Chapter 18: The Bro Code

Oceano, California
November 23, 1995

Thanksgiving Day on California’s central coast region dawned with a few low clouds and a wet marine layer in the morning hours, but by the time Jake Kingsley put the fifteen-pound turkey on his barbeque at 11:00 AM the sky was bright blue and clear and the temperature was a pleasant 68 degrees with only a slight onshore breeze blowing. The Pacific Ocean out beyond his deck was a brilliant blue dotted with the occasional whitecap. It was a perfect day to celebrate with his family and closest friends.

In honor of the holiday, Celia and her band were taking a break from tour rehearsal, which they had been pushing ahead with eight hours a day, six days a week since the last week of October. Celia and Greg had gone in with Pauline and Obie to rent a helicopter to fly them to Oceano from Santa Monica and had arrived just a few hours before. They would be staying until Friday morning. The Nerdlys, including Kelvin, had flown in with Jake and Laura on Wednesday night. The parental Nerdlys and the parental Kingsleys had arrived on Wednesday evening by car, electing to visit their son’s new house for the first time via road trip instead of taking Jake up on his offer to fly them down on a private charter. It had taken them seven hours to make the drive, but they claimed they had enjoyed the adventure and were looking forward to driving the coastal highway all the way to San Francisco to go home.

Elsa, unfortunately (on several levels) was not present for the celebration. She had driven to Orange County on Wednesday morning to spend the holiday with her children and grandchildren. She would not be back until Monday and had threatened all manner of violence and retribution against her employers if the house was not as spotless upon her return as it had been when she left.

Jake made sure the turkey was positioned just so and far enough away from the smoldering briquettes. He then closed the lid on the barbeque and watched until the temperature gauge settled. It was at 330 degrees. That would be almost perfect. He threw a few handfuls of applewood chips soaked in water onto the coals to generate aromatic smoke. When it was puffing out of the vents at a rate he thought appropriate, he went back inside the house. He would need to come back out every half an hour or so to put more chips on the coals and to monitor the temperature, but for now, he could open that first bottle of wine of the day and relax a little.

Mary Kingsley and Cynthia Archer were both in the kitchen. Mary had just put a second turkey of similar size into the oven. Since Jake had never barbequed a turkey before, her tried and true oven-cooked bird would be both the backup and the supplement, as fifteen pounds was a bit on the small side for a gathering of this many people. Cindy was making some of her homemade stuffing out of sourdough bread, onions, and a few other ingredients. She also had a large plate of yams in the process of being candied.

“It smells great in here, Moms,” Jake told them as he went to the sink to wash his hands. “It reminds me of Thanksgiving back in the old days.”

“I only wish I’d had a kitchen like this in the old days,” Mary said. “No wonder Elsa moved here with you.”

“I told her to design her dream kitchen when I was putting this house together,” Jake said. “She totally embraced the project.”

“It really is a beautiful house, Jake,” Cindy told him. “I’m afraid to know how much it cost you, but you did good. The location, the floor plan, everything.”

“This is my dream house,” Jake said. “I mean, the one in New Zealand is nice too—you guys have to come out and see it sometime—but this has the location. I love going to sleep hearing the sound of the ocean out my window. I love not having any neighbors. And it’s just a short hop back to LA when I need to work.”

“You’ve done very well for yourself, honey,” Mary told him, giving him a brief hug of affection. “I used to worry about you endlessly, you know. Wondering whether you’d be able to make it in life when all you wanted to do was play your guitar and sing.”

“Yeah,” Jake said with a grin. “You used to tell me I would never be able to support myself that way, remember?”

She looked a little guilty, and perhaps a bit peeved, but she owned up. “I was wrong about that, Jake,” she told him. “I guess you had a little more talent than I was giving you credit for.”

“Thanks, Mom,” he told her. “But there was a fair amount of luck involved as well.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Jake,” Cindy told him. “You and William make a good musical team. I learned that when we were performing with you. You take your music very seriously.”

“Yes, we do,” Jake agreed. “Now, who’s up for a little wine?”

“At eleven o’clock in the morning?” Mary asked.

“It’s Thanksgiving,” Jake said. “I seem to remember the two of you swilling down the chardonnay all day long back in the day when the families got together for Thanksgiving.”

“Well ... since you put it that way...” Mary said with a smile.

