Georgia thinks it safer for everyone if she rents a large safe deposit box and puts the bible within its secure depths. Heaven knows she could no longer risk the safety of her family to whomever plotted the coup.
She fills out all the paperwork, gets her own key, and begins to feel indifferent about the whole process. Suddenly, it becomes inconsiderable to trust someone else with her baby. What disturbs her, to the core, is the thought of what type of person would want a family bible? She can’t help but think of The Terminator and some goon stepping through an invisible curtain in order to find the bible, possess it, and then disappear. The hombre that did step through the curtain isn’t any less discerning or alien.
Georgia thinks. Is my imagination a disability? Or does it help relieve the stress, and make me the luckiest woman on planet earth?
Tawny has a hard time sleeping, thinking some strange man violated their private space. It horrifies her, even more, to think the man may have read her diary. Georgia tries to repair the hurt by consoling her daughter with the fact the man is in jail. When Tawny has another Asthma attack, both their worlds find better perspective.
Larry has the injured man prepped and escorted into an interrogation room. The officer and another detective stand outside one-way glass and look at the man with a heavily bandaged right eye. The other man lowers his coffee cup, before speaking.
“Does he understand the charges?”
“Something tells me this is going to be a doozy.”
“Good luck! I’m going to get me more coffee.”
Larry opens the door and steps inside the interrogation room. The seated man catches a glimpse of him, quickly, before returning his gaze to the floor.
“Hello, my name is Officer Quintana. I’m going to ask you a few questions.”
The perp replies with a BURP!
Larry can’t tell whether the response stems from a bodily reflex or is formed from an internal need to mock him.
“We have several eye-witnesses, including paramedics, that spotted you in the hall and heard your screams for help.”
The man with a heavily patched eye looks up from the table.
“What do you want from me?”
“Why did you pick the lock and enter the woman’s apartment?”
“I was bored.”
“Don’t be a Smart Ass! Did someone hire you to do a job?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“I was looking for a pair of women’s panties.”
The guy cackles, before he gets what he wants to say out of his mouth.
“Because…,” He he… “I’m a weirdo that’s into that sort of thing.”
“What was the step stool for?”
“You got me.”
“Your record proceeds you. I think we can get you for inhumanity to an animal, as well as book you for breaking and entering.”
“I thought you had a story to tell me.”
“I gave it to you,” The man says. And his good eye twitches.
“Do you think I was born yesterday?”
“No…You definitely evolved from an ape!”
Larry pulls out his ballpoint pen and plunges it towards the man’s good eye.
“You’re crazy, man. I’ll sue you!”
“You think I’m wealthy?”
The pen gets closer to the perp’s iris, vanquishing the man’s remaining eyesight.
“Ok…ok. Sammy Moore hired me to steal the woman’s bible.”
Larry withdraws his pen, and pulls back from the perp, intrigued.
“Thee, Sammy Moore?” Larry asks.
He ponders this information, before he asks again, “Why would a famous rock singer want someone’s bible?”
“I don’t know…Maybe he found God or something.”
Larry has the first good laugh he had in quite a while.
The man sits back in his chair and waits for Larry to make a third pass.
“You have another one?”
“You have another story for me, Noah?”
“You think I’m enjoying this?”
Not even hesitating, Larry leaves the room before he smacks the man silly.
How long we gonna’ be going around in circles? The detective wonders.
Larry gets a robust cup of coffee. He walks back over to stare at the man through one-way glass. His new secretary hands him a message.
Larry reads it. ‘Please call Marla—wants to talk.’ Talk about what?
Larry pockets the note. He pulls out the first cigarette he had in six months and smokes it with all the fondness tobacco can allow. His thoughts return to the interrogation, and he thinks he needs a new approach.
The investigator walks over to the control counter and asks a techy to pipe into the room some brain splitting riffs by Street Posse. Seconds Later…The one-eyed man offers no reaction and appears to treat the sound like it mirrors the same music and level he listens to at home.
This time when Larry walks into the interrogation room, he finds the perp’s eyes rolled into the back of his head—locked in the intense vice of a seizure. Larry puts his name badge between the man’s upper and lower teeth to keep the dude from snapping his tongue.
