Willie was her constant companion. He never left her side. He was her nickel plated 9mm with explosive tips. In wrong hands, he could fail.

She retraced her steps and could only surmise that Willie fell off in the port-o-let she was forced to visit because she forgot her Imodium.

Oh, THAT "Willie"--not "Willy". Well, Will's answer is:

"Whoever hath her wish,
thou hast thy 'Will,'
And 'Will' to boot, and 'Will' in overplus."

Muttering furiously, she began scrambling back down the hill toward the house. As she crossed the lawn, a silhouette appeared in a second-story window...

It was Willie, in the sweaty palm of another woman. Her hands were closed tightly around him.

Modesty silently hissed to herself, "That's my Willie."

As she watched this unknown woman stroke her Willie's long, smooth barrel, she felt her chest begin to tightnen. The green monster reared its head.

[buzzer]

[twenty-five words, Moogie!!]

WHAT? ;)

Her back pressed against the side of the house, Modesty slowly crept toward the front door.

"Nobody plays with my Willie but me," she muttered.

[cheater, cheater, pumpkin eater...]

[You changed your comments....arghhhh]

;-)

She fumed to herself, "We're trying to get away from the O'Shay brothers and Willie finds time to knock off a piece.. Damn him!"

"You girls step aside." The soft male voice coming from upstairs was that of Bruce, the uber-gay cabana boy. "That Willie is all mine."

Modesty had no time for dicking around. The serial number stamped on Willie was what she needed. It was the combination to the magic box.

Memories of the magic box flooded in. They forced a wicked grin to form across her slender face. Modesty's newly hatched plan had delicious promise.

She remembered how wet she was. Being forced into the cold river, reminded her of a past situation. It was time to go for it.

Suddenly, a twig snapped behind her. "Why if it isn't Modesty Blaise," said a voice she had never forgotten. "So we meet again, my sweet."

Modesty quickly turned around to face the one person she had never quite forgotten. "What the hell are you following me for?" she hysterically screamed.

It was Willie's brother Johnson, owner of Johnson's bar and casino. A small, smoky joint featuring liquor in the front and poker in the rear.

"Numbers Johnson," Modesty sneered. "Here to offer me your fell ratios?" "Ah, my dearest Modesty," said Numbers. "I forgot what a cunning linguist you were."

"Your tongue may have gotten me into bed once, but it won't work again" Modesty hissed back in a venom laden husky tone of regret.

She burst through the door, ran upstairs, right-hooked the blonde and caught Willie as it arced through the air. "Hands off the merchandise, honey."

Now that Modesty had Willie and the combination to the box, all she had to do was find it...if only she could remember where...

that danged three lock box was. Willie felt good in her hand, she squeezeed his solid frame with a firm grip on reality. Slowly she.....

started to remember the last time they were together. It was a night of passion and fetish that caused her to lose all inhibitions and

...turned. Bruce, the uber-gay cabana boy, blocked the doorway. He held a hypodermic needle and martini. "I know where the box is. Let's deal."

"Deal? Deal? We don't need no stinking deal!" Modesty snickered as she pulled out a envelope with pictures of Bruce and Tommy Lee together, alone.

Modesty grabbed the martini from the cabana boy's hand and downed it with one gulp, throwing the glass to one side. Seizing the needle, she,,,

Drove it into sweet boys temple, kicked him in the balls, and headed toward the door…and a new life. No time for dicking around

It was not until she was in an old stolen car and far, far away did she realize, once again, dammit, she lost her Willie.

"Damn it !" she howled " I can't seem to keep my hand on my Willie!" I knew I should have kept it tied to my left............

...hip. But Modesty didn't care. She had memorized the serial number. And she suddenly realized where the magic box must be. She stomped the accelerator.

For now, her reality became nothing more than the whine of tires on pavement and the two skewed patches of blacktop illuminated in the headlights.