“I’ll be right back,” Jake told the mothers. “I’ve got some New Zealand stuff I’ve been saving for just such an occasion. Let me go pour and get this party started.”

“It would be rude to say no,” Cindy said with a smile of her own.

He left the kitchen and went into the entertainment room. Tom, Obie and Stan were sitting on the couch watching the Vikings play the Lions on the large screen television. None of them seemed particularly captivated with the contest. Pauline was on the floor, playing with Tabby and Kelvin and a bunch of toy cars. She seemed to be having more fun. Bill and Sharon were sitting at Jake’s computer, playing a game called Myst that Laura had bought for Jake a few months ago but that he had never even loaded onto the device. They seemed quite enthralled with what they were doing. They did not even look up when he entered the room. Celia and Greg were playing on Jake’s pinball machine, Celia currently behind the flippers. And Laura was sitting on one of the other couches with Eric Pale, the new violinist Celia had hired for the tour.

Eric was a slight young man, painfully thin, almost anorexic looking. Though he was twenty-three years of age and working on his master’s degree in music composition at USC, he looked no older than sixteen and would probably be routinely carded when he bought alcohol into his forties. He had long, stringy hair that was dyed black and he favored black clothing. He was painfully shy, rarely speaking unless spoken to, and never meeting anyone’s eyes when he did speak with them. Laura and Celia had invited him to the celebration because he had nowhere else to go, no one to spend the holiday with. His parents had disowned him when he came out to them as gay during his freshman year of college and he was not the type of person who made friends easily. Jake actually thought he was a little creepy (though the kid could play the fiddle with the best of them), but Laura had bonded with him on a certain level, probably because of their similar parental backgrounds. The two of them were flipping through some of the sheet music for the upcoming tour, this despite both Celia and Jake proclaiming a moratorium on any music-related work during the holiday.

“All right!” Jake announced. “I’m breaking out the wine. Who’s up for some?”

“Me!” said Laura enthusiastically.

“I’d rather have an appletini,” said Nerdly.

“Wine is for pussies,” said Obie. “I’ll take a bourbon, neat.”

“I’m pouring wine,” Jake said. “If anyone wants something else, the bar is right here. You’re on your own.”

“Some host you are,” Obie grunted.

Jake opened three bottles of Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc he had been chilling in the bar refrigerator for just this occasion. Considered New Zealand’s finest wine from its finest grape growing region, Jake had shipped back several cases of it when he and Laura had been there for their honeymoon. He poured glasses for himself, the mothers, Greg and Celia, Laura, Sharon, Pauline, and the fathers. Nerdly went without a beverage, not wanting to leave Myst for the amount of time it would take to build an appletini. Obie took Jake’s advice and helped himself to a double shot of Jim Beam Black label, neat. Eric declined the offer of any beverage.

“Not a drinker, boy?” Obie asked him. They had met for the first time today.

“Only once in a while,” Eric said, his voice meek, his eyes looking down at the carpet. “I’m not supposed to drink with my medication.”

“Medication?” Obie asked. “At your age? What the hell do you need to take medication for?”

“Obie,” Laura admonished. “That’s kind of a personal question, don’t you think?”

“It’s okay,” Eric said, still looking at the floor. “I have social anxiety disorder.”

“What the fuck is that?” Obie asked.

“Obie!” admonished Pauline. “There are children present, one of them yours!”

“Oh ... yeah ... sorry,” he said. “What the hell is that, then?”

“It means he has a phobia about being in large groups of people,” Laura explained. “It’s a legitimate medical condition.”

“I take Paxil for long-term control of the disorder,” Eric said softly. “And I take Xanax when I have a breakthrough case of panic or if I’m entering a situation, such as this social gathering, where I know a breakthrough case is likely.”

“Xanax?” Jake asked. “Isn’t that like Valium?”

“It’s the same class of drug,” Eric said. “A benzodiazepine. They help a lot in situations such as this, although, once I take a Xanax, I can’t drink alcohol.”

“If this is such a stressful situation, Eric,” asked Pauline, “why did you come here? Why did you put yourself through this?”

“Because Laura invited me,” he said simply. “It would have been rude to say no. Besides, the more I expose myself to these situations, the more used to them I get. And you’re all very nice people, not like those ... well ... never mind that. I wanted to come here; although I have to say flying on that helicopter was quite terrifying.”

