The Enchanter Completed

One for the Record Esther M. Friesner

I believe that I am safe in saying that no one was more gratified than myself when the Club arose so promptly, phoenixlike, from the figurative ashes of our last unpleasant incident. One might argue that the worst was averted, and depending upon one's priorities and point of view, one might be right. The harm that Dr. Sonoma's incursion did to our reputation was minimal, yet the havoc his visit wreaked upon us purely in terms of demographics was incalculable.

So many murders, so little income. Though Dr. Sonoma was long gone from our midst, his residual influence had provoked several of our membership to the injudicious slaughter of several more. Although the celebrity dead often may be espied as alive and well by all the best tabloids and the plebeian dead may vote in Chicago, the better class of corpses seldom keep up their membership dues at the Club.

Dawkins was bemoaning this very fact to me as the two of us scanned the small, utterly discreet slips of paper which were being handed out to all members that bright April day. Stafford «Pinch» Dawkins was one of our relatively newer members, having joined our ranks after the Sonoma incident. He was, by all accounts, a gentleman of excellent bloodlines and impeccable breeding, but one whose family fortunes had suffered a plummet in the lattermost tenth of the nineteenth century due to injudicious investments. La famille Dawkins had spent nigh unto a hundred years crawling back out of the mire of middle income, finally reclaiming their rightful place in society in the person of young Stafford, who was a veritable wizard among the pork bellies, a Delphic oracle par excellence to whom the futures (nota bene my intentional usage of the plural) were an open book. Had he turned haruspex (that variety of augur who peeks at our tomorrows by studying the flight of swallows or the prancing of barnyard fowl) he would read the omens solely in the conduct of the goose that laid the golden egg.

Alas, while the spectre of Poverty may be exorcised within a single generation by the laying-on of Neiman-Marcus credit cards, the ghost of Bourgeois Lifestyle Past tends to linger like the aroma of a senile Gorgonzola. The rich who have been rendered simply «comfortable» do not forget. No matter that the disaster befell their many-times-great-grandsire, they live with the fear that what happened once before may well happen again. They have lost their precious sense of invulnerable entitlement and that, in turn, makes them… careful. Not cautious, certainly not prudent or even particularly wise, just… careful. There is a difference.

We called him «Pinch» for a reason: It was what he did. Not to women-that would be merely coarse-but to pennies, which was unspeakable. Of course we told him the nickname came from how certain we were that we could count on his help "in a pinch." It was an explanation as credible as a courtesan's smile, but Pinch was so eager to be accepted back into the societal bosom that he gulped it down whole.

The printed notice which we had just received, however, stuck firmly in his craw.

"A raise?" Pinch's eyebrows elevated themselves to such a height that they looked ready to crawl under the brim of his golf cap for sanctuary. The two of us had been on our way to a jolly round of the sport when we were waylaid by the news. "But our dues are astronomical now. How have they conjured up these obscene numbers? There haven't been any new property tax assessments, there are no legal matters outstanding, and no improvements to the plant are currently scheduled." Pinch knew whereof he spoke. He did Spartan service on almost every Club committee; not so much from altruism as from the hag-ridden drive to keep a close and personal eye upon any developments potentially perilous to his capital.

I sighed. I was none too enamoured of the hike in dues either, but there are some matters of which one does not complain. Clearly this was one aspect of good manners which had been woefully absent from Pinch's upbringing. I therefore viewed it as my duty to supply this want. I fancied myself the young man's mentor and sought to cultivate him. Apart from his Dickensian frugality, he was a pleasant companion and the only Club member, male or female, against whom I had a sporting chance in a round of golf.

"I can explain," I offered. "Before you joined, we suffered a precipitous drop in membership due to… certain unfortunate circumstances."

"Ah." Pinch laid a finger aside of his nose. "Say no more," he said rather unnecessarily. I had no intention of saying a single syllable more about our beloved Club's past vicissitudes, although I was gratified to note that Pinch knew enough to let slumbering scandals lie.

"In view of this," I continued, "the Board has obviously noted a comparable drop in income. To maintain our budget, they are redistributing the burden of the deceased members' obligations across the living membership."

"Why don't we simply mount a campaign to attract new members?" Pinch suggested.

I made a face. Perhaps I was mistaken; maybe he was stupid after all. "A campaign?" I echoed. "My dear Pinch, you can not be serious. The Club is like the fabled Hesperides: If you can not find your way to our door without seven yards of red carpet and a roadmap, you do not belong here. Our membership is exclusive in all the finer senses of the word. We do not actively shun any person or persons due to their ethnic background or religious affiliation. The very fact that they have heard tell of the Club implies that they stand upon an intimate footing with current members. A campaign." I clucked my tongue and shook my head over such chimerical fancies. "Why not take out a full page advertisement in the tabloid press and attach a giveaway offer? One free debutante with each membership purchased."

I had hoped that my sarcastic diatribe would have the salutary effect of making Pinch fully aware of just how far beyond the bounds his suggestion had flown. I expected at the very least a lengthy apology, coupled with a satisfactory measure of abasement. If nothing more, I hoped that he would drop the subject and turn the conversation into more meaningful channels, such as the introduction of small side bets to our regular golf game, just to keep things interesting.

Instead, with a tenacity of life a cockroach might envy, the topic suffered a gross resurgence from his lips. "I can understand your not wanting to bring in the wrong sort of people," he said. "But surely the exorbitant price currently set on Club membership ought to be more than enough to discourage them."

Lacking a mirror at that moment I could not hope to see the scowl that darkened my brow, but to judge from the way in which Pinch gasped, flinched, and startled away at the sight of it, it must have been a oner.

