by Linda Seals
“I can’t wait to tell Louie what we did with her phone!” Liz Burzachiello crowed in a hard whisper. She looked around the corner to make sure the men were not coming out of the building again and then ran-walked her way over to the bench, retrieved the phone, and returned triumphantly. She was high on adventure.
“We have to get out here!” I said hoarsely, and stepped out of the dogwood bushes we’d hidden ourselves behind. My heart was racing, even though we were safe and undetected at the moment. I grabbed the tools and headed for the car, whispering over my shoulder, “Come on!”
Liz poked her head around the corner one more time and then followed. We found the car in the sea of Binder Enterprises employee vehicles, and then, although I wanted to burn rubber and get the hell out of there, I slowly pulled out of the lot, put on my turn signal at the stop sign, and slowly turned onto the major street adjacent to Binder Enterprises, trying to go slowly, slowly, when all the time my mind was racing.
Liz Burzachiello was almost jumping up and down in her seat. “Those dirtbags! Faccia di merda! Faccia di merda!”
Although I wasn’t quite sure what that meant, I could feel the sentiment, and agreed. We tried to discuss what had just happened, but we kept talking over one another and interrupting, jacked up on adrenalin.
“God, I wish we could do something! We could, we could—” she sputtered, starting to go off into a string of profanities.
“Liz, Liz—take it easy! Let’s just figure some things out. Calm down!” I said.
“Hey, I can’t help it, I’m Italian!” she grinned, gesturing with her hands. I did like her passion for life, so I couldn’t disagree with her expressing it. We were both in a state of highly charged emotions.
“Well, doesn’t it sound like ‘the fuckin’ Daryl’ is Nephew?” I asked.
“Yeah! Bernice’s neighbor said he heard a name like ‘Daryl’, right?” Liz crowed.
“And Nephew’s actions do seem to be as stupid as those two attribute to Daryl,” I said. “So now we have a name for an idiot and a boyfriend acting like a jerk. Great. Now what?”
Liz Burzachiello didn’t have an answer either.
We went back to the client’s property to pick up the trailer and Liz’s car, and I headed home alone, with my thoughts racing. In the rearview mirror, I could see Liz driving behind me, already on her phone to her sister. I could see her free hand waving expressively, getting tangled in her earbud cord. At least she’s got one hand on the wheel, I thought.
