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same. You sure you're any different?"
        "Just being an asshole, at your expense. You react so readily; it's hard to resist. At least you've stopped apologizing. But, Burton my lad, I can read your deceitful eyes. I tell you again not to worry. Your reaction to me is cautious. It is natural. I've got several centuries of cliches to buck against, and yes, it's made me a little sullen."
        "Cliche busting is our business."
        "I am the guy who's just gotten out of what you normal folks call the 'fruit bin,' after all…"
        "You mean the nut hatch," amended Burt, deadpan. "Now you're apologizing."
        After Lucas got his fizzy Coke inside himself and Burt chased his shot, Lucas said with mock astonishment, "What? We're not staying for coffee?"
        "Urp. No way. I'm sloshing as it is. And the coffee here would take the paint off a tank. They make one pot at ten A.M. and keep it at the boiling point all day." He looked around at the nearly empty interior of the restaurant, as if seeking someone to blame.
        "I'm supposed to break the news to you," said Lucas.
        Burt's eyebrows went up. "What news?"
        "That you will not see me bright and early tomorrow morning, on the job. I'm not dashing back to my desk to get gung ho with the new dawn. My first official act is going to be taking time off."
        "A characteristic Los Angeles affliction." Burt's words indicated mild surprise, but no objections. "Where, when? You have ETA and coordinates?"
        "Remember my cabin?"
        Burt furrowed his brow. "Cabin…" Then his eyes lit. "I didn't think you were serious about buying that cabin. Geez, Lucas-that's going back a ways."
        "Oh, I bought it all right, and the plot of land under it. I was serious about investing some money because the IRS was serious about taking it away if I didn't."
        Burt inspected his empty shot glass. "I don't even remember where…" His voice trailed away. Losing this memory clearly upset him. Or maybe his emotions had been exaggerated by the drinks.
        "It's up around Point Pitt, below San Francisco. It's backed up into a mountainside, and there's a half-hour stroll down to a natural rock jetty. It's very pleasant; isolated and nice. Very private." His gaze defocused as he imagined the setting.
        "You sure it's still there? That it wasn't razed or turned into an unofficial hog farm by squatters?" Burt placed his American Express Gold Card on the check tray.
        "I'll know when I get there. The rangers visit periodically and are supposed to report violations. The property is posted. If anything was awry, they would've phoned Randy the Accountant and I'd've heard by now."
        "How is the financial sorcerer? Seen him yet?" Burt knew of Lucas' habit of christening his fellows in odd ways. Randy Carpenter was Randy the Accountant. He made a complete set when added to Simon the Broker, Ace the Legal Chickenhawk (Rolff A. Nikol, Lucas's attorney), and Stephen Zallinger, the Duke of Liability.
        "I'm happy to report that my stock portfolio juggled well, and there's interest as icing. I've got a formidable nut now. Besides, Burt, you know I wouldn't take time off unless I could afford it three times over. And there's only me to support." An eyeblink-quick memory of Cory's outrageous alimony dashed painlessly past. He did not stop to reminisce about money spent on Kristen.
        "My man. The compleat capitalist. Uh-" Burt seemed hesitant, as though dancing around an unsavory topic, trying to figure out a direct attack line. "Urn… so where is it, exactly, I mean. Your cabin. In case I have to get in touch." He petered out, lamely.
        "Nearest phones are north, in Half Moon Bay. Don't worry, Burt, I'll be in touch." He tipped a wedge of melting ice from his glass into his mouth and sucked coolness from it.
        Now Burt looked positively uncomfortable. "Well. Uh… I guess you don't want to go back to