Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 131, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 799 & 800, March/April 2008

The Pig Party by Doug Allyn

Doug Allyn’s astonishing success in the field of short mystery fiction is nowhere more apparent than at EQMM, where he has won a record eight Readers Awards. He joins us this month with a character we haven’t seen before, in a case that involves a college party gone wrong. Mr. Allyn and his wife are Michiganers and musicians who, until recently, played the clubs in their part of the state.

I was working hotel security at the Ponchartrain in Detroit, taking a break in the third-floor bar, when her face flashed on the overhead TV. Sara Silver, the network correspondent with a career as brilliant as her name. She was interviewing Kathy Bates on a news show. Noticing my stare, the guy next to me followed my gaze up to the tube.

“Beauty and the beast,” he quipped, sipping his scotch.

“Yeah? Which one is which?” I asked. Which earned me a look. Kathy Bates is a great actress but she’s no head-turner. “I went out with her once,” I explained.

“Who? Kathy Bates?”

“No, the media babe, Sara Silver.”

He started to scoff, but a glance my way changed his mind. I’m not gorilla size, but I’m big enough. And life’s scuffed me up some.

“No kidding, you really dated Sara Silver?” he said, doubtfully. “Where did you take her? Las Vegas?”

“Nope, to a frat party. Roughest night of my life.”

“I’ll bet,” he said, pointedly turning back to his scotch. I knew what he was thinking. A small-time hotel dick dating Sara Silver? Tell me another one.

I didn’t bother. He wouldn’t believe me anyway. But it happened to be the truth. I really did trip the light fantastic with Sara Silver once, on the wildest night of my life. Only it wasn’t a date, exactly.

Because I didn’t ask her out. She asked me.

I wasn’t a detective then. Just an ex-dogface, a couple of years out of the Marine Corps, taking a few college courses, trying do decide what to be when I grew up.

Meanwhile, I helped pay my rent by bartending part-time at Shannon’s Irish Pub, a sports saloon just off the Westover College campus in Lansing. A jumpin’ joint, Shannon’s, foosball tables, pool tables, and pinball machines. Busy all day long, totally nuts at night.

Preppies would start popping in at noon to knock down a beer between classes, shoot pool, or line the bar for the usual intellectual collegiate repartee; Freud and Kant, easy a’s and easy lays.

Occasionally I’d have to eighty-six a kid who overdid it, but for the most part the college boys were pretty mellow.

Their women were even better. Coeds and townie girls prowled Shannon’s like tigresses around a waterhole, scouting for upwardly mobile mates. But sometimes they’d settle for an affable bartender.

The first time I saw Sara Silver, I figured she was just another Westover babe on the hunt. Sat at the far end of the bar, away from the others, nursing a white wine spritzer. Attractive, but nowhere near the network knockout she is now.

Her blond hair drawn back in a loose ponytail, held by a silver clip. Fine-boned features, slim legs, her figure tomboy taut but unmistakably feminine. Her oversized glasses gave her a studious look. Figured she was waiting for an intense, long-haired type with wild eyes and wilder politics.

Wrong. She was looking for me.

“You’re Tommy Malloy, right? The ex-Marine?”

“Guilty,” I said, sliding a napkin under her glass. “Do I know you?”

“Sara Silver,” she said, keeping her voice down, making sure we weren’t overheard. “I’ve been asking around. I understand you tend bar for a lot of fraternity parties.”

“I do my share.”

“Have you ever worked a Delta Omega party?”

“Once. And not recently. Why? Do you want to hire a bartender?”

“Not exactly,” she said, meeting my eyes. “I need a date.”

“I don’t understand.”

“There’s a party at Delta Omega tonight. I need an escort to get in. Can you manage that?”

“Probably, but I’ve got a better idea. Let’s make it dinner and a movie instead.”

“I’m not looking for a boyfriend, Malloy, just somebody to get me into the Delta House party. Tonight. Are you interested or not?”

