"You did?"

Again Sinclair was caught off guard. The "Amelias" were a national writing competition named after the late Amelia J. Lloyd, widely considered the mother superior of the modern newspaper feature. No event was too prosaic or inconsequential to escape Amelia Lloyd's sappy attention. Bake sales, craft shows, charity walkathons, spelling bees, mall openings, blood drives, Easter egg hunts – Amelia's miraculous prose breathed sweet life into them all. In her short but meteoric career, her byline had graced The New Orleans Times-Picayune, The St. Louis Post-Dispatch, The Tampa Tribune, The Miami Heraldand The Cleveland Plain Dealer.It was in Cleveland that Amelia J. Lloyd had been tragically killed in the line of duty, struck down by a runaway miniature Duesenberg at a Masonic parade. She was only thirty-one.

All but an elitist handful of newspapers entered their feature sections in the annual Amelias, because it was the only contest that pretended fluff was worthwhile journalism. At The Register,staff entries for such awards came, as policy, from the Assistant Deputy Managing Editor of Features and Style. Sinclair had chosen not to submit Tom Krome in the Amelias because his stories invariably showed, in Sinclair's opinion, a hard or sarcastic edge that the judges might find off-putting. In addition, Sinclair feared that if by cruel fate Krome actually won the contest (or even placed), he would physically attack Sinclair in front of the staff. Krome had been heard to remark that, even with its $500 prize, an Amelia was a badge of shame.

So Sinclair was rattled to learn the managing editor had, without informing him, replaced Sinclair's handpicked entry with Tom Krome.

"I meant to drop you a note," the managing editor said, not apologetically.

Sinclair measured his response. "Tom's turned out some super stuff this year. What category did you pick?"

"Body of work."

"Ah. Good." Sinclair, thinking: Body of work? The rules called for a minimum of eight stories, and it was generally assumed they should be upbeat and positive – just like the ones Amelia J. Lloyd used to write. Sinclair doubted whether Tom Krome had used eight upbeat adjectivesin his whole career. And where had the boss found time to cull a year's worth of clips?

"Do you know," said the managing editor, packing his briefcase, "how long it's been since The Registerwon a national award? Anynational award?"

Sinclair shook his head.

"Eight years," the managing editor said. "Third place, deadline reporting, American Society of Newspaper Editors. Eight fucking years."

Sinclair, sensing it was expected of him, asked: "What was the story?

"Tornado creamed an elementary school. Two dead, twenty-three injured. Guess who wrote it? Me."

"No kidding?"

"Don't look so shocked." The managing editor snapped the briefcase shut. "Here's another hot flash: We're about to win a first-place Amelia for feature writing. As in 'grand prize.' I expect Tom to be in the newsroom next week when it moves on the wires."

Sinclair's head swum. "How do you know he won?"

"One of the judges told me. An ex-wife, if you're wondering. The only one who still speaks to me. When are you leaving for Grange?"

"First thing tomorrow."

"Try not to embarrass us, OK?"

The managing editor was three steps from the door when Sinclair said, "Do you want me to call you?"

"Every single day, amigo.And seriously, don't fuck this up."

Chub believed he was making progress with Amber. Each night she seemed friendlier and more talkative. Bodean Gazzer thought his friend was imagining things – the girl chatted up all her customers.

"Bull," Chub said. "See how she looks at me?"

"Spooked is how she looks. It's that damn patch."

"Fuck yourself," said Chub, though secretly he worried that Bode might be right. Amber might be one of those women who weren't aroused by scars and eye patches and such.

Bode said, "Maybe you oughta take it off."

"I tried."

"Don't tell me."

"It's the tire glue," Chub explained. "It's like goddamn see-ment."

Bode Gazzer said he was glad it was Chub's left eye that was sealed, because the right one was his lead eye for shooting. "But it'd still be better without the patch," he added. "Patch like to give you a blind spot in a firefight."

Chub bit into a chicken bone and noisily chewed it to a pulp, which he swallowed. "Don't you worry about me when it come to guns. Even my blind spots is twenty-twenty."

When Amber came to collect the empty beer bottles, Chub mischievously inquired about her boyfriend.

"He's not here," she said.

"I can see that, darling."

Chub was tempted to say something about Tony the asshole's sports car catching fire; drop a sly hint that he and Bode had done it, so Amber would know his intentions were serious. But he wasn't sure if she was sharp enough to make the connection, or even if she was the sort of woman who was favorably impressed by arson.

"Another round?" she asked.

Chub said: "Time you get off work?"

"Late."

"How late?"

"Real late."

Bode Gazzer cut in: "Bring us four more."

"Right away," Amber said, gratefully, and dashed off.

"Shit," Chub muttered. Maybe it wasthe patch. He suspected it wouldn't bother her one bit, once she found out he was soon to be a millionaire.

Bode advised him to back off. "Remember what I told you about low profiles. Plus, you're spookin' the girl."

With a thumb and forefinger, Chub deftly extracted a shard of chicken bone from the roof of his mouth. He said, "When's the last time you fucked anything besides the palm a your hand?"

Bode Gazzer said that, being a white man, he had a duty to be extra scrupulous about spreading his seed.

"Your what?" Chub sneered.

"That's what the Bible calls it. Seed."

"Man can't get enough guns and pussy. You said so yourself."

So I did, Bode thought ruefully. The truth was, he didn't want Chub distracted by a Hooters babe or any other woman until they collected the lottery money. Then there'd be plenty of time for wild poon.

Bode tried to improvise: "There's good and bad of everything, Chub. Us white men's got a responsibility – we're an endangered species. Like the unicorn."

Chub didn't fold. He recalled that he once owned a .45 semi, made in Yugoslavia or Romania or some godforsaken place, that misfired every fourth or fifth round. "Now that was a bad gun," he said, "but I ain't never had no bad pussy."

They debated until closing time, with Bode holding to the position that militiamen should have carnal relations only with pure white Christian women of European descent, lest the union produce a child. Chub (not wishing to limit his already sparse opportunities) insisted white men were morally obliged to spread their superior genetics near and far, and therefore should have sex with any woman who wanted it, regardless of race, creed or heritage.

"Besides, it's plain to see," he added, "Amber's white as Ivory Snow."

"Yeah, but her boyfriend's Meskin. That makes her Meskin by injection," said Bode.

"You can shut up now."

"Point is, we gotta be careful."

The manager flicked the lights twice and the restaurant began to empty. Bode asked for a box of chicken wings to go, but a Negro busboy told him the kitchen had closed. Bode paid the dinner bill with the stolen Visa, leaving another ludicrous tip. Afterwards Chub insisted on hanging around the parking lot, in the remote likelihood Amber needed a lift. After fifteen minutes she appeared, brushing her hair as she came out the door. To Chub she looked almost as beautiful in faded jeans as she did in her skimpy work shorts. He told Bode to honk the horn, so she'd see them waiting in the truck. Bode refused.