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evidence bags with dozens of bloody baseballs pooled at the feet of the sheet-covered body, still strapped into a chair over home plate.
     
    Stunned silence filled the doorway of Serge and Coleman’s apartment. They watched in awe as one of the most radioactively sexual women they’d ever seen pushed past them and stumbled bleary-eyed to the bunk beds: a statuesque hourglass with blond locks curling down the front of an ultra-tight T-shirt cut off midstomach and worn braless for so long that pert nipples had left permanent stretch marks. And those legs, racing up into denim shorts with a low,hip-riding waistband exposing panty lace and the top of a tramp-stamp tattoo. Serge had a weakness for that. This one was a unicorn.
    The woman stopped next to the bunks. Clothes dropped to the floor. She yawned and arched her back in full bedtime stretch—the porch bulb out the still-open door silhouetting the kind of perfectly formed breasts found only in Heavy Metal magazine. Then she climbed into Coleman’s bed.
    “Serge! The hope thing really works!”
    “There has to be another explanation.”
    “What else could it be?”
    “Robert Downey Syndrome.”
    “You mean like when you get really, really fucked up, and your autopilot takes you back to someplace you used to live?”
    Serge nodded. “This must be our hooker, Sunshine.” He crouched down next to the bed. “Excuse me? Ma’am?…”—lightly tapping her cheek—“…Yoo-hoo! Hate to interrupt your beauty rest!…”—tapping harder—“…Hello! You don’t live here anymore!…”—tugging her by the shoulders—“…Shoo! Be off! You’re late for Junior League!…”
    Serge’s shaking finally produced a moan. He sat her up. A woozy head sagged. “Let me lie down. I have to sleep….”
    “Sunshine!” yelled Serge. “You can’t stay here!”
    Eyes opened a slit: “Who’s Sunshine?”
    “You.”
    “I’m not Sunshine. I’m Rachael.”
    “You’re not a hooker?”
    “Fuck no. I just dance naked at the Red Snapper. Or hand jobs in the massage parlor, but only if they’re threatening to turn off my electricity.”
    “Serge,” Coleman said from behind. “I’m getting a weird feeling…. Doesn’t she remind you of someone we knew?”
    “Uncanny,” said Serge. “Like they were separated at birth.” Another hard shake. “Rachael, wake up!”
    “Stop shaking me.”
    “No.”
    “Okay, okay…” Rachael straightened. “If you’re not going tolet me sleep, give me a sec….” She grabbed her shorts off the floor, reached in a pocket and retrieved a folded rectangle of wax paper that contained what looked like Goody’s Headache Powder. Her face went down for a long, noisy snort.
    Rachael’s head suddenly whipped back. “Whoa!” Eyes comically wide, a round white spot at the end of her nose. “God damn , I needed that!”
    Serge tapped the end of his own nose. “You got something.”
    She licked a finger and wiped the spot, then rubbed it along her lower gums.
    “That is so hot!” said Coleman.
    Rachael reached in her other pocket and pulled out a crumpled back of Marlboros. “Got a light?”
    Coleman jumped forward and flicked his Bic.
    “Coleman!” said Serge. “This is a clean indoor air state!”
    “I can’t help myself,” said Coleman. “She’s too much woman.”
    Rachael took a long drag and exhaled with malice out her nostrils. Her brain finished rebooting. She looked at her hosts. “What the fuck’s going on? Who are you guys? Why’d you bring me here? And what did you do with my clothes?”
    “Nobody brought you anywhere,” said Serge. “You stumbled in yourself and took off your own clothes.”
    She looked around the room and began nodding. “Yeah…now I recognize this place.”
    “You must have lived here before.”
    “No, but I knew someone who did.”
    “Really?” said Serge. “Me too. But the landlord still insists we pay rent. So if you don’t mind—”
    “Rachael! There you are!”
    They all