“Miss, I’d love to take you out. Sometime. But not to a Delta House bash, and definitely not tonight.” It was my turn to glance around to be sure we weren’t overheard. “It’s a pig party,” I whispered.

“I know.”

“Really? Do you have any idea what that means?”

“Of course.”

“I doubt that. Pig-party rules say the frat boys have to bring the ugliest chicks they can find. You don’t remotely qualify.”

“Thanks very much. I still want to go.”

“No, you don’t, damn it! Listen, it’s a really ugly scene, and I’m not just talking about the girls. It’s loud, lewd, and crude. Everybody drinks too much, the guys are jerks, the girls are desperate—”

“Sounds like you’ve been there.”

“No way,” I said. “It’s not my trip. But bartenders hear things, and some of them aren’t pretty. A pig party’s a rough, sorry-ass spectacle. It’s definitely not a party you want to crash.”

“I’ll pay you an even hundred bucks to get me in,” she said, digging into her purse, carefully counting five tens out on the bar. “Fifty now, fifty more afterward.”

I made no move to pick up the money. “Why? What’s so important?”

“I write for the Westover Wildcat, the college paper.”

“Sara Silver,” I said, nodding slowly. “I thought your name sounded familiar. You did a story last semester on fake IDs. Burned some local bartenders.”

“I hope you weren’t one of them.”

“Nope, I’m always super careful. But why bother with a story on a pig party? It may be sophomoric, but it’s a campus tradition. The Delts hold one every year. Most of the girls who attend know the score and it’s no crime to throw a bash.”

“Isn’t it? There’s a rumor that a girl was gang raped at a pig party. Have you heard anything about that?”

“I’ve picked up the same rumor. As wild as the pig parties get, I suppose it’s possible. Which is one more reason why you shouldn’t go.”

“I’ll be perfectly safe,” she said mildly. “I’ll be with a Marine.”

Touché. Couldn’t help smiling. She was not only pretty, she knew exactly which buttons to push. And I was already more interested in the girl than the money.

“Ex-Marine,” I said, picking up the fifty. “Where do we meet?”

We almost didn’t. Westover is a small suburban college outside Lansing. Enrollment’s twenty thousand, give or take. The main campus dates from the ‘sixties, red brick buildings designed to look older than they are, surrounded by student dorms, which are coed, plus a dozen fraternities and sororities which are not.

Silver lived at the Kappa Rho House, a converted Victorian box with a mansard roof that looked like something out of Jane Eyre. Kappa Rhos are ultra-bright, scholarship chicks, mostly shrill feminists. We don’t see many in Shannon’s and I nearly missed Sara Silver. She was sitting on a bench in the vestibule and I walked right past without giving her a second look.

“Hey, big fella,” she said, standing up. “Wanna go to a party?”

I did a double take. “Holy jeez Louise,” I said.

Most girls fix themselves up for a date. Sara had fixed herself down. Way down. She’d rinsed her fair hair dark, leaving it flat as a cat after a cloudburst, lank and skanky. Her makeup was backwards, too. No lipstick, no rouge. Instead, she’d darkened her brows till they looked like caterpillars perching on her zit-dotted forehead. Purple smudges beneath her eyes gave her a haggard, anorexic look.

Her smile was the finishing touch. Braces by Bela Lugosi, a tangled contraption of wires and rubber bands that gave her everted lips. Not the kissable kind. More like a carp.

“Well, how do I look?” she asked brightly, automatically checking herself in the hall mirror. “Think they’ll let me in?” And in that moment, she looked so vulnerable that I swallowed, hard. Women rely on their looks far more than men. What she’d done to herself took a ton of guts.

“You look... stunning, miss,” I said, offering her my arm. “My Jeep awaits. Shall we go?”

Delta Omega is a rich frat, mostly scholarship jocks and legacy residents. A four-story faux English manor with front and rear decks, it’s the largest house in Westover’s Fraternity Row. And it was pumping. As I pulled into the circular drive, the house and grounds were lit up like a movie set in the autumn dusk, the thump of music pulsing in the air like a party-hearty heartbeat.