"Money?" I thundered. "Is that all you think is at stake here? Not money, but the love of money is the Biblical root of all evil. A love which, my dear Pinch, seems to have laid hold of your heart with both hands and a divorce lawyer. There are worse things than going out-of-pocket in a good cause. I suggest you reflect, reconsider, and repent any schemes you might have entertained for lightening your own pecuniary obligations towards the Club by bringing in new members." With that, I turned on my heel and strode off, bristling smartly.

It was a marvelous snit, if I do say so myself, although its effect was rather ruined by the fact that I only stalked off as far as the first tee. Righteous indignation is all very well, but a gentleman honors his golf dates.

Pinch did not play well that day, even for him. I flattered myself into believing that his mediocre performance on the links somehow betokened contrition of soul. Clearly he had taken my words of chastisement to heart; there would be no more talk of grubbing up new members for the Club as if they were so many blue-blooded radishes.

I was wrong, of course; in all his sorry, short lifetime, Pinch never did truly heed any words save Buy Low, Sell High. He showed up with his «find» approximately one week later, much as a cat will display a mangled rat upon the doorsill.

This is not to say that Ren-e Speranza in any way resembled a dead rat. Far from it. She was as toothsome a morsel of femininity as might have been discreetly salivated over in a less enlightened, more enjoyable epoch. It was not her physical beauty alone which had the power to charm. Besides the attractions of a well-formed leg, a dainty waist, and a gloriously proportioned bosom, there clung to her also a certain air of mystery, of spirituality, almost of melancholia, that subtle breath of the tomb that makes all Romantic poets and certain Vassar girls so damnably intriguing.

And she was rich, as Pinch made haste to inform anyone who would listen. "Bundles of the stuff," was the way he put it to me.

I sighed. "Pinch, my dear fellow, do you think it wise?"

"Do I think what wise?" he asked. The two of us were alone at a table in the Club bar, the hour still being early, the premises still being relatively underpopulated. Miss Speranza had excused herself to seek out the Ladies' Lounge.

"Well, you know: To speak so freely of-of-of your escort's economic condition."

"Good Lord, what's wrong with that?" Pinch exclaimed. "If she were in debt, then I could see the need for discretion, but-"

I sighed again, deeply. Knowing Pinch was turning into a crash course in aerobics for me, improving my lung capacity by the moment. Certain subjects are not the meat of public conversation nor inquiry. One's sexual exploits may be expounded carte blanche, the more boring aspects of one's career are common fodder for all the best dinner parties, even one's political affiliations may be commented upon before the general ruck (provided, of course, that one has not committed the ghastly faux pas of belonging to one of those hideous, crackpot, fringe parties, such as the Socialists, the Libertarians, or the Democrats), but one's money-? I sighed and then I shuddered.

I suppose it all came back to the fact that Pinch's forebears had been too long in exile from the proper circles. The poor lad simply did not know any better. One does not swat a puppy for irrigating the Aubusson, one trains it gently away from such behavior. Thus I attempted to do with Pinch. As delicately and as expediently as possible, I attempted to show him his error.

It did not work. "Now look, old man," he told me, "I honestly don't see the harm in anything I've said. When Ren-e rejoins us, I'm sure she'll agree with me. The lady wants to join the Club; won't she be investigated by the Board? Won't they want to know about her fiscal status?"

"Just as that charming nurse from the insurance company wanted to know whether I indulged in recreational pharmaceuticals and the love that dare not speak its name," I replied coldly. "This information I provided willingly, but I do not think I would want her speaking of it ad libitum whenever the conversation flags."

"Her money's clean, if that's what's troubling you," Pinch persisted. "None of it earned in trade." It was his turn to shudder. Apparently some of the old Dawkins breeding had survived the lean years. "Inherited, every last shilling and shekel. Apparently her first husband was successful in his chosen field of endeavor."

"Which was-?"

"Oh, she didn't get around to telling me that." Pinch swirled the dregs of his Scotch around the bottom of the glass and tried to look coy. He made a sorry hash of it.

"Let me guess," I said. "You want to marry her."

"Am I so transparent?" He was hurt.

"I've known martinis more opaque than you. And I don't mean those noxious modern variants." (A chocolate martini? Why not marshmallow-flavored foie gras as well? O rank madness!)

"Ah, well." He shrugged. "Can you blame me? I love her. I fell in love with her when first we met. She's beautiful, she's genteel, and she's got oodles of-"

"Please." I raised a staying hand before he could expound upon the lady's nummulary virtues once more. "In that case, I fail to see why you are trying to promote her membership in the Club. Why not wait until after you are wed and purchase a joint membership?"

Pinch showed a disquieting smile. "Because the Club, in its wisdom, does not offer joint memberships. It offers single memberships and family memberships, and the family membership includes privileges for two children, whether you have them or not."

"Is that so?" I mused. Really, the matter had never crossed my mind, being as I am a contented bachelor.

Pinch nodded with vigor. "And because the family membership covers two children, it costs much more than if you were to purchase two individual memberships."

"I see." I nodded. "Then your course of action is clear."

Pinch's face fell. "I wish it were."

"It's not?"

"Hardly. You see, I wish to marry Ren-e with all due haste."

"Good Lord, man, you do not mean to imply that the lady is-?" I leaped to the inevitable conclusion that perhaps the happy couple soon would be getting their money's worth out of a family membership after all.

Pinch turned a stunning Harvard crimson. "I should say not," he snapped. "If I wish to wed Ren-e swiftly it's solely on account of the dictates of love, not the unreliability of latex."

"Marry her, then." I honestly failed to see the problem.

"Oh yes, that would be nice." His words had the bitter tang of a grapefruit rind. "Except for the fact that the Club forbids married couples from purchasing anything but family memberships."

"Do we?" It came as news to me. Like most of my fellow members, I had never read the Club's charter and bylaws in their entirety. I paused to savor the cleverness of this profitable wrinkle in our Rules before replying, "Still, nothing to prevent you and Ren-e from cohabiting without benefit of prenuptial agreement."

