fashion advice from her today.

With a heavy sigh, I checked the time again. The press conference had been supposed to start at 10. They had a full house for this thing, including local-TV crews, and you would think that someone would know not to keep vultures waiting.

I was starting to suggest that we leave and just let Heather and Troy deal with it when several men in blue suits filed across the stage. As they sat down in the row of folding chairs, I did a quick inventory. All of them had on white shirts and red ties, and unless I missed my guess, those little pins in their lapels would be flags. We might as well be at a Rotary meeting, or maybe the Elks Club. Involuntarily, I smiled. My father sometimes did the antler thing for us kids when he was in a silly mood, and if I stood up and did it right now, probably every male in the room would return it. After they stoned me, of course, because only men were allowed to be Elks in this town.

"I think I went out with the one on the end," Cassie mused.

That remark sobered me right up. Narrowly, I examined the suspect. "You've got to be kidding."

"The third one from the left looks familiar, too. I'll go talk to him after, just to..."

"No talking to anyone," I told her grimly. "You'd blow our cover."

She laughed and leaned against my shoulder. "I believe you're jealous."

"Not so damn loud. And get off me in public."

"Touchy," she remarked, giving me a little tickle.

I dropped my shoulder and pushed, shoving her off just in time--Howard Abner had just appeared at the podium.

There wasn't much exceptional about Abner, except that he was about the size of a small steer. He'd played football at some Southern college--Alabama, maybe, or Texas--and still looked like it. If I remembered right, he'd been a center. I wondered whether he'd played many games without a helmet and whether that was his problem.

He hunched over the microphone. "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. How are you all today?"

"We're fine, Mr. Rogers," Cassie whispered poisonously. "We had sex last night. Can you say that? I knew that you..."

"Quiet," I growled.

"...see you all here this morning," Abner was saying. "I'm sorry it's not a very pleasant occasion, but we'll talk about that and see what we can come up with to make things better. I'd like to start by showing you a little film we just made. But before I do, are there any children in the room?"

As if on cue, a baby wailed. Every head in the room turned. The young woman who'd brought the creature patted its back worriedly, trying to soothe it.

"I don't think this is suitable viewing material for a young child, ma'am," Abner told her.

There were a few snorts of laughter from the section where most of the reporters were sitting; I would have laughed, too, except that Cassie had elbowed me. Dutifully, the mother got up and left the auditorium. Abner watched her go, and only when the doors closed behind her did he push a button on the podium. A large projection screen slid down from a slot in the ceiling at the back of the stage.

"Lights, please, Jimmy," Abner said, "and roll it when you're ready."

Cassie leaned close as the lights went out. "I hope it's 9-1/2 Weeks."

This time, I elbowed her. Then I turned my full attention to the screen, where the Family Foundation logo was just bleeding in, to the sound of herald trumpets. A few frames later, the title A MORAL CRISIS IN OUR LIVING ROOMS appeared over the logo, and drums thundered on the soundtrack, echoed by a patter of applause in the auditorium. I guessed that we were in for a bumpy morning.

Next, Abner himself appeared on the screen. The footage might have been shot in his office, or on some foundation flunkie's idea of a set; at any rate, it was heavy on eagles and American flags. He was holding a script that he would never look at, gazing sincerely into the camera, looking for all the world like a politician except for the big gaudy ring on his right hand. Maybe it was a football award, or some ill-advised gift from The Little Lady.

Movement a couple of rows over caught my eye. Heather made a face and pointed to her ring finger, then up at the screen. I smiled at her. The girl was sharp. When I talked to Jack about raises at the end of the year, I'd have to talk to him about promoting her, too. Kurt wouldn't like it, but I'd just piece him off with a meaningless title that sounded like a promotion. Head writer for special projects, say. And if he gave me enough trouble about it, I could see to it that those projects were really special.

Maybe I'd team him up with Vanessa, come to think of it. That would solve two problems at once and also amuse me no end. If I worked it just right...

"You're thinking," Cassie whispered. "Stop it."