The driveway and parking lot were already jammed. No problem. I just drove my CJ-7 up over the curb and parked on the lawn next to a half-dozen other jalopies.

“Come on,” I said, climbing out. “The major action’s around in back.”

Sara’d worn a loud, flowered blouse chosen for shapelessness, cutoff jeans, and garish wedge heels so tall she wobbled when she walked. I was dressed campus casual, golf shirt and slacks. Wore my hair shaggy in those days, a reaction to four years of buzz cuts.

Security for the party consisted of a single campus cop stationed at the gate of the picket fence surrounding the backyard. He knew me from Shannon’s, but he checked Sara’s ID, rolling his eyes at me as he waved us through.

Thunderous jams were thumping from a wall of speakers stretched across one end of the tennis court. Banquet tables on the veranda were stacked with finger food but most of the activity centered around the portable bar, where white-jacketed barmen were doling out beer and mixed drinks in paper cups with slick efficiency. Again, they knew me but checked Sara’s ID before serving us, a wine highball for Sara, a double scotch for me.

We both stood at the rail, nursing our drinks, taking in the scene.

At first glance, the party didn’t seem much wilder than the usual Delta House bash on a rough night. The tennis court was crowded with milling dancers, showing a lot more energy than grace. Most frat boys took the “pig” part literally, plenty of heavy-duty mamas shakin’ their chubby booties.

In the lighted swimming pool, a noisy water-volleyball game was in full splash. Strip volleyball: Muff a point, shuck your shirt, blouse, shoes, something. A few players were already down to their underwear and the game was still in the low teens.

Following Sara through the crowd, I realized she had a mini camera concealed in her palm. She was surreptitiously taking candid photos every time she pretended to sip her wine.

A drunk goosed Sara’s butt as he passed. Annoyed, I reached for him, but she grabbed my arm, pulling me back.

“Cool it, Malloy. No trouble. Yet.”

“We may get it whether we want it or not,” I grumbled. “Most of these clowns are already half smashed.”

“Can you blame them? Check out their dates. No wonder they call it a pig party.”

“No offense, lady, but you’re not exactly primped for prime time yourself.”

“Thanks for noticing,” she said acidly. “The difference is, I worked damned hard to look this bad. These porkers are trying to look their pathetic best. Come on, dance with me.”

Not a request, an order. Taking my arm, she hauled me into the swirling crush of the tennis court without waiting for a reply. I’m no Fred Astaire, but the action on the floor was so frantic I found myself dancing in self-defense. And managed not to embarrass myself, I thought.

Not that Sara noticed. She was dancing strictly on autopilot, her moves totally disconnected from the urban rap raging from the speakers. Seemed much more interested in scanning the crowd than grooving to the rhythm of the music. Fortunately we didn’t suffer for long. The DJ punched up an old B.B. King blues grind, and things got simpler. I usually enjoy slow dancing. I’ve always considered it romantic, even with a stranger. Maybe more so with a stranger.

But not with Sara. When she snuggled against my shoulder, there was nothing seductive about it. She was slyly snapping pictures as we danced, scanning the crowd between shots, steering me around the dance floor like a wheelbarrow to get the photos she wanted.

“Take it easy,” I murmured, “we’ve got all night.”

“Actually, we haven’t,” she said, leading me off the floor before the song ended, still scanning the crowd.

“Why not?”

“Because I’ve enjoyed as much of this as I can stand!” she snapped. “You were right, Malloy, this is wretched.”

“Don’t dally on my account. If you want to split, let’s go.”

“Not quite yet,” she said, checking her watch. “I want to get a look inside the Delta House itself.”

“Whoa up, Sara, that’s a whole different deal. The yard party’s open, but the House is limited to members only.”

“I only see one guy working the door.”

