Someone had once laughingly suggested that station management install “backyard fences” in the residential sections. The jokester had immediately initiated a six-month wrangle over where, what color, who would pay for them, wood vs. chain-link, and installation vs. maintenance logistics, until Bull Morgan had finally put his authoritative foot down in the middle of the ruckus and quashed it with a succinct “No fences!”
Long-time ‘eighty-sixers still occasionally grumbled over it.
Kit had no more than opened the gym door than someone called out, “Hey, Grandpa! Hows the arthritis?”
Kit shot back a time-honored response and told Margo, “That way. You’ll find clean gym shorts and T-shirts at the window. Tell ’em to put it on my bill.”
”Okay.”
At least nobody wolf-whistled at Margo’s stilt-heeled progress toward the women’s shower room. Kit changed and emerged to find Malcolm leaning easily against one wall. Margo had not yet put in an appearance.
”Aren’t you going to spar with us?” Kit asked with a wolfish grin.
Malcolm feigned surprise. “Me? End up wrestling around on the floor with your grandkid? Kit, stupid I ain’t.”
”You’re twenty years younger than I am, dammit Dress out. If you’re short of pocket cash, I’ll pay for the rental. Hell, I’ll pay for the sparring session. If we knock her flat enough, maybe she’ll give up.”
”Well, okay. It’s your party. But I wouldn’t count on it. She does remind me a little of you.”
Kit tossed his towel at Malcolm’s head. The younger man grinned, caught it, and tossed it right back, then headed for the shower room. Margo emerged decently clad in shorts, a loose T-shirt, and rented cotton-soled shoes. She moved well, but that might just have been youth and an unfortunate tendency toward exhibitionism. Clearly, she was perfectly well aware that every male eye in the room was on her.