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dammit. Don’t you?”
    â€œYes. No. I don’t know.” He was some kind of big sissy, Sassy decided. A homosexual. She wanted to ask him in a very sophisticated way whether he was gay, but found that she felt too tired to deal with any more unwanted information today. She asked, “What’s your real name?”
    â€œâ€˜Racquel’ is as real as any.”
    â€œWhatever. I’m going home.” Sassy sidestepped to walk past him.
    He stretched out a hand to stop her. “You going to tell on me?” He sounded like a child caught doing something naughty at recess.
    â€œI’ll think about it,” Sassy grumped.
    â€œPlease—”
    â€œI said I’ll think about it!” Once more Sassy tried to get past him. Once more he stopped her.
    â€œPlease just quick tell me one thing. How did you know? Did you see through the stall wall in the john, or what?”
    â€œI am going home ,” Sassy said with great decision as she pushed past him, then hustled toward her car.

THREE
    The Sylvan Tower’s Operation Catch Parakeet required a cooperative effort between Pest Control Professionals, so advertised on their pristine white coveralls, and Climb Any Mountaineers, Inc. The Pest Control people stood on balconies and unfurled what had to be the world’s longest badminton nets, but with gossamer-fine mesh, way too fine for badminton nets, really. Mist nets, they called them. Bird nets. The mountaineers rappelled down from higher balconies and conveyed the trailing ends of the unfurled nets to other Pest Control personnel on the opposite side of the atrium. Meanwhile, management sweated, hoping the media would not show up, and with them unwanted attention from the animal rights activists. And meanwhile hotel denizens, including Sassy, gathered on various levels of the lobby to watch. By the end of the day, when the Pest Control Pros and the Climb Any Mountain people had (with the aid of walkie-talkies and much shouting) done their job, giant cobwebby nets crisscrossed the atrium from treetop level on up, and already someone had markered a graffito in one of the men’s rooms, Cristo Was Here.
    Then everybody went home. Except Sassy.
    Her work shift was over. In the maids’ locker room she had changed out of her uniform into another sort of work outfit, carefully selected—black sweatpants, a dark turtleneck and a navy cardigan, shabby old black sneakers. Not really athletic shoes. But then, she wasn’t really athletic, which was one of the problems on her mind as she hung around the shadowy reaches of the Sylvan Tower lobby: she wasn’t up on the latest rappelling techniques. The Sylvan Tower would have made a great playground for a musketeer, a perfect movie set, but Sassy did not feel capable of swinging from a chandelier. Nor was she inclined to attempt any Tarzan-style stunts, even if she were in possession of a grapevine or a rope or something, which she was not.
    Assuming that the parakeet was stupid enough to blunder into one of the nets—which seemed a fairly safe assumption, actually—Sassy meant to get it before the Pest Control people did. But how?
    Chin on her folded hands on a balcony rail, her tush ungracefully protruding, Sassy brooded upon the difficulties involved.
    It occurred to her that she knew somebody who might help her.
    No.
    But—
    No. Absolutely not. She didn’t ever want to go near that weirdo again.
    Fine. Then look at a parakeet in the mirror for the rest of—
    Listen, things could be worse.
    Sure they could. Twenty-seven, make it twenty-eight years wasted on a, what the heck had Racquel called him, a jellosnarf—
    It was the warm memory of all the inspired names Racquel had called Frederick that made Sassy mutter, “Oh, good gravy,” straighten from her brooding stance, and head toward PLUMAGE.
    As usual, the employees were doing the real work; Racquel loitered at the hat display, fondling a