Walker woke up on the couch, the late-morning light pouring through the living room windows, one of the Colonel's novels buried painfully under his left shoulder. He had dogeared a dozen pages from lying on the book while he slept and that unsettled him. Walker kept all his books in good condition, a habit he'd picked up from his parents and the nuns in Fayetteville who commanded: "Books are your friends; Don't break their backs!" When it came to Layton Anderson's books, Walker held a hazy concept of ownership that made him extra careful. These were really the Colonel's books, not Walker's.

Sitting up, Walker smoothed out the pages and pushed himself off the couch. Despite the tight hamstring, the sore knee, and the troubled night, he felt refreshed. He wasn't sure when he'd fallen asleep, but it was almost noon now.

Walker and Bridgett had planned to play tennis, and he was already talking himself into it, rationalizing that his softball injuries weren't that bad. He wanted out of the house, away from the lumber and open-ended projects that required plumb lines and bandsaws. Things had a way of turning sour lately when they were both cooped up together.

When he went upstairs, Bridgett was sitting in bed reading a copy of the East Bay Express.

"You've betrayed me by bringing contraband into this house," he said.

"I'm trying to understand how your enemy thinks," she countered. "Besides, they have better calendar listings."

"And fewer typos," Walker added. "Just make sure you burn it when you're done so headquarters in Dallas doesn't find out. I'm pretty sure they have agents who search the house when we're not here."

"I've got a better system," she said, tearing off a small piece of the tabloid's cover page and putting it into her mouth. "This should only take me twenty minutes and it's fat free."

---

The argument started, as it usually did lately, over some aspect of home repair about two hours later. They'd found an ornate old wooden door with three small, beveled-glass windows at an antique shop about a month ago to replace the cheap white Sears model with the gold doorknob that was there when they moved in. Walker didn't like the inflated $150 price tag, but that was nothing compared to the other bills they'd run up on the house. Worse, just like back in his dad's workshop, Walker didn't measure properly and the door didn't fit. He thought they should buy a plane and trim the door themselves. Bridgett had grown weary of Walker's creative carpentry, especially his inability to accurately use a tape measure or keep his fingers away from the table saw. There had been two trips to the emergency room since Walker brought the saw home and set it up in the spare bedroom on the first floor. She thought they should just pay someone to strip the three layers of paint off the door and make it fit the frame. The argument started while they made coffee, and traveled upstairs to their bedroom while they dressed. Walker had learned to argue and do other things at the same time, just like Bridgett. He tried to settle the debate before they left the house to avoid combat in the close confines of the car, but realized they might never play tennis if he stuck to his plan.

"It'll cost a fortune to bring out somebody to do it," Walker argued as they cut across the weed-infested front lawn carrying their tennis rackets toward his Volvo. He'd have to give it the weekly wash and wax after tennis. He kept the leather interior spotless and the wooden dashboard accents burnished. In its pristine interior, Walker always felt some measure of control over life. Of course, they couldn't afford it, but Walker rationalized that they needed a safe, reliable car, especially if they had kids sometime in the ill-defined future. Walker hadn't told Bridgett that they were so far in debt that he'd missed another payment on the car. He silently reminded himself to call the credit union and start exercising some control over their profligate spending.

"A carpenter's plane will be a smart investment because we can use it for other projects around the house," he said with newfound determination.

"That's what I'm afraid of," Bridgett said. She took her racquet and pushed it through the air in front of her like she was planing an imaginary piece of wood. Then she ran the strings over the top of her hand, screaming in agony, "My hand! My hand! I'll never play the violin again!" Walker just shook his head. When he'd cut his finger the first time on the saw, he'd panicked and gone into shock. On the way to the hospital, his hand wrapped in a towel, he'd mumbled, "I'll never be number one again." He wasn't sure what it meant or what he was trying to say, but Bridgett had used variations of the quote to tease him ever since. Seeing that he wasn't smiling, Bridgett pretended to fumble with the racquet and let it slide down the front of her skirt as she stood near the car. "Dear God, what have I done?" she wailed. "I'll never jack off again."

He tried not to, but Walker laughed. "Are you in fifth grade?" he asked. "I'm glad I'm married to someone with such a sophisticated sense of humor. Can you do one of those fake farts with your armpit?"

"You laughed," she said, getting into the car.

The fight subsided momentarily, but Walker made the mistake of mentioning how much money they were spending on the house as they drove down Alcatraz. Walker noticed several spent 40-ounce beer bottles encased in brown bags on the sidewalk.

