Larry swallows, quickly then chuckles,
lightly & talks, boldly. “Along with some smartasses’ telephone
numbers, ya got those slips, Arthur.”
Preston reaches, rudely across Larry’s skull
intercepts items. “I’ll take those from ya, Arthur.”
“Sure, boss.” Arthur hands, quickly wads of
paper into Preston’s hand. Preston pockets items into his jacket.
“We scouted and back searched from 16th to 21st Street focusing
between 12th to 10th Avenues coming up with nada, again.”
Geneva growls, deeply in tenor saxophone at
Arthur. “She’s at the college hiding, dumb…”
“Geneva.” Preston rumbles in deep baritone
trombone with his original threat of beating her ass black &
blue.
Geneva redirects, harshly. “Dumbo, with big
elephant ears.”
Arthur debates, logically. “I disagree,
Geneva. Burn U is too big to cover unless we call in a couple of
favors from the governor for Bama National Guardsmen
assistance.”
Larry offers, patriotically. “They’re busy in
Iraq and Afghanistan doing their jobs.”
“You poking fun at me…” Geneva starts,
swiftly, points, rudely unpolished finger nail at Larry.
“Geneva, what’s your birth date?” Preston
asks, calmly while eye burning the pad holding his pencil for
writing.
“Beg pardon.” Geneva blinks, quickly eyelids,
neck snaps to Preston.
“What’s your day and month of your birth?”
Preston whips chin upwardly & smiles, sweetly.
Geneva frowns, ugly then shoots virtual
arrow, piercingly into his heart. “That…that’s irrelevant
information here, Preston.”
“I need it for my FBI report. What’s your
birthday, Geneva?” Preston eye burns notepad with pencil readily
for writing.
Larry chews, quickly & swallows, rapidly
lump of food then talks, hurriedly. “Sorry, Preston, I can do them
reports after our meeting, later tonight. I’ll been too…busy.”
Preston eye burns Geneva & talks,
commandingly. “That’s okay, Larry. I need this…particular data for
my FBI report.”
Larry debates, directly. “I’ll handle them
reports for ya, Preston.”
Preston eye burns Geneva & talks,
authoritatively. “I’m boss and got my own director’s reports just
like…Geneva does.” He poses, pencil onto empty notepad. “What’s
your birthday, Geneva?” He grins, toothy.
Geneva eye burns Preston then rotates,
quickly neck muscles & asks, intensively. “Ilenn, did you find
any more useful clues on your IP address trace?”
“No ma’am.” Ilenn talks, rapidly while eye
burning Arthur. He smiles, sweetly at his girl then consumes,
deliciously bite of sandwich.
Preston injects, boldly. “Give me the
birthday later, Geneva before you leave tonight.” Geneva eye burns
him as he winks, flirtatiously.
Geneva neck snaps to Ilenn, orders, queenly.
“You did as I recall…find something…something important. Repeat,
that something to everyone what you found, Ilenn.”
Ilenn talks, officially. “Well, I have
verified monies was electrically transferred to Kangaroo Stores off
11th Avenue via Lacy’s cell. Larry just told us this as well.”
“Why she use your personal credit card,
Geneva?” Arthur asks, informatively.
Stockton answers, bluntly. “Obviously,
Pamela’s very talented as a hacker in addition to her newly
acquired Retriever skills making her our newest Cyber criminal. I
have pointed many times to Geneva that girl was too smarty for her
own good. The temptation of money is the root of all evil says the
Good Book.”
Larry sums, mysteriously. “Pamela’s greedy
for the cash so she stole Geneva’s credit card but she didn’t
receive a dime of that money. It was more like ID theft…to me.”
Preston inquires, boldly. “Why’s your single
credit card got over $20,000 credit limit, Geneva?” Eyeballs turn
to Geneva.
1 second.
2 seconds.
3 seconds.
Stockton answers for Geneva. “Obviously,
someone in the room pays all her mortgage payments…on time.”
Eyeballs turn to Stockton. Smiles, laughter, immediately.
Preston rumbles in deep baritone trombone.
“That’s way above my average credit limit, I’m mighty impressed.
How ya do that trick, Geneva?” Eyeballs turn to Geneva.
Stockton jokes, lightly, grins, toothy. “You
need to find a swift footed CPA, Preston.”