“It wasn’t really my idea of a good time either,” said Celia.

“I thought it was exhilarating,” Greg said. “It reminded me of when I was filming Others. There’s nothing like riding in a chopper.”

“I disagree,” said Nerdly. “I have ridden in a helicopter on several occasions now and I must report that, while exhilarating, the sensation does not rise to the level of intimate physical activity and orgasm, either within or outside of a committed monogamous and legally sanctioned relationship.”

“What?” Greg asked, flabbergasted.

“He means that the helicopter ride isn’t better than sex,” Jake translated.

“Ohh,” Greg said slowly. He thought about this for a moment or two and then nodded. “Okay. Maybe it isn’t as good as sex, but it comes in a close second.”

“I would put the experience in sixth place,” Nerdly said. “Second would be witnessing the birth of your child.”

“Uh ... I haven’t experienced that one yet,” Greg said.

“Third would be achieving an approximation of perfect audio reproduction on a master CD,” Nerdly went on. “Fourth would be hearing your own musical performance on public airwaves for the first time, and fifth would be solving a complex physics equation in a manner that supports empirical and repeatable evidence of a hypothesis.”

“Uh ... yeah,” Greg said. “I guess those are pretty exciting moments too.”

“Bill,” Sharon said, indignant. “What about the moment I said ‘yes’ to your marriage proposal? What about our wedding, when we stood in our Star Trek uniforms before the rabbi?”

Bill shook his head. “No,” he said. “I’m afraid on a strictly momentary enjoyment level, the helicopter rides ranked just a bit higher than those.”

This proclamation was met by silence from all within earshot of it.

“What?” Nerdly asked. “I was just being truthful.”

“I think you need to learn the art of the little white lie, Nerdly,” Obie suggested.

“Please do,” agreed Sharon.

“Well ... all right then,” Jake said. “On that note, I think I’ll go check on my turkey.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Obie, standing. “Is it too early for a cigar?”

Jake thought about this for a second and then smiled. “Emily Post might think so,” he said, “but she doesn’t seem to be here at the moment. Let’s hit the humidor.”

“Hear, hear now,” said Greg, his face brightening. “A good cigar sounds like just the thing.”

“Let’s do it then,” Jake said. “Anyone else for a stogie out on the deck?”

No one else was up for it. Jake went over to his humidor and pulled three hand-rolled Cuban Cohibas from it. The three men went out through the sliding door onto the deck, their drinks in hand and took seats at the granite patio table next to the barbeque. Jake handed Greg and Obie their cigars. They took turns prepping them with his cutter and then fired up with the barbeque lighter sitting on the table. They blew the fragrant smoke out over the deck where the light wind carried it away.

“Good cigar, Jake,” Obie said, impressed. “Genuine Cuban. How do you get your greasy little hands on these things?”

It had been illegal to import Cuban cigars into the United States since 1962, but a fair number still found their way into the hands of those, like Jake, who coveted them. “I used to get them from a little cigar shop in West Hollywood that kept some under the counter for special customers,” he said, “but the price was high and a couple of times they sold me counterfeits. I could tell by the taste they weren’t the real deal. So, I stopped doing business with them and went without for a while. But when I moved here and started flying out of Whiteman, I met a cargo pilot who flies 747s for UPS. He owns a Mooney Bravo and keeps it in the hangars near where I park my truck. We got to talking one day—he’s an Intemperance fan—and he told me his route is from Vancouver, BC to Shanghai. After we got to know each other a little better, he let me know that he would be willing to buy me some of these Cohibas in Vancouver and bring them to me for just twenty-five percent above cost.”

“That’s actually pretty reasonable,” Obie said.

“It is,” Jake agreed. “It costs me six hundred and twenty-five bucks for a box of twenty-five. And they’re always genuine Cohibas and they’re always fresh. When I was getting them from the cigar shop, I was paying eight hundred a box for cigars that were usually a little stale and sometimes fake.”

Greg shook his head sadly. “I do abhor dishonesty when doing business with someone,” he said.

“Yeah,” Obie agreed. “It’s a bitch when your illegal goods supplier is screwing you, ain’t it? No fuckin’ Better Business Bureau to complain to.”