"Are you out of you mind, man?" Pinch's fine nostrils flared with abhorrence at my lightly spoken suggestion of extramatrimonial cohabitation. "How would it look?"

"That presumes that anyone would care enough to look," I replied mildly. "We do know how to tend to our own knitting here at the Club."

Pinch snorted his skepticism. "Then someone's dropped a stitch or two. My friend, either you are the victim of a charming though potentially toxic naivet-, or else you are speaking just to hear your jaws clatter. I am neither blind nor deaf: I know how matters stand at the Club and I tell you that the wind one feels so constantly at one's back hereabouts comes from the clandestine waggling of every tongue on the premises. No, sir, I assure you that my union with Miss Speranza will be as open and aboveboard as it will be legal, moral, and-"

— financially rewarding? I thought. But of course I said nothing of the sort aloud. Instead I clasped Pinch's hand, shook it firmly, and reassured him that I had intended no offense to him or the lady. A few further social pleasantries, an assortment of good wishes for the favorable pursuance of his courtship, a swift-yet-delicate change of conversational topic to the neutral ground of fly fishing, and the sweet breath of Elysium blew o'er our colloquy once more.

We had been debating the merits of dry versus wet flies for approximately twenty minutes when I thought to remark, "I say, Pinch, it's been rather a long time since Miss Speranza left us. Do you think all's well?"

"All is quite well," said Miss Speranza.

I am not the highly strung type. I do not start at shadows nor am I known to be especially goosey in even the most trying circumstances (of which, I admit, the Club seems to have more than its proper share). My sangfroid is almost as legendary as my tailor. Thus my reaction to Miss Speranza's abrupt utterance was all the more significant.

In brief, I jumped out of my skin, off my chair, and halfway to Greenwich.

My startlement was so great that it caused me to thrust a very comfortable leather chair out from under myself. The chair was set on impeccably oiled brass casters, which conveyed it almost the length of the Club bar until it bumped into a wall. My own trajectory was more of the simple what-goes-up-must-come-down variety. It brought me to land on the carpet, an accomplishment that did neither my dignity nor my coccyx any favors.

I waited to hear Pinch's laughter ring out at my expense. It did not. The unexpected irruption of Miss Speranza's voice had caused him to react in much the same way as myself.

"Oh my," said the fair cause of our discomfiture as she gazed down at us. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you like that."

We got to our feet and reassured her in unison that no apology was necessary. "Our fault entirely for not having remarked upon your charming presence, my dear," I said.

Pinch hastened to retrieve his chair, which had traveled almost as far away from its launch point as my own. He swiftly turned a gaffe into gallantry by offering it to his lady before pulling over another seat for himself. I passed a few minutes' chat with them, for manners' sake, then made my excuses. If the light of love gleamed in Pinch's eye, it positively radiated from Miss Speranza's. As I strolled off, I admit to feeling a passing pang of envy.

"Ah, what a precious thing it is to find one's soul mate," I murmured, wending my lonesome way into the Club rose garden.

I was making the closer acquaintance of a blushing Mamie Eisenhower (the rose, bien s-r) when I became aware of a rustling among the thorns that could not be ascribed to gophers nor Green Card-manqu- groundsmen, both of which are renowned for knowing how to keep a low profile in chancy times.

"Who goes there?" I demanded, my hand dropping automatically to my Club-issued dog whistle.

(The Board had distributed these devices as a service to members who frequented the more isolated areas of the grounds. In the event of assault, one brief hypersonic tootle would fetch the immediate attention of several roaming packs of Bichons Fris-s. Your Bichon is small, curly-topped, and akin to the poodle. The assailant rash enough to linger once he saw that he was not to be torn limb from limb by Dobermans, pit bulls or any of their ilk soon learned the error of scorning attack-lapdogs. Affection can be fatal. At least one would-be footpad met an unspeakable demise, first battered senseless by violently wagging tails, then drowned in a veritable flood of canine drool.)

The rustling in the bushes stopped. " 'Sokay, man," came a hoarse voice. " 'Sokay, no sweat, be cool."

"If I wished my perspiration to respond to the commands of strangers, I would purchase an exercise video. Show yourself!" I cried.

The bushes rustled more and yielded up their prey. The young man thus disgorged from their thorny snare looked much the worse for wear and tear. His pale face was scored with scarlet scratches, his long, shaggy black hair bedecked with serrate leaves and a sprinkling of pink and crimson petals. There was a certain air of lost Arcadia about him, an image reinforced by the fact that he was clad not in the dungarees and rudely worded T-shirt that are the standard plumage of such rara avis as he, but in a chiton. (It is, alas, a sorry commentary on our times that the masses would not recognize the Greek chiton unless a rerun of Paul Newman in The Silver Chalice bit them on the fundament.).

He also wore sandals and carried an electric guitar.

"Who are you?" I demanded. Courtesy forbade me from likewise asking what he might be and why he was being it among our roses. "What are you doing here? This is private property!"

"Easy, man, easy," he said, swaying somewhat on his feet and blinking up into the sky as if he had never seen anything so wondrous as the sun. "Gotta get my bearings, gotta think things through. Oh wow, talk about your head trips." With that cogent observation, he laid one hand to his brow, rolled his eyes back in his head, and fainted.

I used my cellular telephone to summon aid. Specifically, I called young Langley, whom I knew to be somewhere about the premises at that time of day. As soon as I saw that guitar, I knew he was the man for the job.

Like Dawkins, Benet Owen Langley was a recent addition to the Club's membership rolls, though he joined our companionable establishment under circumstances every bit as distinct from Dawkins's as they were extraordinary in their own right. He might have claimed the honorific of Youngest Member had such a designation existed, for he was no more than twenty-one years of age. Through intense application he had graduated Harvard in three years rather than the customary four and thence proceeded to sweep through the Law School with as much dispatch as that venerable institution might allow. He ignored the jibes of such straw-headed idlers as pronounce overachiever with contempt and made Partner in a prestigeous New York City firm of corporate attorneys in record time.