“That one’s enough, lady. He’s Drew Braxton, the all-star linebacker for the Wildcats.”

“Then start earning your money, Malloy. Knock him out or something.”

“Yeah, right,” I said, thinking a mile a minute. I knew Braxton from around. Big beer barrel of a guy, mean as a snake, rough as a box of rocks. A born football player with pro prospects. No chance I could mix it up with him and survive, but...

“Okay,” I said, taking a deep breath, “there may be a way to get past him but you’re not going to like it.”

“Tell me.”

So I did. And I was right. She didn’t like it. But we tried it anyway.

Unbuttoning her garish blouse, Sara clung to my arm as we staggered up to the door.

“Hey, Brax,” I said, slurring my words. “Remember me? Malloy from Shannon’s? I got me an emergency situation here.”

“Porta-Potties are around the side, dude,” he said, unimpressed.

“I don’t need a john, buddy,” I said, holding out a folded twenty between my fingertips. “We need a room. Help a brother out?”

He glanced at Sara, who snuggled closer, giggling, flashing him her widest steel and rubber band smile.

“You don’t need a room, sport, you need your frickin’ head examined,” Braxton said, palming the twenty, but checking Sara’s student ID. “Ground-floor guest rooms ain’t locked, but you’d best knock first. Some of ’em are already busy.”

“Thanks, man,” I said, “I appreciate it.”

He shrugged. “Maybe now. But you’re gonna hate me in the morning. And yourself, too.”

“Jerk!” Sara muttered as we staggered through the foyer. A wide-screen TV was on in the guest lounge, replaying a Michigan State game. Two couples were sprawled out on a sofa watching it, the boys more interested in the game than in their plain-Jane dates. They paid no attention to us at all.

Until Sara took their picture.

“Hey, what the hell was that?” one of the guys said, straightening up, bleary-eyed, but not quite as wrecked as the others. “Was that a camera?”

“Nah, cigarette lighter,” I said, hustling Sara down the corridor. Yanking open the first door I came to, I pushed her inside.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she said, whirling on me, furious.

“Saving our butts! If you want photos for your story, you have to be more careful! You can’t just snap away at these clowns.”

“They’re so drunk I’m amazed they noticed.”

“You’ll be even more amazed if they spot that camera and decide to feed it to us.” Inching open the door, I scanned the hall. Empty. “Okay, all clear. I don’t think anyone followed us. Now what?”

“We give the rooms a quick check,” she said, glancing at her watch. “I need—”

“That’s twice you’ve looked at the time,” I said, cutting her off. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing! Except for you losing your nerve!” she said, pushing past me out the door. “Are you coming or not?”

“To do what?” I asked, following her down the hall. “We can’t just crash in on people!”

“Of course we can. It’s a pig party, right? We need a room so we can have our way with each other. Oops! Sorry!” she said, opening a door, then closing it again. But not before she’d snapped a quick photo.

“This is crazy,” I said, following, checking our back trail. “You’re going to get us stomped!”

She ignored me, continuing down the hall, opening doors.

“Oops! So sorry!” Then on to the next. Until the fourth or fifth door. When she didn’t say a word. She popped the door open, then went dead white, the color draining from her face. Then she eased the door closed quietly. And leaned against the wall.

“What’s wrong?”

“That girl,” she said, swallowing. “She’s...” She shook her head, clearing it. Then took a cell phone out of her purse and tapped a speed-dial tab. “I’ve found her. We’re in the Delta house, first floor.”

“Sara, what the hell’s going on?”

“The girl in that room is being assaulted.”

“What?”

“Assaulted, Malloy! Raped! You’ve got to stop it!”

“Are you sure? You just glanced—”

“Do something!” she shrieked. And she wasn’t the only one screaming. Sirens were howling towards Delta House like a pack of wolves as police cars roared in. Cops piling out, trying to make themselves heard over the music.

