Roger Rosloff sat bolt upright in bed as the telephone rang. His wife, Shirley, woke up, too, and was pissed. She knew it was for Roger, and she knew that Roger would be able to answer the phone and go right back to sleep. She, however, was up for the duration. It was one of the many things about her husband that pissed her off.

"Hello?" said Roger. "Oh, my, yes?" He listened for a long time. "I see. Well, sir, I'm not in charge of the warehouse any more. The person you want to call is Chris Threadgill. His number is 555-989-0100. Not at all. Good luck. Thank you. No problem." He hung up and laid back down beside her, facing the other way.

"Well?" she said, her voice thick. "Who was it?"

"Cops," he said sleepily. "Someone tried to break into the warehouse and stole a couple of trucks."

"Oh my god!" she sat up in bed. "What did you tell them?"

"Same thing I told everyone," he said, nodding off. "Call that blonde-haired twit from Washington and have him take care of it. Not my problem anymore."

"Won't he get mad?" she said, but Roger was already asleep, dreaming of a world where he had his own role-playing system out and everyone loved it so much that they stopped buying MageWorks cards, and Roger built a throne out of their Starbuck-drinking corpses.

"Bastard," muttered Shirley, as she rolled out of bed. She didn't want to move to Washington. She hoped Roger would fail miserably, and they would have to come back to Arizona. It was too moist in Washington. She liked the dry heat.

The cell phone was loud in the quiet hotel room. Chris Threadgill grabbed the telephone by the bed and said "Hello?" A dial tone answered him.

The cell phone rang again. "Hello?" he said again. The dial tone didn't change.

Another musical symphony from the phone. Hillary fumbled beside her and slung his pants over them both. Threadgill finally got the message. He pried his cell phone from the tangle of his pants and said, "Hello?"

"Is this Chris Threadgill?" said a man's voice. He sounded very far away. Threadgill could scarcely feel the phone at his ear. He must be still fucked up, he thought.

"Um, yeah." Something in the man's tone made him sit up.

"Sir, this is Officer Jones with the Tempe Police department. Sir, I'm calling because of a break-in at the warehouse located on West Weathers Road. I understand you're the person to speak to about that?"

"Uh huh," he said, trying to shake his foggy head. Cops? What happened? It was hard to hear the man. Maybe his cell phone was turned down.

"Sir, we had a call come in regarding the theft of a couple of trucks and we're trying to sort this all out right now. Can you come down to the station? We have some suspects in custody and we'd like to know if you want to press charges."

"I don't understand. Missing trucks?" Threadgill switched the cell phone to his right ear and his hearing instantly improved.

"Yes sir. It's a pretty involved story, from what I understand. I'm sorry to call you so early in the morning, sir, but we'd like to get this taken care of."

"Um, okay," said Threadgill. "I'll take a quick shower and come over."

"Thank you. Please ask for me, Officer Jones, or my partner, Officer Compton."

"I'm on my way," said Threadgill. He hung up and called Otto and Stacy's room. No answer.

"Who was that?" mumbled Hillary.

"Cops. Something about the warehouse." He stood up and felt the effects of his revels cascade over him. "I've got to sober up and go to the station. I'll just...take a shower."

"I'll wait right here," she murmured. "You can have my love again when you get back."

Threadgill ignored that last part and made for the shower, the cardboard insert from the Little Debbie cupcake wrapper still stuck to the left side of his face.

As the water hit his naked, sore body, he forced himself to process the information that the cop gave him. It was far better than thinking about last night. What the hell was wrong with him? They smoked pot, ate all the food, and fucked like weasels. Again! What the hell was it about her that made him crazy like that? It didn't make sense. She had more faces than Lon Chaney, was dangerously unbalanced, and chemically over-saturated. So why couldn't he pry her off of him? "She's a human remora," he said to the spray of water. You're off-topic again, he said to himself. Okay, cops and drivers. Much better.

The cop's words bounced around in his head. Otto and Stacy weren't in their room. There was a break-in at the warehouse. Trucks were stolen. He smiled as the terrible hotel shampoo ran into his eyes. It was a big misunderstanding, that was all. Obviously, Otto and Stacy tried to get on the road early and the security guard, what was his name? Dale! Dale spotted them and thought they were up to no good. Which, of course, they were, but that was no reason to detain them. He could go down to the station, sort it all out, and get another eight hours of sleep before his plane departed. Nothing to it.

The water in the bathtub was now halfway to his knees. Looking down, he saw the cardboard from the Little Debbie cupcake wrapper clogging the drain. Goddamn, he thought, removing the paper obstacle, is there anyplace we didn't have sex last night?

He stepped out of the shower, walked out of the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. Clean and wet, he no longer smelled of pickles and pot, but he still looked exactly like he'd gotten three hours of sleep. Nothing to do about that, he decided, pulling on his clothes. I can't be arrested for looking tired, even in Tempe. He took his cell phone, wallet, and keys and slipped out the door. Outside, it was in the low sixties. This is much more like it, thought Threadgill. He put on his sunglasses to shade his sensitive eyes from the harsh early morning sun. Better enjoy this now, it'll be sweltering in two hours, he thought.

He went to the front desk and found out that Otto and Stacy had indeed turned in their keys. That confirmed it for Threadgill. He got simple directions to the police station, then drove the other direction and prayed to god the Krispy Kreme was not crowded at seven in the morning on a Sunday.