This in itself was no great miracle. The phenomenal nature of young Langley's accomplishments became apparent only when one was privy to the fact that he was the offspring of one Thrash Gordon, late luminary of that genre of soi disant music known as Heavy Metal rock and roll. Before Mr. Gordon departed this life in the wake of a tragic tuning fork accident, he managed to break seventeen guitars, fifty-seven hotel suites, eight drummers, and Dorothea Langley's heart. Dorothea had retained her maiden name throughout the course of that ill-considered marriage and, upon her husband's death, returned to the estranged bosom of her family to raise her boy properly.

It worked. Albeit Benet Owen (so named by his father in a moment of cold-cough-and-flu-medicament-induced religiosity, commemorating both St. Benet Biscop, one of the lesser-known patron saints of musicians, and St. Owen of Rouen, invoked against deafness) had passed the first eight formative years of his life as a junior-rank roadie, once free of his father's world he embraced his mother's roots with a convert's holy passion.

Yet swear as he might that he had turned his back irrevocably on the realm of popular music and all it entailed, he could not deny he had retained much knowledge of that shadowy otherworld.

Now, as he knelt beside the apparition in the rose garden, his first remark proved that he had not removed himself so far from the late Thrash's sphere as he might have preferred, viz:

"Whoa. That is one bitchin' ax!"

"I beg your pardon?" I remarked.

Young Langley promptly re-collected himself and withdrew his hand from the guitar with all alacrity (though also with some obvious reluctance). "I mean to say, this is quite the costly musical instrument: Too costly to be in the hands of someone like that. It's probably stolen. We must alert the authorities."

Alerting the authorities was not in accord with Club policy. Despite repeated contretemps that had at the last ditch demanded the intervention of local law enforcement personnel, the Board still preferred not to bring in outsiders to settle matters until sufficient quantities of members-only blood had been shed to make such action unavoidable.

"How can you be sure?" I asked.

"Well, just look at him!" young Langley replied with a fine que voulez-vous? gesture of his impeccably manicured hands. "He's in possession of one of the priciest guitars on the market, yet he's unkempt, uncombed, and in rags!"

"He is not in rags," I corrected him. "He is wearing a chiton, which is-"

Young Langley had no respect for a Classical education. "Have you searched him for identification?" he inquired, interrupting me.

"Where?" I countered. "The chiton was never confected that had pockets, as you would know if you'd bothered to hear me out." I confess, I was a bit acidulous, but his cavalier disregard for my hard-won erudition irked me out of all knowledge.

Young Langley made an impatient sound, then checked our uninvited guest for vital signs. He was just prying open the victim's eyelids when these flew wide of their own accord. Our visitor sat bolt upright and let out a shriek of abject terror that scattered the petals from a good half-dozen of the nearest rose bushes.

"Oh wow, man, I'm sorry," he said after he recovered his self-possession. "It's just, like, I thought I was still back down there, you know?"

"Back down where?" I inquired.

"The Underworld."

Young Langley and I exchanged a look of trepidation. Although I fancied myself a kind-hearted soul and was willing to believe the same of Langley until proved otherwise, we did not feel that it would be wise to offer the Club as a refuge for anyone unfortunate enough to have run afoul of Organized Crime. The police were too regular a fixture on Club grounds as it was, and were as tired of seeing us as we were of seeing them.

Langley, bless him, took all this into consideration and acted like a gentleman: His checkbook was out and open with an alacrity that would have set Alumni Fund solicitors to helpless drooling.

"What's the problem, old man?" he asked. "A loan come due? Piper to be paid and all that? Perhaps if you were to give me some general notion of how best we might aid you and see you on your way… " (Of course he was never crass enough to mention the M-word, nor how much of the M-word our uninvited guest might need to assuage his pursuers.)

"Huh?" The man brushed hair out of his eyes and gaped at Langley. "Oh, you think I need money?" The M-word! There it was, naked and blushing in the marketplace! Beyond all other external factors, this was proof positive that we were not in the presence of one of Our Kind. (True, I had used the M-word myself repeatedly, and not so long ago, but there is a great difference between mentioning it when you are speaking in the abstract and naming the Ineffable Name when you are dealing with concrete sums. The former is finance, the latter, vulgarity.).

"Ah… don't you?" young Langley asked.

"Naaah. I got millions. Hey, look, I'm real sorry about all this, me showing up wherever the hell I am now, dressed like this, scaring the crap out of you, but I tell you what: You get me to a phone and I'll make it all better, fast. 'Kay?"

I pursed my lips and glanced at Langley, one eyebrow raised ever so slightly. I could tell that we neither one of us believed the apparition before to be in possession of a million anything, saving perhaps fleas, but ours was not to reason why. Ours was but to get the fellow off of Club property in good order, with a minimum of fuss and no public notice taken.

With this in mind, young Langley reached into his trouser pocket, pulled out his cellular telephone, and handed it to our guest with a gracious: "At your service, sir."

The bedraggled man stared at the instrument with a most disconcerting lack of comprehension. He took it from Langley's hand, turned it over a time or two, and by main chance happened to flip it open. A ludicrous grin stretched itself from ear to ear as he held it to his lips and loudly declaimed into the receiver: "Kirk to Enterprise!" Then he returned the telephone to its owner and added, "Cool toy, man. So, where's the phone?"

A terrible realization set its Louis Vuitton suitcases down on the doormat of my consciousness and lightly rang the bell for admission. I assumed a false air of insouciance and did my best to make it sound like a casual question when I inquired, "I beg your pardon, friend, but would you happen to know today's date? Year included, if you don't mind."