I tried the door, but it was locked now! Rearing back, I kicked it open and charged in. Then dove for the floor as the frat boy inside swung a golf club at my head, barely missing me. Pure reflex. I grappled with him, grabbing him around the knees, wrestling him down. Managed to clock him with a stiff right cross as he fell. He hit the floor like a sack of cement. Out cold.

“Stop it! You’re killing him!” a chunky, red-haired girl screeched. Naked to the waist, she threw herself across the unconscious kid on the floor to protect him, sobbing.

“Miss, it’s all right,” I said, kneeling beside her. “We’re here to help you—”

“Get away from me! Leave us alone!” she screamed, snatching up the golf club, whipping it back. Raising my hands, I backed away. She wasn’t kidding. Through the tears and smeared mascara, I could read pure murder in her eyes.

“Emily, come on!” Sara said, grabbing up the girl’s purse, holding out her blouse. “You’ve got to get out of here.”

But the girl was beyond reason. “You get out!” she screamed. “Help! Somebody help me!”

Somebody did. Two cops in riot gear burst through the door, nightsticks at the ready.

“Get down!” they roared together. “Down on the floor!”

“Hey, wait a minute!” I said. “We’re only trying to—”

Wrong answer. One cop jammed me in the midsection, doubling me over. His partner clipped me as I fell...

Somebody shook my shoulder.

“Get off me!” I growled. A stranger was leaning over me. Brushing his arm away, I sat up. Huge mistake. Huge. Felt like crap on a cracker. Glancing around, I took stock. I was sitting on a metal rack, no blankets, in some kind of a steel and concrete cage. What the hell?

“C’mon buddy, I need to have a look at ya.”

I started to protest, then an acid stew of bile and beer came rocketing up. Tried to cover my mouth. Too late! Rolling off the rack onto my hands and knees, I started retching up everything but my name.

“Damn!” The guy who’d shaken me awake backed against the bars, standing on tiptoe to save his shoes. Black guy, pudgy, moon-faced. In some kind of uniform.

Not a cop, though. EMT.

Finished, I wobbled slowly to my feet. The floor was uneven. The concrete sloping down to a metal drain in the center of the cell. I stood there a minute, head down, pulling myself together. At least I knew where I was now.

Drunk tank. Westover cop shop, probably. I stifled a groan as images started shouldering their way into my memory. The pig party. Delta House. The screaming girl with the golf club. And then the cops...

Whoa! I remembered getting hit, going down.

Swallowed hard, trying to remember if I’d fought back. Battery on a police officer was serious trouble.

“You done hurling?” the EMT asked.

“Sure hope so. Who the hell are you?”

“Joe Lockwood, from Sisters of Mercy Hospital. Cops called me down to look you over. Worried you might have a concussion. I need to check your pupils.”

“What time is it?”

“About seven.”

“In the morning?”

“Yeah. How long have you been here?”

“I’m not sure. Since... maybe ten o’clock last night.”

“Yeah? How do you feel?”

“Worse than I look.”

“That ain’t humanly possible, dog. You’d be dead. Might be yet unless you let me check you over. How about it?”

“Yeah, okay, why not?” I said, sagging back down on the metal bunk.

Leaning in, Lockwood aimed a narrow flashlight beam into my eyes. It pierced my brain like an ice pick. “What happened to you, anyway?”

“Long story.”

“Looks like a sad one to me. Raise up your arms.” He palpated my ribs, checked both collarbones. “Okay, good news, bad news. You’re bruised up some, but nothing serious, no sign of concussion. You’ll probably live.”

“Is that the good news or the bad?”

“Definitely the good. Bad news is, you’re still in jail.”

Not for long. Half an hour later I was ushered into a gray concrete interrogation room with a single metal chair bolted to the floor. A police lieutenant who looked too young to vote sat me down, read me my rights, then explained the facts of life.