“Exactly,” Greg said, missing Obie’s sarcasm.

The three men puffed their cigars and drank their drinks for a few minutes, talking of unimportant things. Jake made a point to pay particular attention to Greg during the conversation. This was his first time in the actor’s company since the night of the Los Angeles premier of his film more than a month before. Jake had been on two trips with Gordon and his band since then, playing sixteen separate dates with them. He had just returned from the second one five days before and had been helping out with Celia’s tour planning and rehearsal every day until the Thanksgiving break started. Greg, in turn, had been busy doing promotional appearances, mostly in LA, and giving interviews for various entertainment media groups. Celia had confided in Jake during one of the lunch breaks at the rehearsal warehouse that her husband had been acting “a little strange” ever since returning from the trip across the country with Mindy Snow and the production crew.

“What do you mean by ‘a little strange?’” Jake had asked her.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “It’s nothing I can quite put my finger on, but there’s something off about him in some subtle way.”

“You don’t think anything ... you know ... happened between him and Mindy, do you?”

“No,” she answered immediately, shaking her head firmly. “It’s nothing like that. I’m sure I would know right away if he had been unfaithful to me with that puta.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Jake told her.

“It’s just that it seems like he’s ... I don’t know ... putting up a false face for me.”

“A false face?”

“His acting face,” she said. “It’s like he’s playing a part whenever we talk these days. And he’s ... well ... much more interested in having sex.”

“You can’t blame a guy for that,” Jake said. Especially not when he has a wife that looks like you, he did not add.

“Maybe not,” she allowed, “but I can’t help but feel his increased interest is related to the false face.”

As he watched Greg now, Jake detected no real difference from the personality he had always known. Greg was arrogant, pompous, and somewhat of a square; just like always. But then again, Jake did not live with him day in and day out, nor was Jake someone Greg would necessarily be putting on an act for.

“What was it like being out on tour with Bigg G and his boys?” Obie asked now, derailing Jake’s thoughts. “That must’ve been some experience.”

“It was mostly great to be back out on the road again and performing regularly,” Jake said. “Playing in front of an audience has always been the best part of this life for me.”

“I would think the money you make would be the best part,” Greg said.

“I do appreciate the money,” Jake assured him. “And I also love composing and arranging new tunes, but performing live has always been the best part of this job for me. Hanging out with G lets me get a little taste of it again. It also shows me how much I’ve changed over the years.”

“What do you mean?” Obie asked.

“I don’t party like I used to,” Jake said. “G and his band after shows are kind of like me and Matt and Coop were back in our heyday. They do the whole bit. Cocaine, drinking whiskey out of the bottle, smoking out, tapping groupies.”

“Tapping groupies?” Greg asked. “Bigg G does that? He’s married now!”

“Apparently marriage doesn’t count out on tour,” Jake said with a shrug. “What happens on the road, stays on the road and all that.” He gave Greg a sharp look. “Don’t tell Celia about that, okay? She might tell Laura, and Laura is good friends with G’s wife.”

“My lips are sealed,” Greg promised. “I assume you were not engaging in such behavior.”

“I was not,” Jake said honestly. “After a show, I generally have a few beers and maybe a bonghit or two, but I retreat to my own area once they start rolling the groupies in.” He smiled. “Not that I wasn’t getting lots of requests.”

“Black groupies?” Obie asked.

“A lot of them were,” Jake said. “But there was a fair and reasonably equal representation of other races and creeds as well. One thing I’ll say about G and the boys, they don’t discriminate when it comes to their groupies.”

“That’s good to know,” Obie said with a grin.

“In truth,” Jake said, “I was a little disappointed in G. I thought he was above that kind of thing. But ... well ... what can you do? I’m not the morality police.”

“None of us are,” Greg said somberly.

“That ain’t no shit,” Jake agreed and then held out his right hand to Greg.

Greg simply stared at it. “What’s that for?” he asked.

“Oh ... sorry,” Jake said, putting his hand back down. “When you’re hanging with G and his people and someone says something profound, like ‘none of us are’, the proper response is for someone else to say, ‘that ain’t no shit’ or ‘that’s the fuckin’ truth’ and then an elaborate handshake is exchanged.”

“Really?” Greg asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Really,” Jake said. “And a lot of profound things get said when the coke and the bonghits come out. I’ve gotten rather good at the ritual.”