His answer told all.

"Not again," said Beddoes, the head of our Membership committee. He leaned his elbows on the bar, covered his face with his hands, and moaned softly over his brandy.

"Afraid so, old man," I said, though terrified so might have been more accurate.

"What is it about this place?" Beddoes exclaimed, demanding an answer of the stuffed porcupine above the bar, which one of our local Nimrods had contributed to the Club d-cor. (Granted he had found the poor dead creature at a Provincetown yard sale rather than between the crosshairs, but a hunt is a hunt.) "Why do we keep attracting this sort of thing?"

He was of course referring to the fact that the Club had, for some time now, become a magnet for beings whose like had not been seen heretofore outside of Greek mythology. In some cases they had assumed a semblance less apposite to Doria than to Darien. The most recent incident, of which I have already made passing mention, involved a Dr. Dion Sonoma whose true identity proved what every maenad worth her frenzy already knows: In vino there is often too damned much veritas for comfort. No matter their appearance, those refugees from Attic shores, the havoc they inevitably wrought was all of a piece.

I blamed Simpson. We all did. His case had been the first, him and his notion that bringing a Greek sphynx onto Club property did not violate the No Pets rule. Had we but known, and been less enraptured by the novelty of it all, we might have spared ourselves much. Riddles are no fun when the wrong answer ends in disembowling.

However, past errors and their ensuing regrets would do nothing to ameliorate current difficulties. No use crying over spilled entrails. All of us then present in the bar were experienced survivors and knew we must deal with the situation at hand before it managed to get out of same.

"What are you guys talking about?" our uninvited guest wanted to know. He was seated a little farther along the bar, in company with Langley. I had given our Youngest Member the task of standing watch and ward over the man as soon as I realized who he was and what it meant.

"You," I replied cheerfully.

"Yeah? What? The whole to-hell-and-back thing or just my music, man?"

"A bit from Column A and a smidge from Column B, as they say." I spoke with an airiness I did not quite feel. One of the first things our new friend had done upon discovering when he was, was to recount how he had come to be absent from the surface world for so long.

He had done it before. After all, his name was Orpheus.

I ought to clarify: Orpheus was not just his name, but his identity. He never had bothered to disguise or conceal it in any way. As he remarked, it made for all sorts of in-one's-face irony whenever he opened for Styx. Yes, he had enjoyed a renewed career in music, or what passes for music among some people, and had made a tidy sum at doing what he did best. No fool he, at least in matters of business. In time, he fell in love and married a beautiful girl who somehow managed to die in a freak concert accident. A freak fell on her while stage diving from the top of one of the speakers.

Some people simply refuse to learn from past mistakes: Believing more in recycling than rewedding, once more Orpheus took the road to Avernus and confronted grim Hades upon his iron throne. He used his gift of enchanted song to beguile the lord of the dead to release his lost love's spirit so that she might return to life.

There was no arguing with the power of Orpheus's music, though the idea of being forced to truckle repeatedly to a paltry demigod put a king-sized knot in Hades' loincloth. His divine displeasure was for naught. Orpheus had the upper hand, and it could span three octaves. And so, with epicly exasperated undertones of Here we go again, great Hades gave him back his new bride under the same condition as for his previously lost spouse, Eurydike: That Orpheus must ascend from the Underworld never once looking back to confirm that his beloved was in fact following him into the light of day.

As many a schoolboy knows (of the sort who have received a proper education) Orpheus did not trust Hades. Just as the exit from Avernus was within sight, he looked back. This violated the hellish compact. Eurydike's shade vanished, weeping, into the Underworld once more, and Orpheus was forbidden from returning for her. It is a little-known fact that the phrase, No do-overs originated with the lord of the dead.

I am sorry to report that Orpheus had not used his renewed career as an earthly musician to cultivate a better sense of trust. This time, too, he looked back before he had removed his new bride fully from Hades' realm. Some people might not learn from past mistakes, but some gods do. When Orpheus turned his head this time, instead of his bride's fleeing ghost he beheld Hades himself.

With astonishing speed the lord of the dead slapped a gag on the celestial singer so that not one hemidemisemiquaver might escape his lips, then declaimed How dare you think that I am not a demiurge of honor? Your bride was eager enough to escape Avernus, but you had to look back. Again. I forgave your petty skepticism once; now I am insulted. Since you seem so fond of gazing into the depths of my kingdom, stay here!

And so he did, until the lucky day when at last he was able to work the gag off, belt out a few bars of Sloop John B. (the "I wanna go home" verse in particular), and take his leave.

The rest is Club rose garden history.

"Yeah," said Orpheus, nodding sagely. "I guess the whole thing is pretty cool. Think maybe I could finally get some coverage on VH1? It'd make a kickass episode of Behind The Music." He grinned and ordered another tequila shooter. It was his sixth, though the liquor seemed to have no appreciable effect on him. I suppose a lengthy and enforced residence in Avernus will do much to increase one's tolerance for mere earthly intoxicants.

Beddoes leaned close and whispered urgently in my ear, "Are you sure he's who you claim he is? Mightn't there be some mistake?"

I shook my head. "He is that demigod musician beyond compare, sweet-voiced Orpheus whose songs had the power to charm the very stones of the earth. I can not help it if now he has chosen to sing rock music rather than music to rocks."

"But Orpheus isn't just mythic, he's dead," Beddoes protested. "See here, I've had a Classical education as well as you and I know the story: He was torn to shreds by the women of Scythia over some silly trifle or another. Touchy things, women."

"Not quite so dead as all that," I said, a shade pedantically. "His severed head lived on and continued to sing despite the ladies."

"Granted, but look at him now, would you? He's got a head and a working body! How did he manage that?"

"He got better?" young Langley suggested.