The frat boy I decked could file assault charges against me but probably wouldn’t. He had legal troubles of his own. The officers I had assaulted could also file charges — I tried to protest, he ignored me — but... if I was willing to sign a release absolving them of any liability for the... misunderstanding, I’d be free to go.

The “free to go” part got my attention. “Basically, you’re saying... it never happened? We let bygones be bygones?” I asked.

“Exactly,” the boy lieutenant nodded.

“Where do I sign?”

The newspapers were already on stands when I hit the street. Campus Orgy Raided! Fraternity members charged: drunk and disorderly, furnishing alcohol to minors, and — much more seriously — statutory rape. According to the papers, one of the girls at the party was only fifteen. I was fairly sure I knew which one.

Faced with photographic evidence, the Westover administration went into top speed cover-your-butt mode. Over the next few days, fourteen students were expelled or voluntarily withdrew. Drew Braxton lost his scholarship, the security guard was fired. And the boys weren’t the only ones in trouble. A half-dozen girls left school as well, including the one I’d tried to rescue in that room. The papers withheld her name because of her age, but it didn’t matter. I already knew her name. Emily. And Westover’s a small campus.

Not all the news was grim. Sara Silver, the gutsy Westover Wildcat reporter who’d gone undercover to break the story, became an overnight celebrity. A reporter’s dream. USA Today carried the story of the raid with Sara’s byline; Time and Newsweek both ran print interviews with her. She even scored face time on Oprah and Larry King.

With her star on the rise, Sara was already fielding offers from the networks. She’d have her pick of jobs by graduation.

But I wouldn’t be around to see it. A few days after the pig-party raid, Jack Shannon let me go. He said it was for my own good. If I stayed on, sooner or later there’d be trouble. He was right. And to be honest, I didn’t much care. The fun was gone. It’s tough being a bartender in a college town when the kids treat you like Benedict freakin’ Arnold.

Jack gave me two weeks’ severance pay, plus an envelope somebody left for me at the bar.

No return address. Just fifty bucks in tens. And a note from Sara Silver asking me to meet her at the Coffee Beanery on campus the next day.

A perfect Indian summer afternoon, Westover’s maples flaming red and gold. College kids strolling hand in hand. Damn. I was really going to miss this place.

I hadn’t seen Sara since the bust. Scarcely recognized her. She was sitting at an open-air table in front of the coffee shop, looking sharp enough to stop traffic.

The night of the pig party, she’d shocked me by turning herself into a brown wren, plain as wallpaper paste. Now, the transformation had gone the other way. A full-blown extreme TV makeover. The cute coed had blossomed into a picture-perfect butterfly. Honey blond hair impeccably coifed, trimmed to nape length and swept to one side. Eyebrows plucked and patterned to perfection. Ice blue contacts, Donna Karan suit. Primped, polished, and ready for prime time.

“My, my, what a difference a few days can make,” I said, taking the chair facing her. “You look absolutely dynamite.”

“I wish I could say the same, Malloy. You look like crap.”

“I had some trouble sleeping in jail.”

“I got you out as soon as I could. Did my best to keep your name out of it.”

“I noticed that none of the news stories mentioned me. I guess I should thank you.”

“No need,” she said briskly. “Mr. Shannon said you’re leaving town. Because of the pig party? Have either of you been threatened?”

“Are you suddenly worried about my welfare, Silver? Or just looking for another byline?”

“That’s unfair. If you’re having problems, you certainly can’t blame me for them. I never intended to cause you any trouble.”

“No, I’m sure you didn’t. You smelled a story and went after it without a thought to what the fallout might be for me. Much less for Emily Kaempfert.”

“Who?”

“Come on, Silver, it’s Malloy, remember? Your partner in crime. We both know who Emily is. Emily Kaempfert. The underage girl I hauled out of the pig party. The one you took me there to find.”

“But her name was never released,” she said carefully. “How do you—?”

“You called out to her at the bust, remember? And Westover’s a small campus. I had no trouble finding out who she was. And where she lived.”

Sara’s face went suddenly still. Unreadable as a mask.

