Quiet and sunny afternoon somewhere on the coast of Kalifornia. The phone rings in a cozy house on a hillside.

A heavily accented voice answers the call.

"¿Allo?"

"Manuel?" (The man's name is Manuel, it's not my fault, and if I put an Irish au-pair maid there it won't work. So please get a life and just read on).

"¿Sì, Señor?"

"Is my wife home?"

"Sì, Señor."

"Please call her, I need to talk to her."

"No puede, Señor."

"What do you mean, she can't??"

"La Señora, she lock la puerta de la bedderroom, Señor."

"She locked... Why?"

"La Señora she in la bedderroom con el Señor George, Señor."

"GEORGE??? Who's the bastard???"

"El profesor de golf, Señor."

"................................................"

"¿Señor?"

Very tense, icily cold voice:

"Manuel..."

"¿Sì, Señor?"

"I'm in New York, Manuel..."

"Sì, Señor."

"I can't do anything from here, Manuel... Can't let the bitch and the sonofabitch get off the hook this time. I think you understand, Manuel. If it was your wife..."

"Tendría que matarla. Seguro que sì."

"Manuel, you remember the hacienda you wanted in Guadalajara..."

"Seguro, Señor."

"Well... I think I can do that for you."

"Gracias, Señor."

"Now, get my shotgun, and do what you have to do."

"Sì, Señor."

Expectant silence on the line. Sounds of closets opening and closing. Metallic noises. Clack-clack of a pump action cocked. Steps on the stairs. A terrible crack, banging, a woman's scream, a man's voice, shrill with fear, three quick shots. One more shot. Broken glass. Strange noises for a couple of minutes. Steps climbing down the stairs, closer, the phone is picked up.

"¿Señor?"

"Manuel?"

"It's done, Señor."

"Thank you, Manuel. Where are they?"

"La Señora she is en el bed. El Señor he fall para la window en la swimming pool, Señor."

"The swimming pool???"

"Sì, Señor."

"..................................."

"¿Señor?"

"But we don't... Er... I mean... Is this not 555 4738???"