They turn onto South Rosemary Avenue, the main street of CityPlace. "The shopping and entertainment complex," Rog intones like a pompous city councilman, "responsible for the revitalization of West Palm Beach." Rog always says this when they get here, and always adds, "Where old world architecture, fountains, and sidewalk cafés conjure the spirit of a European town." Wally wouldn't know, having never been to Europe or anywhere outside the U.S. except the Bahamas. But he does know CityPlace was made for him, because it contains every venue for meeting MILFs, from Macy's to GapKids to Barnes & Noble to Cheesecake Factory to Gianna's Health and Wellness Spa. It's not even 10 AM and a school day, but already the streets and stores are filled with women. Some with preschool kids, some with kids off for Good Friday, some with husbands glumly carrying shopping bags, some in packs, and many alone. Barely dressed; tanned or white-skinned but all gleaming. As they reach the corner of South Rosemary and Hibiscus Wally expects the sun to break through, but it doesn't: the clouds hang heavy and close, almost pressing, it seems to Wally, against his forehead.

And here's The Cheesecake Factory. Lights not on yet, but it'll be open in a few minutes. Several people gather by the front doors. None of them are Simone.

"She said ten," Rog says.

"Sure. Ten. Maybe she'll do a three-way."

"Dream on." It's true: only the total skanks want anything to do with Rog.

Ten o'clock comes and goes. Rog looks at Wally. Wally shrugs. Rog enters the now-open Cheesecake Factory to ask about Simone. Wally does his monkey act for a baby in one of those kangaroo pouches, looking like it burst from its mother's chest like the alien in Alien. Wally crouches and waves his long arms and beats his chest with staccato grunts; the young mother looks nervous, but the baby is open-mouthed with delight, so she stands there. Rog reappears, eyes wide open for a change. "The bitch called in SICK!!"

Instantly young mom turns her back on them, as if to shield her baby, and then hurries away. (The baby's too young to leave someplace anyway, and Wally's code is to never do a MILF with her kid in the same room.) "You sure?"

"Yeah I'm sure. She says she has the flu. I'm dead."

"No you're not."

"Right. We're dead." Rog grabs Wally's arm, pops of sweat on his chin. His voice is naked. "He'll kill us!"

"Rog. Rog. No worries, OK? Who needs Simone! We can do better. Watch."

Macy's is on the next corner. MILFs coming and going. Wally lasers in on a red-haired, freckle-chested, 40-plus-year-old carrying a bruised-looking Macy's bag. "Good morning," he says.

"No it isn't," she says.

"Hey, the gods made it shady today...just for you."

"Well I wish God would make a blouse that fits."

"That's not your fault. You got a figure. Not like these anorectics."

She snorts, walks past Wally into the store.

Instantly Rog gets in his face. "No worries, huh? Ano-REX-ic, by the way. So? Where's the BEAVER, Wally?"

He's never really liked that name. Not that he would ever use his real name for this, but he would prefer something cooler, like Chase. Chase the MILF Chaser. Wally was just slang for his penis — Wally and the Beav, yes — but Rog starting calling him Wally, and soon he and his penis were one, like Frankenstein and monster.

And yet — his response is to stroke Rog's arm. Rog is a jerk, but Wally hates to see anyone upset. "Take a breath," he says. "We're going to Publix."