We both gave him a withering look ere I proceeded to say: "However our musician friend managed to recoup his corporeal deficit, the fact remains that he is here now. It is with the here and now that we must deal."

Beddoes would not be assuaged. "How can you be sure he's Orpheus?" he insisted.

I sighed. "You are evidently an empyricist. So be it." I turned to Orpheus and said, "I beg your pardon, old man, but would you mind favoring us with a little song?"

He smiled. "No problem. Whaddaya wanna hear?"

I told him, though not before I stuffed my ears with a shredded cocktail napkin and covertly signaled both the bartender and young Langley to do the same. Then Orpheus sang.

Some time later, a dripping wet Beddoes was a believer. As he wiped soapsuds from his eyes with a bar towel, he grumbled, "Did you have to make him sing that song?"

"My dear Beddoes, it was the most illustrative item I could come up with off the cuff. I thought you liked South Pacific?"

"That's beside the point. I neither have nor do I desire a man to wash out of my hair."

"Granted. But I think you must admit that finding yourself lathering up in the Gentlemen's locker room while fully clothed should be confirmation enough as to our visitor's, ah, professional chops?"

It was so. There was no gainsaying the matter. Remained to be answered only the pertinent question:

"Now that we know he's Orpheus, what do we do about it?"

I smiled. Although the presence of the bard was evidence that the Club's uncanny knack for attracting trouble of the mythic stripe was undiminished, for once we were ahead of the game. We had identified the amanita among the shiitake before anyone could exclaim, My, doesn't that mushroom look tasty, pop it in his mouth, and perish. Being thus aware of potential peril, we now had the option of preventing the same. It was a heady feeling, and one that I meant to exploit.

"My dear Beddoes, we have in our midst and in our debt a man whose song can lure the birds from the trees, the fish from the waters, the Liberals from their benighted insistence upon helping the less fortunate. What do you think we do about it?"

"Oh man, these tunes are lame." Orpheus looked up from the sheaf of sheet music I had just put into his hands and regarded me with the eyes of a basset hound betrayed.

"It can not be helped," I replied. "No doubt you would prefer melodies more suitable to, ah, head-booming and, er, mash pits, is it? But this is a wedding."

Young Langley suppressed a snigger. He did a wretched job of it, but at least he tried. "I think you mean mosh pits and head-banging," he said, leaning in to adjust Orpheus' bow tie.

"Besides," Beddoes put in, "you really have no choice. You're destitute. You're going to have to earn a living again sooner or later."

"I just can't understand what happened, man." Orpheus scratched his head and frowned. When he had contacted the institutions safeguarding his financial resources they had all reported the same disquieting news: The accounts were empty, the contents of the safe deposit boxes pilfered, the investment portfolios ravished. Nor was this situation to be accounted for by Orpheus's tenure in Avernus. True, he had been declared legally dead, but the gutting of his bank accounts, et cetera, had taken place rather soon after his disappearance from the waking world.

To quote Orpheus's own assessment of the situation: "Bummer. Being poor sucks."

Suck howsoever it might, Orpheus's misfortune was our opportunity, since it left him amenable to our plans. We would have him sing at the wedding that promised to be the event of the social season, encompassing as it did a guest list that included all of our wealthiest members. It was a simple scheme: To use the bard's compelling voice to induce the guests to pony up enough of their capital to put the Club back on a secure financial footing. Such a plot not only would relieve our beloved Club of all fiscal anxiety, but also would have the added benefit of putting paid to the complaints of such cost-conscious creatures as Stafford «Pinch» Dawkins.

Perhaps the thought of good old Pinch's tiresome whinging was what possessed me to propose his wedding to Miss Ren-e Speranza as the perfect place to put our plan into action. If you empty your checkbook publicly, in company with the most influential members of the Club, you are not apt to carp about it afterwards. That would look bad.

Pinch's parsimonious proclivities notwithstanding, for him, appearances were still trumps. Of this we had proof: Had not he bitten the figurative bullet and proposed to Miss Speranza despite his dissatisfaction with Club policy concerning family memberships? Very well, then.

Thus it was that we found ourselves in the Club's ballroom, waiting for the newlywed couple to arrive. The guests were likewise there assembled, having been already processed by the reception line. The bar was doing a land office business despite Pinch's insistence that it be cash only. The canap-s were gone. Our host had paid only for enough to feed three-quarters of the guests a maximum of two apiece.

In that corner of the room sacred to music, Orpheus and his backup band were keeping up an innocuous tweedling suitable to any elevator or Your call is important to us; please continue to hold directive. Apart from Orpheus, the other musicians were the ne plus ultra of mediocrity, harmony hacks whose iridescent green polyester suits were scarce penance enough to atone for what they could do to a harmless Streisand tune. We did not know where Pinch had found them nor did we care to know. They were cheap, which was all that mattered to him. Beddoes, Langley and I persuaded him to include Orpheus among their number by promising to pay for the band's services as our wedding gift. He leaped at the chance like a starved trout rising to a dry fly.

A stir from the doorway heralded the approach of the bride and groom. Beddoes gave me the high sign, I relayed it to Langley who in turn told Orpheus to lead the band in one round of "Here Comes the Bride" before segueing into the first of his cash-flow carols. We had taken the liberty of tampering with several existing tunes, setting our give-to-the-Club-until-it-hurts words to already extant music. (Respect for copyright is a quaint concept, reserved for lesser breeds without the lawyers. Information wants to be free when I am the one who does not feel like paying for it.).

The last brassy chords of Wagner's treacly oeuvre were just sinking beneath the waves of applause for the newlyweds when disaster struck.

"YOU!"

Orpheus leaped from the platform and rushed upon Dawkins and his bride. Seizing the lady roughly by the shoulders, he shook her like a dust mop and thundered, "What are you doing here?"

