Otto and Stacy pulled the door on the fully loaded truck closed. "That's it," said Otto. "Nothing left but the concrete."

Threadgill turned around and surveyed the Gamesmen staff. They were disheveled, tired, and sweaty, all of them. He pulled his eyes from Hillary's breasts, which were accented by a crescent of sweat, and looked at the crowd. "Okay, folks, we're done!" Weak cheering and a smattering of applause. "Here's the plan: tonight, we're going out for dinner, on the company nickel, and then we're going to get super drunk. I mean it, everyone's a lush tonight."

"Can wives come?" asked Gabriel.

"Hell yes, bring everyone. Let's keep this simple. Everyone go home, change clothes, take a quick shower. We'll meet at the T.G.I. Friday's by the campus in one hour. We'll eat there, then we'll figure out a local bar that we can take over and drink them dry. Okay?"

Roger Rosloff stepped out of the group. "Uh, Chris? What about our paychecks?"

Threadgill had been expecting that. "Well, Roger, there wasn't much I could do about that. They're going to mail them to you, probably via FedEx, next week. Those of you still on staff will notice eight extra hours of overtime pay, as a thank you for helping with the move." Please don't sue us, Threadgill thought. "The rest of you, warehouse and accounting, will get some sort of severance package with your last check."

That seemed to placate most of the people, so Chris let it go. He got a quick head count for dinner, then dismissed everyone. Stacy walked up as the staff staggered away. "Hey, man, where are we sleeping tonight?" he asked.

"I got you guys a room for the evening at my hotel. I'll give you a ride. Come on."

Threadgill's cell phone rang. He glanced at the display, made a face, and answered the call. "Chris Threadgill," he said.

"Mr. Threadgill, this is Bud Cavender again."

"Hey, Mr. Cavender," said Threadgill with no real enthusiasm.

"Just checking in with ye, to make sure you boys are out of there come the weekend."

Bud Cavender was the man who was now leasing the warehouse space. "I'm a glass man," he told Threadgill, the first time he'd called on Monday. "This is my third site, here. I got a lotta business, and no place to conduct it!" He was the kind of person that Threadgill hated: a good old boy. Threadgill had never been able to play that particular sales game. It always made him profoundly uncomfortable for some reason. He honestly had no idea how he was supposed to react.

"Mr. Cavender," said Threadgill, "all of our stuff is loaded on the trucks. They'll be on their way and out of your hair tomorrow morning. And then, as they say, you and I are finished."

"Well, I tell ye, I sure would appreciate it," said Cavender. "Okay, well, I'll give you a call when I come by tomorrow, just in case. I want to start moving in as soon as possible."

"I noticed."

"Come again?"

"Nothing, Mr. Cavender. If you'll swing by in the afternoon, we'll be gone by then. Okay?"

"But I've got to get into the building yesterday, son!"

Threadgill was not in the mood for this. "Then call the landlord and talk to him about it. Okay, now, Mr. Cavender, I have to go." He hung up. There was no way of figuring out who gave Bud Cavender his phone number, but he had a pretty good idea it was Roger Rosloff. He couldn't prove it, nor could he prove that it was with any ill will. What a week, he reflected. He was tired of being on the phone with people he didn't call first, answering questions that he didn't have answers to. The last time he had to bullshit that much, he was being interviewed for his current job. At least it was over, now. Just some drinking and some packing was all that was left. His job was done. Well, nearly done. He had to make sure the trucks got out of town. Not a problem.

"Otto, Stacy?" Threadgill said. "You guys ready to bail?"

"Beer!" said Stacy.

"Boo-tay!" said Otto.

"I'll take that to mean yes," said Threadgill. "I'm locking up and meeting you at the car."

He walked back through the offices to pick up his laptop computer. Threadgill thought there was nothing more depressing than a vacated office building. There were little bits of trash, and slight discolorations on the wall where you could see old posters once hung. But that was it. This may as well have been a glass manufacturing plant, for all anyone could tell. Even though it was an upward move, Threadgill still felt as if Gamesmen had somehow failed. Businesses were supposed to be forever, he thought.

As Threadgill set the alarm and locked the door, he noticed Dale, the security guard, drive up. Threadgill raised his hand in greeting. Dale got out of the car, wearing his mock cop uniform. He was over thirty, but still bore the face and attitude of an adolescent. "Hey there, Chris," he said.

"Dale," said Threadgill.

"Looks like y'all are about done," said Dale, indicating the trucks sticking out perpendicular from the building.

"Nearly just," said Threadgill. "We're pulling out tomorrow. Those babies are full of everything in the offices."

Dale saluted. "I'll keep a good eye on 'em."

"I know you will, Dale." Threadgill saluted back. "Well, I'm off. It's been real."

"Okay, well," said Dale. He climbed back in his car and sat there. It was his job to watch out for all of the warehouses on the North side of the block, some twelve different businesses, in all. The service was provided by the landlord, and the tenants paid through the nose for Dale's keen eye and penchant for playing The Scorpions at sternum-vibrating levels to keep himself awake.

Threadgill walked to his car, where Otto and Stacy were playing Flinch, slapping hands and frogging each other's arms. "All right, guys," said Threadgill, "let's go show these game dorks how to party." He unlocked their doors, then called information and got the number for T.G.I. Friday's. "Hello? Yeah, can I speak to your evening manager, please? Certainly, I can tell you. In about an hour, you've got a party of nineteen people descending on your location, and I just wanted you to know about it. Certainly I'll hold."