by Deek Rhew
Monica sighed. “Actually, if you’d taken accurate notes you would know that I don’t know who arrived first. I didn’t look. Didn’t care. I just wanted them to leave me in peace. Whoever it was didn’t say anything until his lover arrived.”
“I see.”
“Do you? You seem confused. I thought my story was very linear. Here.” She held out her hands for the pad of paper and pen. “I can draw stick figures or make a flow chart or something for you, if it will aid in your comprehension of the situation.”
Jon set the legal pad on the table, where it lay like a flat yellow turd. He removed his glasses and placed them next to the papers. “See, and there’s my problem. The whole thing sounds like a ‘story.’ It seems simply too fantastic. Too convenient. I’m having trouble with it.”
“Which part?”
“All of it. This mystery boy lets you stay for free. You almost never go to class, yet pull straight A’s. You just happened to be there when one of the biggest drug lords in New York decides to renew his library card.”
Monica shrugged and continued to gaze at him.
He looked back at her for several minutes. Finally, he gathered his belongings and stood. “I need to go have a conversation.”
“Oh? Am I boring you?”
He opened the door but stopped before exiting. “Do you need to pee?”
“Pardon?”
“Pee.” He pointed at the mirror. “Earlier you told my people you needed to go.”
Maybe she could get out of here after all. “Yes. I need to urinate.”
“Very well. I will send a female agent to escort you.”
“Don’t think you can handle me? Got to get a real agent to do your dirty work for you?”
“In my position, I’m above having to take a dog for a squat.”
“Whatever. Go talk to your goons. I’m sure they want to congratulate you on a job well done. Maybe give you some kind of commendation, Biggest Asshole at the Agency.”
“Probably. Sit tight.”
* * *
Bad Facelift returned a few minutes after the door closed. “Come,” she said and allowed Monica to exit.
The narrow hall felt as cavernous as a baseball stadium compared to the confining space of the interrogation room. Bad Facelift marched Monica past a series of unmarked doors to one with the female bathroom symbol. The agent followed her into the sterile space.
“Don’t I get a little privacy?” Monica mocked.
“The stall has a door, Ms. Sable.”
She entered the stall but could not force herself to go. She hadn’t actually needed to pee, just wanted out of the interrogation room and hoped for the possibility of escape. But Facelift had kept her distance and probably carried a weapon.
“Are you almost done, Ms. Sable? We have an organization to run, and I do not have the time or the patience to sit here waiting for you.”
“Maybe it evaporated. Besides, what are you going to do? Come in after me?”
“Yes,” came the unhesitant reply.
This girl means business. Monica could almost hear the smile in the woman’s voice. Try me, the tone said. Shit. “Fine. Fine. Whatever.” She cleaned up and came out of the stall.
As they marched back, Monica asked, “Can I get some food too?”
“I was instructed to see you safely transported to and from the restroom. You will have to take up other amenities with Mr. Smith.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. You would be helping to keep my strength up.”
Bad Facelift held open the door. “This isn’t a hotel, Ms. Sable, and I’m not your maidservant. Now, if you please.” She gestured toward the entrance.
Monica sighed as she re-entered the small space and once again found herself alone.
* * *
Monica resumed her place on the floor, counting the holes in the ceiling, starting where she’d left off. She had almost doubled her original number when Jon swooped in, followed by Crew Cut. Jon resumed his seat while the man with the Super Bowl-field hair stood next to the door.
“Hey.” She grinned at Crew Cut. “How’s the nose?”
He didn’t react or say anything but just stared at her. She studied his face a little closer. Could he be scowling more than normal? Is somebody in a bad mood? Poor boy.
Jon still had the yellow legal pad, which he flipped to a middle page.
“So,” she asked, turning her attention back to her interrogator, “did your little conversation go well? Did you decide if I’m lying or not? Want me to tell you something else?”
“Actually, it doesn’t matter.”
A jolt ran through her. “Pardon?”
“It doesn’t matter if you’re lying or not. We are about done here.”
Her body stiffened. Were they going to let her go? She had anticipated at least one more round of interrogations. “So what does that mean?”
“It means that we need you to tell your story again.”
Her anger flared as they pulled the rug out from under her again. “What? To whom? You?” She directed this last question at Crew Cut.
Jon chuckled. “No, no, you have it all wrong. To a jury.”
She smelled a trap. “I don’t have any idea what you are talking about.”
“We’re going to bring charges up against Laven Michaels, and you’re the star witness.”
This game Jon played fanned the flames of her already lit and stubby fuse. “Who’s Laven Michaels?”
“Joe Pesci.”
“Joe is Laven?”
“One and the same.”
Anger and annoyance merged, producing a baby so irked, it bordered on irritable bowel syndrome. “So who is Laven slash Joe?” Monica asked.
Jon shook his head. “See, I think you already know that.”
Instead of leaping across the table and throttling the agent, she took a long deep breath. With her last sliver of patience, she said, “For argument’s sake, let’s say I don’t have all the answers.”