Before the former Miss Speranza could reply, her new husband intervened. Stiff-arming Orpheus aside, Pinch demanded, "Are you crazy? Get away from my wife!"

"Your wife?" Orpheus laughed. "Sure, why not? If that's what you're into."

"If what is what I'm into?"

"Doing it with dead things."

"Now, see here-!" Pinch had gone almost as white as his bride's gown, which was only a shade or two darker than the lady's complexion. Orpheus took advantage of Pinch's sputtering outrage to get in a word edgewise with Ren-e.

"Hey, babe, long time no see. I kinda wondered what became of you after I screwed up and looked back. So you didn't turn and run back down the road to Hell? What happened? Trip over a good intention?" He chucked her under the chin so hard that her bridal headpiece went flying.

Pinch made a grab for Orpheus's arm, and his groomsmen moved into formation behind him to render assistance as needed. We could have told them to save their breath: Though they were one and all veterans of the finest rugby team to ever scrum for the honor of Harvard, they could do nothing against Orpheus. He merely eyed them for a moment before launching into "It's Raining Men." Immediately there was a peal of thunder followed by the sound of bodies dropping from a great height. From what we glimpsed through the windows of the reception room, these were highly attractive male bodies. The brawny groomsmen raced outside, uttering shrieks of glee and calling dibs on the blonds.

A furious Pinch stood his ground and cocked back a fist intended for Orpheus, but the bard took care of him temporarily, bidding him "Stop! In the Name of Love." While Pinch was thus rendered immobile, Orpheus returned his attention to the bride.

"All those years I thought you were down in Avernus with me. Man. At least that explains why you never came by to visit. No, you were up here, sucking my bank accounts dry like a good little lamia. Well, guess what, babe? I'm back and I'll see you in court!"

Miss Speranza-now Mrs. Dawkins-gave her former husband the cold and clammy eye. "Don't be a fool," she bade him. "You can't sue the dead."

Her cavalier admission to being one of the Respiratorily Disenfranchised caused Pinch to go stark white as to the face, but helpless to do more. At least public acknowledgment of her decedence explained her eerie gift for sneaking up on a man so silently.

Orpheus's eyes narrowed. "Then maybe I won't leave it to a mortal court of law," he said. There was a most disturbing note in his voice and, seeing as it was his voice, the aforesaid disturbing note was pitched perfectly. I felt the small hairs on the back of my neck stand up like West Point plebes on parade.

Pinch's bride was made of sterner stuff. "You don't scare me. I used to have an apartment in Jersey City."

"Sure you did, before you took my money and ran. I entered the gates of Avernus for you and this is the thanks I get?"

The newly pledged Mrs. Dawkins rolled her eyes. "Oh, puh-leeze! I'd still be down there if I'd relied on you. He told you not to look back: Twice! I can't stand a man who won't learn from his mistakes."

"I'm learning from one of them right now," Orpheus said grimly. His fingers curled and uncurled. I could not tell whether he were plucking the strings of an invisible lyre or rehearsing her imminent strangulation.

"Shouldn't we do something to stop this before it gets any worse?" Beddoes was at my elbow, his face the color of eggshell. "This has all the earmarks of a pending bloodbath. The Club can't take many more."

"What do you propose we do?" I replied, assuming a stoic air I did not truly feel. "Lest you forget, that is Orpheus. So long as he has the power of his voice, no one may stand against him."

"She seems to be doing a fair enough job of it." Beddoes nodded at the former Miss Speranza. "Why isn't he singing her into submission?"

"Perhaps because she is-or should I say she was-his wife," I replied. "Even a bachelor understands how wives often have the power to blot out the sound of their husbands' voices when it suits them."

As we conferred, the tension between Orpheus and his second wife mounted apace. "Just tell me one thing before you get what's coming to you," he demanded. "How did you manage to get out of Avernus?"

Her laugh had all the charm of a creaking lich-gate. "How do you think, sweetheart? I walked. Don't stare at me that way; you look like a trepanned catfish. You fixed it so I could get out. That whole don't-look-back shtick was to test you, not me. You think Hades wanted me hanging around after he'd processed all the paperwork? Half the reason he was so mad at you for looking back at me was because of what happened the first time! She's a sweet kid, Orpheus, but she never was very independent, was she?"

"What are you talking about?" Orpehus asked. The whites of his eyes showed all around the irises, after the manner of a badly spooked horse. "Who are you talking about?"

"That would be me."

She irrupted among us with the same abruptness and stealth as Ren-e Speranza had formerly used to such devastating effect in the Club bar lo, those many weeks ago. She was a fetching creature of Classic beauty, which made perfect sense given her identity.

"Eu-Eurydike?" The divine singer really did resemble a mentally deficient fish when startled.

The lady crossed the room and brought her husband the gift of renewed eloquence via a swift slap to the face. "Love me forever, hm?" she said, pointing at the smirking bride. "You got over your broken heart pretty damn quick, you swine! Since when does forever end after a lousy two, three millennia?"

Ren-e stepped up to put an arm around Eurydike's shoulder. "I found this poor girl all by herself in one of the saddest, darkest corners of Avernus. None of the other shades would come near her because of what you'd done to her. They can smell the taint of life; it puts them off their wailing. I introduced myself and we got to talking. When I found out who she was, I asked her how come she was still hanging around a dump like Avernus when she'd been cleared for emigration. Poor baby never even thought to try getting out without you being there to lead her every step of the way. I told her, Eury, I said, what's the worst that can happen to you if you try to get out on your own? What's Hades gonna do? Kill you? It was the first time I saw her smile. Of course she stopped smiling as soon as I told her who I was. Not that she was mad at me, of course."

"Certainly not!" Eurydike gave Ren-e a sisterly hug while glowering daggers at Orpheus. "Ren-e gave me the strength to stand up and help myself, for a change. She was the only one who cared. Not like you!"