“Kappa Rho,” I went on. “The sorority for promising academics. And Emily was very promising. A math whiz who graduated from high school at fifteen. Valedictorian. Precocious, but also pudgy and plain. With no social skills at all. But you know all that, don’t you? Because you live at Kappa Rho, too. In fact, you’re a mentor there. For freshmen like Emily. You knew her, didn’t you?”

“I knew... who she was,” Sara said carefully. “That’s why I was so shocked to find her at that party.”

“Bull! You knew damned well she’d be there. You helped her to get in. The security guard and Braxton both knew me but they still checked your ID. They must have checked Emily’s too. The papers ran pictures of the fake ID Emily used to get into the party. Pretty lame. It wouldn’t have fooled me. Don’t think it would have fooled that security guard or Braxton either.”

“What is it you think you know, Malloy?”

“I think Emily had a much better fake ID, maybe pro quality. But she’s only a freshman and a fifteen-year-old at that. She wouldn’t have a clue about how to find an ID good enough to get her past security. But you would. You did a story on it last semester.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Is it? When you grabbed Emily’s purse in the scuffle, I thought you were trying to help me get her out of there. But now I think you swapped the crude ID for the one she actually used to get into the party. The raid would be a very different story if the star reporter was guilty of setting up the crime she helped bust. My God, how could you do it?”

“Do what?”

“A chubby geek like Emily probably never had a date in her life. Certainly not at Westover. So when she told you she’d been invited to the Delta House party, she had no idea what it meant. But you did. You should have warned her, Sara. Instead, you furnished her with fake ID, then hired me to help you get pictures. Knowing that kid was headed for total humiliation, or a whole lot worse.”

“Pig parties have been an open sore on this campus for years. You said it yourself. They’re loud, lewd, and degrading to women. Somebody had to bring it down.”

“The parties may be sophomoric but they’ve gone on quite awhile with no major damage done. But that’s not true anymore, is it? Nearly two dozen futures smashed up and one poor shlub looking at serious jail time. Thanks to you.”

“With your help.”

“True, and that’s what bothers me the most. That I came here looking for a fresh start and wound up wrecking a lot of innocent lives.”

“Puhleeze!” she snorted. “There was nothing innocent about that party.”

“Emily was innocent. God knows what’ll happen to her now. The pig party was idiotic, but it was just one night. The fallout from the raid will go on for years. I can understand your wanting to end it, but I can’t believe you sent Emily in there, knowing what might happen to her.”

“Believe what you like,” she said acidly. “If you want more money, maybe we can work something out. But if you try to go public with this crock, my editors will sue you into the poorhouse.”

“Don’t worry, Sara, I can’t talk without throwing Emily to the sharks and she’s suffered enough already. I don’t want to hurt anyone else. Not even you.”

“As if you could,” she sneered, rising. “Good luck with your career, Malloy. Maybe I’ll look you up sometime. If I need a drink.”

And she walked away. The prettiest, smartest woman who’s ever asked me out, or probably ever will.

And the coldest.

Oddly enough, I think I preferred the Sara from the party, braces and all, to the perfect, plastic Barbie doll she’s become.

Beauty’s a tricky business. We all think we can define it, but one guy’s woofer is the next guy’s true, true love. In the years between, I’ve watched the mating game play out a thousand times and I’ve decided real beauty comes down to character. When people respond to each other, soul to soul, everything else suddenly becomes very small change. A plain woman in love can take your breath away. A cover girl without a heart is only a picture. And a flat one at that.

But if beauty’s complicated, ugly’s a lot easier. Because looks don’t have a damned thing to do with it.

Pig-party rules are simple. Bring the ugliest date you can find.

For most guys, that means a plain Jane or the Wicked Witch of the West, not a media babe like Sara Silver.

As for me? I’ve only been to one pig party. Wildest night of my life.

And I definitely took the right girl.

© 2008 by Doug Allyn