He gets on the intercom and shouts, “I need a paramedic in here!”
Several seconds later…A medical team rushes in to aid the convulsing man. Larry exits the room to smoke another cigarette; he is aware he needs to find release in something outside of himself.
“Unbelievable,” says another member of his squad. The man chuckles before adding, “Just think…If he dies, they’ll say you killed him with a lethal dose of Street Posse.”
Larry rolls his eyes and thinks about a thug he once handcuffed. The man’s rock tour shirt indicated, over the list of tour dates, A Bullet For My Valentine Tour. Three months passed. Another handcuffed man walked into the precinct with a shirt that read I want to fuck your corpse!
The detective backs up against the wall and lets out a large burst of air, because he realizes the interrogation is done for the day. He finds himself thinking about Omar Redding, who had a tail man following him in Bora Bora, and who was the one person with no spiritual need for any message espoused in a bible.
FOUR HOURS LATER…
Larry kicks off his shoes, checks the messages in his voicemail, and dials Marla’s number.
After quick hellos, Larry says, “You wanted to talk to me?”
“Yes…You’re a sweetie. I just wanted you to know I’m pregnant.”
“Jeeeeese. How did that happen?”
Marla snorts to avoid laughter.
“I met a guy at a bar, and it eventually went too far. I would have called you earlier... But I didn’t know for sure.”
It. Why don’t you admit any responsibility. YOU went too far!
“I still want us to be friends. I can’t lay this on you. There is someone out there for you.”
Like I haven’t heard that phrase before! Larry thinks. Then he adds, “I gotta go.”
Larry returns, “Bye.”
Larry gets up from his lounger, grabs a beer from the fridge, and sits back down to watch American Idol. Using a handy remote, he turns on his PC, and hears ‘You got mail’. He finds three e-mails in his inbox. One is a newsletter from About.com, one is spam, and a third is a greeting and bio from a redhead named Tina: who is thirty-eight, single, and has no children.
Larry prints out the bio and takes it with him over to a comfortable chair. He leaves the photo on the monitor, where he can look at it when he likes. He has a strange feeling come over him, a déjà vu sort of feeling, a feeling they have met somewhere before.
At the same time, Larry thinks it may just be the sanest thing he considered all day.
“Let’s see what you do?”
He reads the bio further to find Tina works as a fitness instructor. She must have a killer body! At the bottom of the bio he finds an e-mail address with the words old fashion mixed in its tag. Can this really be an old-fashioned gal? A woman that would never accidentally get impregnated by Mr. Good Bar, or that isn’t superficial enough to assess a man in the first eight seconds of meeting him. Interests: physical fitness (a given), movies, hockey and baseball, and children. Turnoffs: Irresponsible Men. Men that have no substance beyond a pretty face. Larry is already pumped by the information. And it gives him a reason to start hoisting iron again. He is afraid to send his picture—right away, knowing there are quite a few web-crawlers that will immediately respond or not based upon a photo alone. Somehow, Larry thinks this old-fashioned woman is deeper than that.
He sits down at his computer, types out a quick hi to attach to his own bio, and sends the message to the given e-mail address. Larry continues to sit there, as if he expects an immediate response. Ten minutes pass…before he returns to World Cup Soccer on the television. He finds comfort in the fact the computer will announce when new e-mail arrives.
Cledus walks along the beach. He feels a strange sensation he is being followed. Not by Belinda, not by the exotic beauty that let him ravish her, but by a man feigning to be a tourist. His theory is further confirmed when he begins to run. He races around a bend and takes a sharp left through a memento shop.
A pursuer runs into his bodyguard, waiting on the other side. “You got a problem, buddy?” A muscular man named Bruno asks.
“Isn’t that Sammy Moore?”
“Yes…And I’m his bodyguard.”
“Well…I’m his greatest fan!”
“Beat it! Mr. Moore has enough crazed lunatics following him, asking for his autograph, and breaking into his condo. Need I say more?”
The PI pursuit ends there…. for the time being.