Jon sighed. “Fine. Laven Michaels is, among other things, the biggest mover of illegal and controlled substances in the city. We’ve been trying for years to nail him with something that will stand up in court, and until yesterday we didn’t have it. But now we have a witness that places him and Tyron Erebus, a known assassin for hire, having a conversation about a murder that, until yesterday, we didn’t know about but have since uncovered.”
She crossed her arms and sat back. “So you want me to testify?”
“Yes.” Jon smiled. “That’s all we need.” But something sinister lurked right beneath the surface of the man’s knowing grin. “Oh,” he said, as if the thought had just occurred to him, “you will be sequestered until the grand jury renders a verdict.”
She sat forward in her chair. “Ummm, no. See that doesn’t work for me. I have school and a life.”
“Both of those things will be put on hold. You can resume your classes after Laven is locked safely away.”
“No, you don’t understand. If I drop out of school, even for a while, I lose my scholarship.” The first ripples of real panic began to course through her. “Sorry, I can’t do it. You’ll have to find some other way of nabbing this scumbag. It’s not my problem.”
Jon leaned forward until they were almost nose-to-nose. “See, it is you who doesn’t understand. One way or another, you’ve lost your scholarship. You are done with school for now.”
A quiet dread filled her stomach, but she refused to blink as she stared into Jon’s eyes. “What are you talking about? My cooperation is strictly voluntary, and I am no longer volunteering.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. We looked into your scholarship. It’s for academics and ethics.”
“Yeah. So?” She had to change the direction of the conversation—sway it to an alternate course, just a few degrees left or right—because right now it was headed straight toward the rocks, and she would be smashed to bits when it
hit. But as frantically as her mind worked, throwing levers and spinning wheels, no ideas materialized to turn the tide in her direction.
“The review board that oversees the funding of the award has been notified that you’ve been brought up on charges, one of them a felony.”
She blinked. She hated herself for giving in, but the room had started to spin as her existence began to spiral out of control. They were trying to rip away everything she’d worked her entire life to achieve. “What? What are you talking about?”
She resisted the urge to smack the satisfied expression off Jon’s smug face. “Obstruction of justice for one. Your little story may sound good at a book club, but it doesn’t wash here.”
“Obstruction of justice? I’m here aren’t I? I came in willingly to help you.”
Crew Cut snorted.
“Okay, maybe not of my own accord, but I’m still here. I recorded the damned conversation and gave you my phone. Have you even bothered to listen to it?” She fought the desperation that clawed at her like a feral cat.
“Oh, yes. Many times. Our techs have pulled it apart and are trying to determine exactly how you altered the recording.”
“I wha…? Ummm…no. That didn’t happen. You’ve got nothing.” Though her words were sharp, the room spun faster, and she had to hold onto the table just to keep from falling over. “There is no obstruction of justice. The recording was in no way modified no matter what your ‘experts’ say. You’ve got nothing. You need to contact the review board and say there has been a mistake, and you need to do it now, or I’ll hire my own lawyer and bring holy hell down around your heads.”
“As for the second charge, assault…”
She reeled back as if she’d been slapped. “What assault?”
“You assaulted a federal officer.” He nodded towards Crew Cut. “That itself is a felony. You claim you came here willingly, but attacking one of our agents hardly seems cooperative.”
“He surprised me. Grabbed me in public like he was some kind of pervert. How was I supposed to know who he worked for?”
“Maybe when he identified himself it should have clued you in.”
Monica glared at Crew Cut, who now smirked at her. “You told him you gave me your name, rank, and serial number? That’s not the way I remember it.” Her attention returned to Jon. “I’m single and alone in a big city. As such, I’ve learned to protect myself from the lowlifes that prowl the streets. He’s just lucky I wasn’t really pissed, or he’d be in the hospital.”
Jon held up his hand for silence. “As we speak, the scholarship committee is convening to discuss the situation. I think you can imagine how that will end.”
Monica’s heart sank. Years of work and dreams lost. A possible career and life after the hell she’d been living—gone in an instant.
“Here’s the deal,” Jon said. “You will go hide away for a while and testify. In exchange, we forget about these little incidents, chalk them up to misunderstandings.”
“Great. So I’ll only not go to prison.”
“We’ll also give you a full-ride scholarship including a stipend for living expenses. No more having to bum a room in exchange for blow jobs.”
If she could have shot fire from her eyes, she would have turned him to a flaming McNugget. “So my choices are jail or jail and school?”
“Not jail, Ms. Sable. Just a minor inconvenience to help us put away a very bad man. Consider it giving back to society. However, your testimony has to be rock solid. The prosecutor says if you stick with the story you’ve given us…”
Monica thumped the table. “It isn’t a story.”
“Yes, yes. If you stick to the story you’ve given us, you’d better not waver a single syllable. Everything you’ve said had better be accurate, or the charges stick and our offer is revoked. What do you say?”
She looked at Jon then at Crew Cut, who continued to smirk down at her. “What choice do I have?”
“Good, I’m glad we came to an agreement. We begin immediately. First, I’d like you to meet Hale Lenski.” He motioned to Crew Cut.