“Good advice, Stockton!” Preston nods, once,
taps, musically eraser on empty notepad.
“Call me anytime, Preston.” Stockton grins,
toothy, chuckles, lightly.
“What about our rouge Retriever?” Geneva
inquires, meekly with tiny alto clarinet, eye burns Preston.
He stops, suddenly tapping. “Next step, our
bedmates, that’s the FBI bedmates I mean.” Preston grins, toothy.
“IT Shop of tech geeks from both CIA and FBI are going to rip apart
Pamela’s PC…” He points, rudely at her desk. “Over there…looking
for spy software and spy data tracking any more clues to her
whereabouts.”
“When?” Stockton inquires, curiously.
Preston eye burns open archway & counts,
backwardly. “Five, four, three, two, one…”
Visible male leads & waves, friendly.
“Hey, Preston! This the place?” He’s followed by lots of males and
females holding heavy equipment and silver/black boxes.
“Good timing, boys!” Preston stands, swiftly,
leans, heavily & eye burns Geneva. “By the way, your PC’s
getting…fucked too, Geneva.” He grins, toothy & scratches
whickers with finger pads. “Since…Pamela made the mistake of
carelessly using your desktop. And…don’t forget to give me your
birthday before you leave, I need it for my official FBI report.”
He winks, flirtatiously then pivots, soldierly, extends handshake
to tech geeks.
Time: 10:46 p.m. Preston’s home.
Preston races, swiftly his personal sports
car home at hyper speed & notes, quickly interior lights are
not powered hoping Pamela has arrived before him.
She has a key to his house for obvious
reasons with spare house key hidden inside roof of dog house. Best
place in the whole damn world for protection of his personal
property, dog and house. Preston chuckles, lightly.
He slides, smoothly out of car, enters,
carefully darken hallway. He shouts, loudly. “PAMELA!” He waits,
impatiently. “Pamela, honey, are ya here? It’s okay, come out! It’s
me, Preston. I’m here.” He moves, slowly into kitchen, burns
lights. He scans room. Empty!
For peace of mind, Preston scouts each room
of his three bedroom/four bath house. Empty!
Pamela is not here. Preston thinks…hopes she
would come safely to him for protection and explanation.
He tosses, gently briefcase full of papers
onto sofa then removes, cautiously his fire arm to side table. He
marches, quietly to frig & pulls, quickly cold beer then opens,
slowly patio door as dog trots with waggling tail and wiggling
tongue to him for love and support, happily.
22 inches high & 55 pounds, Siberian
Husky’s coat is pure white without markings on head, blackish gray
color inside ears, flesh-colored nose, tail curvy over back. Medium
sized canine has oval shaped piercing blue eyes, erect ears,
triangular in shape sets high on top of head.
Preston’s Husky is strong, compact, working
sled dogs with friendly, strong-willed, outgoing, sometimes
mischievous personalities. He’s strong-mined, independent, very
assertive animal but loving, gently, playful, happy-go-lucky dog
fond of family and likes big open fields at Preston’s home.
Preston drops, downwardly to knees &
pats, roughly ears and neck. “Good boy, Dewy. Good boy!” He &
Dewy trot, slowly to sofa. Preston sits as Dewy hugs his leg.
Preston pulls, slowly laptop from briefcase
onto knees, boots to power, presses button that replays Pamela
inside Burn U computer center.
Pamela enters then turns sideways &
waves, super friendly at corner camera of Burn U computer center.
About 15 minutes, later Pamela stares, beautifully into camera
& smiles, sweetly. Finally, she waves goodbye & exits,
slowly dressed in pink outfit and sandals.
He smiles, sweetly, frowns, ugly, worries,
eternally, prefers, safety, desires her. He pats, smoothly Dewy’s
white fur head. He whispers, softly. “She hides. No, she searches.
Yeah, searching for them same answers…”
Dewy agrees. “Woof!”
Preston eye burns Dewy’s blue eyes. “I…we…got
all them right answers, Dewy. You remember, don’t ya boy.” He rubs,
roughly soft fur.
Dewy agrees. “Woof!”
“I’m going to marry Pamela. She’s smart and
courageous. Do you approve, Dewy?”
Dewy agrees. “Woof!”