I sighed, focusing on the film again. Abner had apparently wrapped up his opening remarks, because now we were seeing a series of clips--still photos of print ads, excepts from TV spots, snippets of radio commercials. I recognized some of my own work, some of Kurt's, and a few pieces by rival agencies: Ad House, MediaComm, Llewellyn & Bates. None of it struck me as being particularly immoral, except for the gallons of lip gloss on the Hardware City girl. Of course, we'd used glycerin on the models in the Club West ads, but they'd all refused to actually sweat, and besides, that was different.

The last clip went to black, and we were back in Abner's office.

"What do all these examples share in common?" he asked. "They all..."

"Redundant," I whispered to Cassie.

"I told you to stop thinking," she whispered back.

"...to the climate of degeneracy that surrounds us," Abner said on-screen. "By repeated exposure, they weaken our resolve to lead moral lives. But worst of all, they give our children ideas that children should simply not have. I give you an example that speaks for itself."

Cassie braced herself, sensing what was coming. For my part, I was already resigned and just rode it out while the Rumours commercial played. Somewhere in the back, a woman made indignant noises.

I counted down the seconds in the first segment and waited. It wasn't likely that Abner had gotten hold of the version from Monday night, but...

"Oh, hell," Cassie said.

...somehow, he had, and there Cassie and I were on the big screen.

"My dear Lord," someone wailed, over a rising tide of horrified murmurs.

I thought we should leave and was about to suggest it when Heather ruined everything. Troy was trying to chase her down, but she was smaller, quicker, and mad as a hornet, and before he caught up with her, she was on the stage, pushing buttons all over the podium. It took a few tries, and the house lights went off and on a couple of times, but she finally got the screen going back up into the ceiling before Abner could stop her.

"Whatever happens," Cassie whispered fiercely, "we do not know her."

I was all for that. Putting a serious look on my face, I tried very hard to look like somebody else.

Abner finally seized control of the podium, but only after Troy pulled her away. "What do you think you're doing, young lady?" Abner shouted.

"What do you think you're doing?" she shot back. "Where did you get this tape?"

"It was on Channel 5 Monday night. Every schoolchild in this city might have seen it, so don't..."

"That was an accident, you jerk. That was for our Christmas-party reel."

Abner frowned. "Who is 'our'? Where are you from, little lady?"

"Heather..." Troy warned.

She ignored him. "J/J/G Advertising. And those are our friends you're trying to smear."

The audience began to murmur again. "If you love me, you'll kill her," Cassie demanded.

I did, and would have, but in the very next heartbeat, things got even worse. A dark-haired woman in black stood up a few rows in front of us and waited for quiet. She got it, along with total attention. I had a very bad feeling about her. From the back, she looked a lot like...

"Ma'am?" Abner said, tentatively. "Did you have something to say?"

"Only that the young lady has very peculiar taste in friends," Monica said.

Well, no wonder she'd looked like Monica. Cassie muttered a string of curses--softly and without any particular emphasis, but with unmistakable venom.

"Thank you, ma'am, "Abner told her. "I think we all agree that..."

"I haven't quite finished, Mr. Abner. I also want to say that I'm shocked by that display. Such deviant behavior. God made Adam and Eve, not Madam and..."

"Hey!" Heather interrupted. "I know you. You were Dev's date at the Halloween party!"

Shocked, Cassie stopped her mantra in the middle of a syllable.

"Young lady," Abner said, "I hardly think this is the time or place for social..."

"Shut up and learn something," Heather told him. "Dev's a girl."

Monica laughed. "I didn't say she wasn't. I just said she was deviant." Then she turned and pointedly looked at me. "Hello, Devlin. Interesting look. Something to hide?"

That did it. If I was about to go down in flames, I was at least going to fly my own colors. As coolly as possible, ignoring the stares--including Cassie's--I stood, pulled off the wig, and ripped off the pink monstrosities. "Jacket," I told Cassie.

Without a word, she took it off and handed it over. She had a strange expression on her face, and an even stranger little smile, but there wasn't time to ask about it. "Out," I said.

She made room for me to pass, and I started up the aisle, putting the jacket on along the way. Dimly, I was aware of flashbulbs and the whir of tape in the press section--and of Monica's laughter, and of the whispers of shocked recognition--but I ignored all that, lasering in on the big man at the podium.

"Hey, Dev," Heather said brightly. "You look mad. What are you..."