"Well, if you'd measured the door right, we wouldn't even have to deal with shelling out more money to get it right," Bridgett said.

"Okay, so I can't measure and you can't seem to count," Walker answered without taking his eyes off the road. It was easier to fight with Bridgett if he didn't look at her. "Do you have any idea how much we've spent on the house already?"

"It would be hard not to, with you reminding me all the time. Sorry, but if we're going to be stuck here, I'd at least like to have a decent house to while away the hours."

Every argument looped back to this fundamental point. The house was a convenient launching pad, but it wasn't the real destination: Why were they still toiling away in the East Bay after all this time? That hadn't been the plan.

A few blocks from the tennis courts, Walker pulled into a gas station, and Bridgett rolled her window down to keep up the attack while he filled the Volvo with 87 grade. He preferred to use a higher grade - better for the engine - but he was penny pinching.

Walker could never understand why Bridgett was so comfortable fighting in public. Sure, they argued at home, too, but it was never as pitched as their battles when several friends or total strangers were within earshot. In theory, he wished he didn't care what people thought of him, but it just didn't translate into practice. He was simultaneously embarrassed by his wife during their public confrontations and jealous of her self confidence.

The station was crowded with people, including a few well-dressed families gassing up after - or maybe it was before - church. Bridgett got so pissed off when Walker told her to keep it down that she got out of the car, wearing the short Lilly Pulitzer tennis skirt she'd managed to score at Goodwill for $2 and a tight black tank top with "L.I.A.R." stenciled on it that she'd made herself. Even in the middle of the fight, Walker got a jolt as he watched her swing her legs out of the car, a split-second flash of her light blue underwear under the loud green, yellow and pink patterned skirt. She was wearing her favorite green cateye glasses. Sometimes Walker thought she took the preppy punk look to extremes, resembling a cross between Brooke Astor and Debbie Harry, but anything would work on someone that beautiful. Again, he admired her unselfconsciousness.

They stood toe to toe and argued in front of the pumps, Walker using a loud whisper and Bridgett just yelling. When the tank filled and the nozzle clicked off, she reached over and yanked it out, drizzling gas down the side of the car. "Watch it!" Walker yelled as he scrambled for some paper towels from the dispenser. Bridgett started using the nozzle as a pointer for emphasis, flinging drops of gas in Walker's general direction.

"Can we please just get back in the car, Fidget?" Walker pleaded, using the pet name he had given her as he glanced at the other customers in their suits and frilly dresses. He briefly made eye contact with a middle-aged guy who was trying to shield his son from the spectacle by herding him into the back of a mini van.

"What difference does it make?" Bridgett shouted, tapping Walker on the chest with the nozzle for emphasis. Gas burped up and soaked the front of his gray T-shirt emblazoned with "The Independent" masthead.

"Oh wow, I'm sorry," Bridgett said, looking contrite, the fight momentarily defused.

"You don't have any matches, do you?" Walker asked, willing to put up with smelling like a refinery if it would momentarily shut Bridgett up. "Are you going to set me on fire?"

"I think you're hot enough already," she said, reaching out and grabbing his hand, but Walker wasn't sure she meant it. They hadn't had sex that wasn't either an extension of a fight or the result of heavy drinking in a long time.

Walker carefully took his shirt off trying not to get gas in his eyes or hair - no way was he getting in the car with it on - and tossed it in the trash bin at the end of the pumps, further offending the churchgoers. One older guy with a short-sleeved shirt and a tie was eyeing Walker and shaking his head. Bridgett locked her eyes on him and said in an overly friendly voice, "It's okay, he's going topless for Christ." Then she looked at Walker and added, just loud enough for the other guy to hear, "Jesus often went topless, you know, and not just at the crucifixion. He did it at that wine party he had, too."

In spite of his embarrassment, Walker cracked up. "She's right," he said to the guy, who was scowling as he walked to his car. He turned to Bridgett, who was still holding the nozzle, and reached for the sky. "You don't have to point that at me," he said. "I surrender. We'll pay somebody to fix the door."

This is what always happened in arguments with Bridgett. But she'd always temper any anger that might be building in Walker with a joke or a look that reminded him how much he loved her. Even now, after all the arguments and the underlying tension that marked their life together, he could still get the same feeling that came over him the first time he saw her.

Coming Thursday, July 22

Skip Tracer Installment 16: Walker Gets Lucky