Preston pats, briskly dog skin. “Good, knew
ya would, buddy. She loves ya, too. But remember, she’s mine. I’ll
find you a girl, ok?”
Dewy agrees. “Woof!”
“Didn’t realize how lonely I was since Pamela
came into my life? Now, I think about getting married, kids. My
parents’ll be thrilled for both of us. How about a couple of
young’uns chasing you in the back yard, Dewy?”
“Woof!”
“Yeah! I like that idea, too.” He sips,
nosily beer, ponders, deeply. “I…we…can protect her. If only she’d
come back here before…before something bad happens.” Preston talks,
meekly, pats, tenderly Dewy’s head.
Preston punches keys on laptop with index
finger pad. Screen displays pic of Geneva years ago he hacked from
numerous databases with different hair color, hair style &
pretty healthy face. “We got ya, too. Didn’t we, bitch? Right,
Dewy?” He strokes, lightly Dewy’s head.
“Woof!”
“You were right under my hairy nostrils.
Don’t know! Pamela pieced the puzzle together for me, followed her
clues and came up…up with your name, bitch.” He sips, nosily beer.
“Man, my lady’s smart, too smarty. Stockton commented elegantly
about you, honey.” Preston chuckles, lightly. “But…now…I know! I
know all them answers except you didn’t work alone ‘cause you’re
too dumb, bitch. Someone helped you, Geneva. I want to know who had
Thurston killed.” He sighs, breathes, ponders, deeply.
He closes laptop, gently, sets it aside then
jerks slips of papers from jacket, examines male proper names,
pulls cell, dialing first number waiting for reply.
“This jackhole?” Preston blasts, nasty in
deep baritone trombone.
Pause.
“Yeah, shitty asshole of a stinky jackass who
gave your fucking telephone number for my girl to contact you for a
gawd damn date.”
Pause.
“The doll’s taken. If you fuckingly think
about contacting my girl….ever, I’m going to blast my bullet
straight down your ass using your tonsils as bull’s eye. Do you get
my barrel, dumb shit?”
Pause.
“Have a nice evening!” Preston talks, surly
then punches END, dials new telephone number on second slip of
paper, repeats threat, deadly.
Ring! Ring! He answers, rapidly hoping one of
his newly acquired enemies wants a second round of verbal abuse
‘cause the idiot’s getting a mouth full, maybe…a nightly visit.
“Yeah.”
Pause.
Preston poses, tenderly. “Ya sound drunk,
Geneva? Are ya drinking beer, or wine? A little hint, beer’s better
for the gut, less disgusting toxins to pitch back into the toilet.
Got good experience with that one.” Preston laughs, hardy.
Pause.
Preston addresses, curtly. “I’m going to barf
up that nice meal from Antoine’s, Geneva. What’da ya want, bitch?
”
Pause.
Preston leans, forwardly, angry in baritone,
lovingly. “Listen to me, very closely, Geneva. You…and I will never
ever hook up…mentally, financially, psychologically, sexually…”
Pause.
“I don’t have fears or secrets, bitch.”
Pause.
“Since…Pamela’s missing, currently, I don’t
think you can ask her that direct personal sexual harassing
question, can ya bitch?”
Pause.
“Hear this one…clearly Geneva. I will…find
Pamela then you won’t have fears. Ya’ll be fighting nightmares,
mama…inside Burnside Prison with the rest of them fucking
lesbians….” Cell phone connection dies, quickly. “Fucking bitch.”
Preston eye burns cell.
“Woof!”
Time: 10:59 pm. Motel room.
“Preston.” Pamela shouts, loudly, jerks
uprightly on hard mattress. She has dreamed of Preston rescuing her
from the evil boogie woman, then snorts, lightly.
Dreams represent current pathetic problems in
real life. Geneva is her boogie woman, that ain’t no modern dance,
either.
Eyeballs trace, automatically to doorway with
secured chair tucked nicely under door knob for make-shift homey
semi-protection. Good!
Then, Pamela stares, studiously at mirror
opposite cheap low bed seeing the rainbow colors reflecting like
clown art on her face. She has been experimenting with the cartoon
makeup looking semi-normal for her secret invasion of Brookdale
Hospital onto one of many nursing floors accessing any terminal
hooked into hospital mainframe.