"Sit," I told her, still focused on Abner. Troy pulled her off the stage, and I pushed Abner off the podium. He might have been able to stop me, but maybe not; Heather was right; I was mad.

"Equal time," I growled at him, and then leaned over the microphone. "Let's make this simple, all right? I'll put it in terms you people can understand. My name is Devlin Kerry, and I'm a deviant."

"How do you spell that?" someone shouted from the press section.

"D-e-v-i-a-n-t. Now shut the hell up and let me finish."

Abner bristled. "I won't have that kind of language. And I don't want your kind on my property."

"Mutual," I said, "but the question is what kind is my kind. Am I a deviant? Or just a degenerate? And what kind are you?"

"Call security," Abner told one of the men on the platform.

"Hell, no," the man replied. "I might miss something."

The audience started laughing--at Abner's expense. Angrily, he reached into his jacket for a cell phone.

"You might miss something, too," I told him. "But if you want to call somebody, call your lawyers. J/J/G's already got you for theft of property, libel, violation of copyright...should I go on?"

Abner stopped pushing numbers and just stared at me. Then he let his phone hand drop.

"I haven't even mentioned the other agencies. They have lawyers, too. At the end of the day..."

"At the end of the day," he said angrily, "I'm still right with God, and you're still damned."

"Coming from your God, Mr. Abner, I'll take that as a compliment."

There was a brief spell of absolute silence. "Blasphemer," Abner finally managed.

"Hypocrite," I replied. "I haven't mentioned this football that you're so damn proud of, either. You were a center, weren't you? Guy who bends over for the quarterback? Now, why would a big manly straight guy let another guy touch him there for a whole afternoon?"

The phone dropped out of Abner's hand and shattered on the floor. It was the only sound in the entire auditorium.

"Not counting night games and scrimmages, of course. That's a whole lot of football. Whole lot of football players, too."

Abner's jaw worked, but he didn't say a word.

"Do you know why football players pat each other on the butt?" I asked the audience, conversationally. "Because it takes too long to take their helmets off and kiss."

About half the room liked that; the other half was mostly drowned out by the whooping and whistling. I glanced back at the men on the stage; every single one of them was gaping at Abner.

"Now, that's going too far," Abner complained. "Football is a manly sport, and I don't appreciate your slanderous..."

"Likewise, Mr. Abner. I don't appreciate slander either. I also don't appreciate witch hunts, bed checks, and cheap publicity stunts."

"Cheap, my ass! That video alone cost..." An instant too late, he realized what he'd said. Now all the laughter in the audience was hostile. He glared at everyone in general and then rounded on me. "I'll have you in court, you pervert. This is war."

"If you want a war, Jethro, you've got one. Have a manly day."

•••

Cassie was waiting for me in the parking lot, perched on the hood of her BMW. She'd taken off the wig, which was a vast improvement. I couldn't read her expression, but started apologizing before I got there, to save time.

"Never mind," she said. "Come here."

Uncertain whether it was a good idea, I walked the rest of the way up to her--and barely caught her as she launched herself off the hood into my arms.

"You don't want to kill me?" I asked, bewildered.

"Eventually," she said, and kissed me again. I finally had to push her off just to breathe.

"What was that for?"

"That little performance back there. It was kind of sexy."

"Are you feeling all right?" I asked.

"When you took all that pink stuff off," she said, ignoring the question, "it was kind of like Superman coming out of the phone booth."

" 'Out' would be the operative word," I muttered.

"That part's done. Come here again."

"We're at the Family Foundation," I reminded her.

"And they could use some sex education," she said, closing in.

Oh, to hell with it. I gave up and got into the spirit of the thing But before I got all the way in, someone interrupted.

"Very clever," Monica said.

We broke off, and I pushed Cassie back toward the car, where she might be safer. "You sound surprised," I told Monica.

"But very foolish. Don't think this is done."

"If you want a war, too, Monica, I'll pencil you in."

For a second, she might have smiled. Then she disappeared--this time, in an impressive pillar of flame.

"She is so Old Testament sometimes," I told Cassie. "Forget her. How about lunch?"

Cassie smiled. "I've got a better idea."

As it turned out, she did. We didn't quite make it back to the office until midafternoon.

•••

(c) 1999, ROCFanKat

Continued - Part 11