“That’s some interesting insight there, Jake,” Obie said. “What other rituals are there?”

Jake thought for a moment. “Well, there’s the whole ‘that shit ain’t right’ thing.”

“That shit ain’t right?” Obie asked.

“Yeah,” said Jake. “Someone is supposed to say that anytime someone describes an injustice of any kind. It doesn’t matter to what degree the injustice is. It could be anything from a brother got shot in the back by the police during an unjustified traffic stop to you didn’t get a straw attached to the side of your juice box. Someone always has to solemnly say, ‘that shit ain’t right, man,’ and then everyone takes a moment to reflect upon the state of the world and the perpetual state of institutional racism that exists in it, nod quietly in agreement, and then the normal conversation can continue.”

“Are you making this up, Jake?” Greg asked.

“I am not,” Jake said. “That shit wouldn’t be right.”

Greg shook his head a little, unsure whether he was being teased or not. He then changed the subject. “So ... anyway, I heard Celia’s new song on the radio this morning while I was getting ready for the flight here.”

“Yep,” Jake said. “The Aristocrat promotion department came through. Saturation airplay of It Never Happened and my tune, Teach Me, is now in progress, both on the pops and the hards, all across the US and Canada. The CDs will be released for sale on December 5^th.”

“I heard Celia’s tune yesterday,” Obie said. “I liked it. Good melody, good mixing of the instruments. And the lyrics are kind of profound too. Almost like a good country song.”

“There’s no reason to get insulting, Obie,” Jake said.

Obie grinned and took a hit of his cigar.

“What did you think of the tune, Greg?” Jake asked him, perhaps a little nervously. After all, the song was about the night that he and Greg’s wife had spent in Portland, although, so far, no one else seemed to suspect that. “Was that the first time you heard it?”

“No, I listened to the whole master CD when she first brought it home,” Greg said. “I like the song. Her voice is as beautiful as ever.”

“Does she ever to sing to you when you’re slipping her the salami?” Obie wanted to know.

“Uh ... no,” Greg said, blushing a bit. “She does not do that.”

“Have you ever asked?”

“No,” Greg said firmly. “Anyway ... as I was saying, I’m not a music expert by any means, and perhaps I’m a bit biased, but I think It Never Happened might be one of her biggest hits yet. It just sounds good when you listen to it. It causes an emotional response of sadness and regret.”

“That’s exactly what a good tune is supposed to do,” Jake said.

“Who is she singing about anyway?” Obie asked, causing Jake to look sharply at him.

“What do you mean, who is she singing about?” asked Greg.

“I mean, it’s obvious she’s singing about some one-night stand hookup she had with someone she was intensely attracted to. Now, I would assume this is something that happened before she met you, Greg. But who is it? It must’ve been some kind of night.”

“She is not singing about anyone in particular,” Greg said firmly. “It’s just a song.”

Obie raised his eyebrows a bit but did not argue the point, though he, as a songwriter of considerable talent, knew that rarely was anything penned on that level ‘just a song’. “Oh yeah,” he said. “I guess that makes sense.”

“So...” Jake quickly interjected, changing the subject, “speaking of songs, Obie. Paulie told me you’re gearing up to hit the studio for your next release?”

“That’s right,” Obie said. “We’re doing the workups right now. I’m hoping to convince the Nerdlys to come up to Oregon and work their magic for me.”

“They might agree to that,” Jake said. “You’d have to make it worth their while though.”

“Naturally,” Obie said. “That’s the way the world works.”

“That ain’t no shit,” Jake said, holding out his hand. Once again, no one shook it. He sighed a little. It really was kind of a cool ritual. White people should learn to embrace it. “Anyway,” he continued, putting his hand back down, “they’ll be working with Celia and the band dialing in the concert sound until December 23. That’s when they’ll do the final dress rehearsals for the tour. After that, they all take a Christmas break and then the roadies and the techies will start their roll-in/roll-out training. Once they’re done with that and they load up the trucks to head for the first date on January 1, the Nerdlys will be free and clear, probably until we bring Brainwash back into the studio over the summer.”

“That sounds like a doable timeline,” Obie said. “I can plan to hit the studio in early January. We’ll be ready by then.”