“Yes, we’ve had the pleasure,” she said. “Though until now I didn’t know his name. Score a point for the ‘secret’ part of ‘secret service.’” She turned to Crew Cut. “Gotta be kind of embarrassing for you to get your ass kicked by a girl though, huh? What are you—an accountant with delusions of grandeur you could excel in the field? That never really works out, does it?”
Jon prevented her from continuing to badger the agent by saying, “Mr. Lenski is a highly trained field operative and the head of your security detail.”
So it got worse. “He’s my what?”
Crew Cut gave her a grin so plastic it could have had Made in Taiwan stamped on the back of it. “It’s my job to keep you safe by whatever means I deem necessary. Don’t worry”—he leered—“I’ll take good care of you.”
A sense of foreboding tried to wash over her already overtaxed nerves, but Monica shoved it away. She had always relied only on herself; this would be no different. Besides, she’d kicked Crew’s ass once, so she could do it again if she had to. She sat back, returned his smile, and began planning her escape.
4
Monica pressed the phone to her ear, listening to it ring in a world a thousand miles and half a lifetime away. A familiar voice answered. “Hello.” A longing for home washed through her at the simple greeting.
“Hey, it’s me.”
“Oh, hey hon! I didn’t recognize the number. How’s life in the Big Apple?”
“Ummm…fine. How are things with you?”
“Mon, what’s wrong?”
Just like that, the years unwound, and within a few words, her best friend sensed something was wrong. She must have heard the anxiety in Monica’s voice. “Jesus, how do you always know?”
“I’m amazing,” Angel replied. “Now spill.”
Monica sighed. “I need to see you. Soon.”
“Okay, like how soon?”
“When can you get here?”
“Ummm, honey, I’ve never even been to New York. I don’t know. I guess I could figure something out.”
Monica shifted the phone to her other ear. “No. Not New York. I’m at Len’s off Highway 23.”
“Wait. You’re there now?”
“Yes.”
Nothing lined the deserted roads leading into and out of The Cove for almost a hundred miles in either direction except trees, scrub pines, and jagged mountains. But some sixty clicks north, smack dab in the middle of nowhere, Len’s Little Diner eked out a humble existence off of weary travelers too exhausted and desperate to find something decent.
“Okay.” Monica heard her friend shift gears like a well-tuned auto, from surprised to task-oriented problem-solver. “I’m scheduled to work…gotta get out of that… I’ll be there in a couple hours. Maybe a little less.”
Just like that, no questions. Her friend would bend heaven and earth to be there for her. Gratitude and love soothed Monica’s heart.
* * *
Ninety minutes later, Angel’s beat-up VW Beetle bumbled into the parking lot of Len’s Little Diner. Usually when they met, Angel greeted her with a hug and a Texas smile. But today she slid into the booth, somber and without so much as a “hello.” Time to get to business.
“I’m leaving,” Monica said without preamble.
Angel cocked her head, consternation reflecting in her eyes. “What do you mean? You’ve already left. Where are you going?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“I don’t understand.” Angel studied her closely, like a scientist examining an unusual specimen of bacteria. “Mon, you look like crap. What the hell’s going on?”
Monica took a deep breath. “Look, I saw something I wasn’t supposed to, and now some people, some very angry people, would like nothing more than for me to be quiet. Forever. So, I’m going into a program that will protect me from them. In exchange, I have
to testify to what I saw, but that won’t be for a long time. Stupid court system takes forever. Kinda funny, me wanting to be a lawyer and complaining about the court system, don’t ya think? Anyway, the government—at least I think it’s the government, they’re kinda hush hush about all that, assholes—promises to keep me alive. So we won’t be able to see each other for a long time. Maybe even ever. I just wanted the chance to say goodbye to my soul sister, so that’s why I’m here. To say goodbye.”
Angel blinked several times after the random rush of words bombarded her. “What are you talking about? What people? What did you see? Why would anyone want to hurt you? I haven’t seen or heard from you in months, and now you make me meet you out here in BF Egypt telling me you’re going away or underground or whatever because someone, what? Wants you dead? That’s what you’re saying, right? Someone wants to kill you? This makes zero sense.” Angel paused and took a deep breath. “Okay, honey, what exactly is going on? Start from the beginning, and tell me everything.”
Monica regarded Angel over the diner’s worn, yellow laminate table. She wanted to talk to her friend, not only because she needed to say goodbye but also because someone should know what had happened to her. Besides, she needed someone to talk over the situation with, and no one fit the bill better.
From an academic perspective, the two belonged to different leagues. Monica had natural book smarts. Angel on the other hand… If she were a bulb, her filaments wouldn’t shine as brightly as the rest of the lights in the chandelier. As a knife, her edge would be duller than the other cutlery in the drawer. On the shelves in the grocery, she would be one Dr. Pepper short of a six-pack. Angel had little ambition and tended to pick men for their looks and bad boy attitudes instead of their willingness and ability to make her happy. But her heart overflowed with kindness and patience. Plus, she possessed an uncanny ability to see through bullshit.
Angel had entered the diner as a pigheaded pragmatist, and in this mode, no amount of arguing would sway her from getting to the heart of the matter.