"Aw, babe, now come on, I cared!" Orpheus had the look of a man who was starting to miss the peace and quiet of the Underworld. "Was it my fault you didn't know you could've just walked out of there even after I blew it? I didn't even know that was possible."

"If you really cared about me you could've made an effort; done something like, oh, I don't know, maybe ask someone for advice about making a second try to get me out of Hades' kingdom? Someone like the Delphic Oracle, maybe? Seeing as how your father was Apollo? You know, Apollo the sun-god? Ring any bells? Apollo who established the shrine at Delphi and had the Oracle in his back pocket?"

"Chitons don't have pockets," Orpheus said. It was neither the time nor the place for such observations.

Musicians.

This time Eurydike belted him with a closed fist. He sailed across the room and knocked over a swan ice sculpture that had cost Dawkins a pretty penny. He moaned softly, a sound overwhelmed by the cheers of all the women present.

"Baby, I couldn't do that." Orpheus struggled to his feet, slipping on bits of shattered swan, and staggered back toward his wives. "I was too upset to think straight, and then I ran into the Scythian women and they tore me to pieces and for a long time all I had to my name was my head. I mean, that was totally bogus. And then-"

Eurydike thrust out her hand, palm foremost. "Spare me. Which is more than I'm going to do for you." Her fingers curled into claws. There was an ugly glint in her eye. Maenads tear their living victims to shreds while under the influence of the grape, and Scythians were known to operate under the influence of hemp, but Eurydike's murderous rage was more terrifying, being the product of ice-cold sobriety.

Female empowerment is not a pretty thing. Not for the men involved, at any rate.

Lest any think that Orpheus stood ready to accept the dire punishment that Eurydike was about to deal him, I must correct that misapprehension. Apollo's son was already preparing his defense. I heard him begin to hum under his breath, preparatory to bursting into omnipotent song, though for the life of me I could not identify the composition.

"Heaven help us, I can name that tune!" Beddoes voice constricted with terror. " 'It's The End of the World As We Know It. If he's going to die, he's going to take us with him!"

"Coward," Eurydike snarled. "Apocalypse is the last refuge of the scoundrel. You forget that I'm not afraid to die. Been there, done that." She took another step forward. A fine dew of nervous perspiration spangled Orpheus' brow, a look of desperation lit his eyes, and he opened his mouth to sing.

"Stop! Stop in the name of the Law!" Langley's shout broke Orpheus' concentration and interrupted Eurydike's relentless approach. The bold young man threw himself between the two of them with a fine disregard for his own safety. A slip of paper, blazing white as Zeus' own thunderbolt, flashed under Eurydike's nose.

"Madam, my card," he said. "Why settle for wreaking mere physical mayhem on this churlish Party of the Second Part when I can see to it that his sufferings last for decades?"

"Huh?" said Eurydike.

Langley gave her his most jury-swaying smile. "My dear nymph, I assure you: Disembowelment is a walk in the park next to a good old-fashioned lawsuit." He linked arms with her and led her away, to the plaudits of the crowd.

The case never did make it to court. That was a mercy, considering how poor Dawkins was on the verge of death by humiliation at the thought of his bride being a material witness in so scandalous a legal proceeding. In fact, he was actually smiling and very much at his ease when next we two met one another at the Club some three months later.

"Good heavens, Pinch," I exclaimed upon seeing him. "You are looking remarkably content."

"And why shouldn't I be?" he countered. "Married life agrees with us."

"I am heartily glad to hear that you and Ren-e have managed to overcome the recent unpleasantness at your wedding and forge on undaunted," I said.

"Yes, she's a fine little woman, Ren-e. Oh, sometimes she gets a fit of the sulks, but whenever that happens we can always count on Eurydike to jolly her out of it."

"What?" I said.

He continued as though I had not spoken. "Of course Eurydike's problem's her temper-no surprise given what she went through, abandonment issues, et cetera, et cetera. Every so often she'll give Orpheus one of those looks that says 'If you leave your wet towels on the bathroom floor one more time, I'm going to rip your arm off and beat you over the head with it, but then I pop the two of them into the Beemer and drive them to their Anger Management session and it all works out."

"Eurydike?" I repeated. "Orpheus? But- But- You can not possibly mean to say that they are living under the same roof with you and Ren-e!"

"Why not?" Pinch replied. "We're married."

And so they were. So young Langley informed me, at any rate. Although under normal circumstances death is the finale for most marriages, the return to life by three of the parties involved legally negated any such termination. (There was a precedent for it somewhere in Southern California. There would be.) I attempted to argue the point with him, but he showed me his briefs and left me speechless. That was that: They were married. All of them. To each other.

"Really, Pinch, how can you accept all this so calmly?" I pressed. "Surely Orpheus claims conjugal rights with the ladies?"

"Certainly. They're his wives, too."

"This does not bother you?"

"I admit, it does, particularly when the girls make certain… comparisons. But hey, whenever Orpheus goes on the road, I get them both all to myself, so I can't complain. Honestly, old man, sharing the affections of your wives isn't such a big thing if you view it in the light of the greater good this marriage has accomplished."

"Ah," I said, nodding wisely. "So true. For once in our history, the Club has met the challenge of a mythic incursion and emerged unscathed."

"Even more important than that," Dawkins said, "I've finally found the way to get my money's worth out of that damned unfair family membership!"

I sighed. Fiat pecunia, ruat caelum, as Dawkins would have it. Let there be the M-word, though the heavens fall. Clearly the man had dropped beyond the Pale, if he had so abandoned all pretense of social propriety in favor of mere monetary advantage. Despite his fortune, he had plunged willingly into his own pecuniary Avernus, never to emerge. He was, alas, no longer one of us.

I did what any right-thinking gentleman would have done under the circumstances: I made a golf date for next Thursday at twenty dollars the hole.