I thought I had bolted the door, but he came in anyway, just like Lorraine said, long coat flairing dramatically, hair tousled by the April-like winds we were getting at the end of February.

"I'm here for Ursula," he said. His accent was thick tonight. He eyed me up and down and tried to control the grimace. He didn't.

"That would be me," I said.

He looked me up and down again and shook his head. "Ummm---just a minute. I have to make a call." He went out on the porch and spend several minutes on his phone, arguing, muttering, and hissing. I watched him through the window and wondered how long it would take for this morsel of gossip to hit the OLN, Old Lady Network. Finally, he came back inside.

"Look," he said, a bit annoyed, "Operations likes you because you're one of the few people who tries to make him look good, but--uh--well, you're just not our our kind of people."

"You mean I'm not some young, cute babe like Kylie."

He grinned and made a deep, tomcat growl in the back of his throat. "Now she's a honey-babe." He looked me up and down again and gave a slight shudder. "I mean, no offense--"

"None taken." Yeah, right.

"--But we're an ultra-cool secret spy agency, and we've got standards. I mean, how would it look if, say, James Bond started haing with Mimi from "Drew Carey"? It just doesn't work." He shrugged. "Sorry."

I considered his statement carefully. "And that whole internationally syndicated, network television show doesn't interfer with the secret spy deal?"

A look of enlightenment spread across his face. (And it was a sight to behold.) "Oh, yeah, that explains a lot, like how all the really evil people know all about us."

"Y'think?" I mean, well, duuuuuhhhhhh.

"But that doesn't change why I'm here."

"Yeah, yeah, huntin' down all the story board writers. Yada, yada."

"Well, we appreciate all you've done and everything. Operations especially liked the one about him and Mar--"

"Ssshhhh! I haven't posted that one yet." Actually, I hadn't even written that one yet but it was pretty well formulated in my mind.

"Oh, sorry. Anyway, since we're gathering all the story board writers to work for us, and we're already established that you're not Section material--"

"Don't rub it in, Spyboy."

He glared at me. "I really hat it when you people call me that."

"What? 'Spyboy'? Why?"

First, I am a man, not a boy, and second, I am technically a secret agent, not a spy."

"Oh. I stand corrected. Enlighten me further, Secret Agent Man."

He harrumphed. "Okay, bottom line: you can't be on our story board anymore."

Excuse me?"

"We've been over this. If you're on the story board, you're in. If your're not in," he made a pained face, "and you're definitely not, then you're off the story board. No more posting stories, no more smartass comments, nothing."

"You're still mad about that Simone story, aren't you?"

He sighed. "No. In retrospect, it was pretty accurate. She always was a little nutty, and we did seem to go through a LOT of glassware." He met my gaze. "No. That's it. You're off the story boards."

"So what am I supposed to do for fun now, smart guy?"

"Oh, I don't know. May develop a sense of fashion."

"Look who's talkin', the French Richard Lewis."

"What?" He was thoroughly shocked.

"You heard me. Lookit, the hair, the clothes, the overwhelming guilt. You're the French Richard Lewis without the a sense of humor. Maybe you could develop one of those."

"You don't have to be mean. If you play if cool, I was going to try to swing you read-only privileges. God knows you need exposure to--" he waved his hand at me and shuddered, "--people who aren't you."

************

"And what if I write another story?" This was beginning to tick me off. I said, "This is beginning to tick me off."

He thought for a moment. "There is an all-Jurgen-All-the-Time story board out of Kenosha. You can post there." He shook his head. "For some reason, Jurgen is very popular in Kenosha. Go figure."

"And what about the one you mentioned earlier, the one with

Operations and--you know, Her--and--"

"Life's tough. He'll get over it. One more thing." He leaned in, as if to kiss me, then opened one eye. "Look, understand I'm only doing this part because I'm contractually obligated." He closed his eyes and leaned forward.

That was his mistake. I grabbed him by the collar and jerked him down to my height. "Look here, Spyboy." His eyes shot open. "Don't screw with me or I'll rip your balls off and stuff 'em down your throat." I've seen every episode of "NYPD Blue" and have Sipowicz down cold. I give the collar another jerk to get his attention. "Now here's what we're going to do--" I reahced into his coat pocket, pulled out the phone, and hit redial. "We're going to take this very, very bad idea up with Operations."

"But, but--you can't--" Amazing how ruffled Mr. Cool gets when you've got him by the--well, when you've got him good. I slammed him up against the wall so hard the tins rained off the shelves. Even the Coca-Cola tray took a bounce.

"Don't make me get rough, Spyboy."

The phone rang twice, then a squeaky, "Hello?"

"Hi, Birkoff, I need Operations. Now."

"Who is--"

"Now!"

"This isn't--"

"Don't make me come there and kick your little munschkin ass. Tell him." I put the phone to Michael's mouth.

"Do it, Birkoff. She means business."

I heard a couple of thumgs and some background shouting. Then, "This is Operations." Clipped. Professional. I like that in a man.

"Good. This is Ursula--"

"Ursula! How nice of you to call--"

"Cut the bull. French boy already spilled the beans.

A pause. Hell, if he could pause, I could pause longer. I knew that trick.

Finally, he said, "What's the problem?"

"I think you know."

"I don't negotiate."

"Neither to I. I'm coming in. Now. Have a truck and people to pick up my stuff here in an hour."

"You don't give orders here. I do."

I lowered my voice to an ominous whisper. "You forget. I know you. I know things about you. Two words: Doris Day."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. Doris Day."

"I don't know what you're talking about." He was beginning to sound as ruffled as Spyboy.

Softly, I began to sing, "Que, sera, sera . . ."

"Okay, okay! You've got me. But you know what happened to the last person who tried to hold Section hostage."

"I'm not taking anyone hostage. I'm just telling you how its going to be. I'm coming in. I will not be relegated to an All-Jurgen-All-the-Time story board. Maybe Spyboy can explain it."

I held the phone to Michael's mouth. "Help me! She's really, really mean, sir! Like Janet Reno on steroids." He sounded genuinely afraid. I loosened my grip a little and took the phone back.

"You broke my best operative," Operations grumbled.

"I didn't break him. I just dented him a little. A can of mousse and a few M & M's and he'll be as good as new."

Operations sighed. "Okay, a van will be there in two hours. One van, no truck. What you can fit in the van, you can bring. Nothing else."

"Roger wilco, Big Kahuna!" I hung up, smiling at Michael. "See, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

He eyed me warily and felt the back of his head. "I though you were supposed to be some kind of nice spinster social worker type. You've been around Scoo way too long."

"Oh, baby, you don't work at the DFC for twelve years without learning a trick or two." I took him by the hand. "Come on, I'll fix you a frozen Snapple treat, then I'll let you have some of my special Valentine M & M's."

He sighed. You're not going to start that whole red satin sheet thing again, are you?"

"Naaah. We've only got two hours and white percale works just fine."

And, for the next two hours, Michael reflected how a cyanide tooth might not be such a bad investment, and Ursula reflected how, maybe, her aggressive nature was to blame for the lack of men in her life. Or not.

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