They talked for a few minutes about some of the tunes that Obie was working on for his next release, or rather, Obie and Jake talked about it and Greg sat and looked bored. Jake then got up and popped back inside to refresh everyone’s drinks, pouring more wine for himself and Greg and another neat bourbon for Obie. After handing them out and then taking a few puffs on his cigar to maintain its combustion, Jake threw another handful of wood chips on the coals of the barbeque, causing a fresh billow of savory smoke to erupt. They all watched it drift away in the breeze for a bit and then Greg, seeming almost nervous, broke the silence.

“Laura told me that you’re flying to Phoenix on Sunday,” he said.

“That’s right,” Jake said. “I’m going to go check out a plane.”

“Check out a plane?” Obie asked.

“I’m looking to upgrade my Chancellor,” Jake said. “Laura wants a plane that has a bathroom in it. She really doesn’t like having to hold her pee on the longer flights; and she likes having to use the urinal even less.”

“You’re going to get a whole new plane just because of that?” Obie asked.

Jake smiled. “When your wife suggests that maybe you should upgrade your plane, you upgrade your plane. You don’t ask questions.”

“I suppose that’s a fair point,” Obie had to admit. “Why do you have to go to Phoenix though? Ain’t there enough airplanes to look at in LA?”

“Not the airplane I’m interested in,” Jake said. “Or at least not the one I have a connection to.”

“What kind of plane is it?” Greg asked.

“It’s an Avanti 180,” Jake said.

“Never heard of it,” Obie said.

“Neither had I until I started talking to the pilots that fly the charter plane for G and the band. I told them I was looking to upgrade my plane to something with a bathroom in it and the copilot told me that basically the only plane that has a bathroom and can be flown by only one pilot is the Avanti. It’s built by an Italian company.”

“Italian, huh?” Obie said. “I hope they build their planes better than those fucking Fiats.”

“Yeah,” Jake agreed. “That is a good point and something to consider. Anyway, Jeff, he’s the copilot, knows a guy that flies an Avanti out of a muni field in Phoenix. He’s the pilot for the CEO of that new pet store chain, PetShop.”

“Oh yeah,” Obie said. “They’re the motherfuckers that are putting all the independent pet shops out of business.”

“They are,” Jake said with a shrug. “In any case, this pilot—his name is Austin—is an Intemperance fan as it turns out. Jeff gave him a call and told him I was interested in checking out the plane. It just so happens that Austin is flying the plane empty to Denver on Monday for a major maintenance check. He invited me to come along with him for the ride.”

“Phoenix to Denver on a little plane?” asked Obie. “How long will that take?”

“Not as long as you think,” Jake said. “The Avanti is a twin-engine turboprop, like my Chancellor, but its speed and range is comparable to a Citation or a Lear jet. Jeff tells me it cruises at over three hundred knots and can fly as high as forty-one thousand feet. And it has a bathroom.”

Obie nodded approvingly. “Not bad,” he said. “What would something like that cost?”

“I’m not sure,” Jake said. “I would guess I could get a used one for around half a million or so, depending on the avionics it has.”

“That’s almost reasonable, I suppose,” Obie said.

“This all sounds rather intriguing,” Greg said. “Listen, Jake ... uh ... I wonder if I could possibly impose upon you.”

“For what?” Jake asked. “Your wine glass is still full.”

“No, not that,” Greg said. “Would you consider taking me along with you on your adventure to Phoenix and Denver?”

This request caught Jake completely out of left field. Greg wanted to go to Phoenix with him? And then fly with him to Denver on a small aircraft? What the hell was this about? “You ... want to go with me?” he asked.

“If it’s not too much of an imposition,” Greg said. “I mean ... I understand I was not invited on the maintenance flight, but if there is any way I could go along, I would like to.”

“Why?” Jake asked. He was not opposed to the idea of Greg accompanying him on the trip, but the request itself was very out of character.

Greg gave a shrug. “I feel like I need to get out of LA for a few days,” he said. “And this trip of yours sounds like fun.”

“You understand that I’ll be flying my Chancellor to Phoenix, not a commercial flight?” Jake asked him.

“Yes,” Greg said. “Laura told me that. Is that a problem?”

Jake raised his brows a bit. “You’ve always told me that you wouldn’t fly in an aircraft as cramped as mine with an amateur at the controls.”