.

what do you say, Frannie Turner. Want to make a deal?”

      Frannie’s thoughts ricocheted from Stanley in his chair to her cozy house to her friends and to Arlene before racing on to the books she’d read, the movies she’d seen, all the men she’d loved to have loved. Her thoughts paused for a moment at Power, dollops of dissolute power. Elizabeth Taylor floated through her thoughts for a millisecond. So did Monty Hall. She considered the Hell that she didn’t believe in and her eternal soul, if she actually had one. It was a very big thing, evidently, but hers was unbearably empty just now.

      “What’s the deal?” She heard her own voice come from low in her throat.

      Randi hugged her. And it burned. “Great!”

      “But I’ll admit I’m surprised about that Hell thing you mentioned. I was sure you’d be a believer. But, hey, I’m only human.” She opened Frannie’s pocketbook, rummaged through it and pulled out a handkerchief with an elegant monogrammed

.

      “Is it roasting in here or is it me?”

      Pinching one fine nostril at a time, Randi daintily blew her nose into the handkerchief and returned it to Frannie’s purse.

      “But if you don’t mind a badly disguised sales pitch and a little more advice, well … here’s the real deal. What I’m offering you is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. So just don’t do with me what you did with Stanley, Mrs. T.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “Well, shop a little this time. You shouldn’t decide before you’ve explored your options.”

      Those cherry lips. Those chiclet teeth. They knew where Frannie lived.

      “Options?” Frannie almost choked on the word.

      “For example, I’ve been empowered to offer you youth and beauty if you want them. Those come standard. But there are extras, as well. Things like a government position, say? Secretary of State? The vice-presidency? I’m afraid I can’t offer you the presidency yet: might be a tad too soon for that. But if those don’t tempt you, or seem a little much, maybe a simple MD and a cure for one of the lesser cancers? Non-Hodgkins lymphoma, maybe? Thyroid?” She fixed her avid eyes on Frannie’s own and laid a scorching hand on her shoulder. Frannie made a concentrated effort not to squirm. “I suspect you don’t have the stomach for the occasional death, though. Am I right?”

      Frannie sat, spellbound. Her mouth felt painfully dry.

      “Okay, so I’m right. So then there’s ophthalmology and macular degeneration, possibly. Or what about a doctorate in physics? How do you feel about String Theory? Or money. Do you want money? Not really you, I suspect. Although we’re offering really big sums here. Racing-stables money. Gulfstream money.”

      Randi hiked up her skirt. There were scars all over her thighs.

      “You could decide to be a man, of course. Though I can’t say I’d care for that myself. Wait, wait, I know! Monets? Rembrandts?” Interlacing her fingers, she winked at her mesmerized prey. “I’m getting warmer now, aren’t I?”

      With one thumb, Frannie traced the veining in the marble tabletop. She had to force herself to look at the hairdresser/gatekeeper/fiend.

      “Okay, now we’ve hit paydirt – art,” Randi said. “You could own bibelots like rhinoceros-horn cups. They’re supposed to have aphrodisiac properties, did you know? So useful, now and then.” Randi raked long fingers through her fiery hair. “Or jewels? Or pink diamonds? Blue? Klimt? Praxiteles? Fabergé?

      “In addition, I’m guessing, just guessing now, that Frannie Turner loves movies.”

      Of course she’d know that.

      “Or what about your own film studio? You could be a director, Frannie Lean! Frannie Hitchcock. Plumper, but so incredibly cool. Wait. Even better … a movie star! Worshiped! Adored! Having – what’s that line? – ‘A billion shop girls ape you, a billion farmhands rape you?’ ” Randi squinted at Frannie’s face and frowned. “Maybe not.”

      ‘Okay, then, want to write the next Ulysses? Be a painter, perhaps? Some kind of avant-garde sculptor who suspends dead CEOs in formaldehyde. Now, that’d be a leap! And wait. Then you could sell them to live CEOs and hedge-fund guys for millions.” Randi mused. “I don’t see you as a rock star, though. More like an opera star, I think. Or how about this? The first female quarterback!”

      Randi was so excited she lit a third cigarette, unwrapped a piece of gum and put both in her mouth at once.

      “You’re getting the idea now, right?”

      Beside her, Frannie, a dumpy old doe in the headlights, mutely nodded.

      “Is it sinking in now that I can give you anything you’ve ever desired, Frannie? Anything. You can have, be, or do anything you want in this world. As long as you’re ours in the next.”

      Frannie turned away from her probing gaze to watch a young couple strolling past their booth, the boy riffling a handful of crisp bills.

      “So, you know,” she heard him say, “I thought I’d buy myself a headband.”

      The girl seemed delighted.

      “You’d have to own it, though,” she said. “Like, you’d have to own the eighties-ness of it.”

      Her partner stopped moving, his eyes widening at Randi. The money spilled out of his hand.

      “What? I missed that,” he said to the girl, as he knelt to gather his cash.

      Randi waited silently until they’d passed.

      “See? That’s my thing. I can turn it off, turn it on – at will.”

      And if it weren’t for the confusion filling her mind and the really unpleasant smell filling her nostrils (was Randi passing gas?) Frannie thought she’d could probably sit here all night, enjoying her pleasant little buzz and this fabulous nut, who was trying to woo her with a fantasy. She could be whatever she wanted to be. Sure. Miss Make-Yourself-Over-right-now, she thought.

      Her sales pitch complete, Randi relaxed into the velvety booth, stretched one perfect arm along its top and flashed her phosphorescent teeth at nothing.

      That pungent odor again. Frannie grabbed at her handbag, felt around for tissues and finding none – nor a used handkerchief either – she snapped it shut. Surreptitiously pinching her nostrils, she sat back as well. To think about fame. About money. About this stench. And success. And her soul.

      Randi was promising her beauty and youth. But they weren’t what she’d really sell her soul for.

      Randi hadn’t even touched on it. Why?

      Abruptly, she picked up her glass and downed the dregs. They tasted, just faintly, of char.

      Well, Randi, she thought, there were occasional advantages to being a sixty-six-year-old movie buff. After all, she’d seen The Devil and Daniel Webster, plus a lot of old Vincent Price, and she knew – knew beyond doubt – that no one made this particular deal without having a major something in writing. And that was why, if she was going to play along at all – and she was more and more tempted to (Tempted! Ha!) – this would need to be a legitimate business deal. With a contract.

      So she’d do it, she decided. Why not? She’d ask for a formal contract. In writing. With a loophole, of course. Because deals with the Devil always had a loophole in them, didn’t they? And while she actually didn’t believe in Hell, or in devils, or, most of the time, in souls – what if this was really real and she was wrong?

      Randi had shut her eyes and was nibbling her thumb.

      “Randi, I need to know, I mean, okay, let’s say there really are these portals and let’s say – though I may