Baileys Besieged

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Chapter 9

Tawny walks into her bedroom, flips off her animal slippers, and dives onto her bed.

“Ouch! You Goober.” An invisible friend, Lenny, says, hiding somewhere beneath the sheets.

“Get out of my bed, Lenny!”

A big head pokes out from underneath the covers, and says, “I thought we were friends?”

Wise beyond her years, Tawny replies, “Friends don’t sleep together!”

“What about the ones on television?”

Tawny does not have an answer for her friend.

“I want to play, anyway, Miss Prude!”

Tawny makes a defying face. She walks over to a small closet and pulls out her junior tennis racket.

“Oh…no!” Lenny.

The girl swings the racket and hits Lenny square in the center of the forehead, and he ricochets between walls like a blurred cartoon ball. Tawny’s form is almost perfect as she turns and strikes him again.

“U…n…cl…e!” Lenny bellows, and shoots on by.

Tawny picks up her diary, holds it open, and then slams the invisible friend inside both its covers, before Lenny knows what hits him. Little Tawny snaps the clasp on the object closed, quickly. In minutes, even his feint voice begins to fade.

Right then her mother calls her. “Tawny…dinner!”

The phone rings. “Hello.” Georgia says.

“Hello”, a childlike voice answers at the other end of the line.

“Who is this?”

“Michael McCain. Can I talk to Tawny?”

“She’s in the middle of dinner, right now. Can she call you back, Michael?”

“Ok.”

Georgia hangs up the phone.

“Not a boyfriend, huh?”

Tawny raises her arms with her palms held up, as if to communicate—what do you want from me?

“I thought so.”

Georgia wonders if the eerie and child-like voice she heard had sprung from one of Tawny’s little friends, as both sit down at the kitchen table.

“Tawny, will you say Grace?”

Tawny bows her head. Words come quickly. “Thank God for mommy. And Michael. And Nestle Quick.” She hesitates before adding, “And Bible Defender. Amen.”

Before picking up a fork, Georgia makes her own silent prayer. She silently thanks God that Cledus Beaumont has a strong and compassionate soul, and that she holds the ability to comfort him. Above all, Georgia finds some peace in the realization that she may not have to endure another year alone.


Larry Quintana has a great deal on his mind. He will be married in just a few short weeks. He attempts to piece together why the Alexandre woman brought Omar Redding something he apparently sent an underling to steal, several years before? Did TJ Winojah’s death have something to do with recent events?

“Lucky...You were right. This Omar Redding may end up dead—after all.”

His tail man had not come up with anything, other than the Alexandre woman walking in Omar’s apartment with what appeared to be a portfolio as well as a large bible. Through binoculars, he saw the woman carry the items back out of the star’s abode.

I need to secure a search warrant and find out what is in that portfolio. Larry thinks. Perhaps that will give me some answers? He drops these thoughts, in seeing an attractive woman stroll up to his desk.

Larry takes the woman’s hand as if he finds it is awkward grasping it.

“Hi.” The woman smirks.

“Hell—o. What can I do for you, mam?”

“My name is Sally. I may have some information you may find useful.”

Larry’s eyebrows rise. “Information?”

“About Omar Redding…Alias Sammy Moore.”

Larry pulls up a chair, quite intrigued. “Go on.”

“Well…We may be able to work a deal.”

In his many years on the force, Larry comes to understand there is going to be some sort of catch. The woman tries every angle to beat around the proverbial bush.

Larry looks at his watch. “I’ve got to go shortly…Miss?”

“Sally.”

“Sally. Why don’t you leave me a number where I can reach you, and we can discuss this another time?”

The woman smiles. She flips out a card with a professional design surrounding elegant typeface. Larry pockets the item. He cannot help but gawk at the woman’s chiseled body, before the woman of many disguises walks gracefully out the door.


The fingerprints Dr. Wayne lifted are forwarded to a buddy he knows in law enforcement, and they come back ‘no known match’. Dr. Wayne is one of two people on the earth that knows Sammy Moore is an imposter. Furthermore, he faces a difficult dilemma in attempting to discover who impersonates the rock Icon? Law enforcement digs deeper and tells him the fingerprints do not match any fingerprints in the national law enforcement database. Ultimately, Dr. Wayne does not know what to do with the information. He can sell it to the tabloids, but he doesn’t need the money. He could confront the man himself, though he knows that might be dangerous. Above all, it comes down to considering his own ethical code. What if some sort of mistake has been made in testing? I also need to consider my reputation. I need to consider if this discovery will create more problems than are necessary for myself?

In this day-and-age, it was not all that uncommon for celebrities to change their names. It unnerves Dr. Wayne to wonder why the man has no birth certificate, no criminal record, yet carries Sammy Moore’s Valid ID. Could there have been a botched entry somewhere? Could Sammy have paid to have his own fingerprints removed? If so, Why? What had Sammy Moore done? If this was an imposter, where was the real Sammy Moore? All these things cycle through the doctor’s distinguished head.

“Why has this charade become my burden?” Is a question he continually asks himself.

Dr. Wayne’s record isn’t squeaky clean. He twice faxed prescriptions for a couple patients’ steroids and was slapped with a fifteen thousand dollar fine. He ended up doing several hundred hours of community service. This begs the question, ‘Who will serve justice on an educated hunch?’

In deep throws of sleep, the Dr. remembers an Officer Quintana that had visited the injured man in the hospital. Wayne had even pocketed the man’s business card. Once fully awake, he cannot help but wonder if the police officer anticipates his phone call. Upon picking up the phone, he neglects to consider who may be listening on the other end of the line.

He dials the number on the card, anyway.

“Reno Police Department.”

“Can I speak with Officer Quintana?”

“What’s this about?”

“I must speak with him about Sammy Moore.”

“Thee…Sammy Moore!” The other man says, and suddenly hesitates, as if he has caught himself acting giddy. “I’ll transfer you.”

Dr. Wayne waits what seems like an eternity. But the line finally rings through.

“Hello.”

“Officer Quintana, this is Dr. Wayne.”

“How the hell are you?”

“I been better.”

“What’s up?”

“We need to discuss things in private.”

“Does this involve Sammy Moore?”

“Affirmative.”

“When you free?”

“On Tuesday afternoon.”

“What time?”

“Say…Four O’clock.”

“Better make it four-thirty.”

“Ok.”

“How about we meet at Baileys? You Like Racquetball?”

“Been looking for a good opponent.”

“I’m not that good.”

“We’ll see on Tuesday.”

“See you there.”

“Later.”

Larry thinks the phone line makes a weird CLICK! Then, he wonders if he is just imagining things? He leans back in his executive chair and cracks his knuckles. This is it. He thinks. Why would a doctor go out of his way to talk to me about Sammy Moore? “What’s on your chart Bozo?”

His partner looks up from the paperwork at his desk. “Excuse me?”

Not you, Bozo. Larry thinks.“Nothing. Dr. Wayne wishes to discuss Sammy Moore.”

“Probably doing his wife.”

“I can’t picture his wife asking for Moore.”

“Remember that nurse?”

“Candy Striper.”

“Is that her stage name? You sure it wasn’t Candy Stripper?”

Both men chuckle. They picture Omar Redding getting VIP treatment, despite what the young medical assistant called herself.

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