"Dude, what's up with your crazy boss?"
"What do you mean?"
"She's ignoring me."
"Actually, she just has a full schedule this morning. I'm glad you called, though."
"Why is that?"
"She asked me to set up a lunch appointment today between you two."
"When and where?"
"The Courthouse Cafe at noon."
"All the restaurants in town and she wants to eat at the fucking courthouse?"
"Yep."
"Fine. I'll be there."
"Oh, and can I ask you a question, Mr. Silver?"
"You just did."
"Clever. No, really."
"Shoot."
"Why did your parents name you Mormon?"
"They didn't. It's a nickname, Eric."
"Cute."
"I was a chubby kid. Whenever mother made my dinner plate I'd say, 'More, Mom.'"
"Aw. So what's your real name?"
"Jew."
"What?!"
"It's short for Jude."
"Oh, thank God ... or whomever."
"Tell Bea I'll see her at noon."
"I will. She asks that you bring the signed document."
"We'll see."
I tie up some loose ends around my house and pack for tomorrow's trip back east. I wonder what was captured by that camera and what it will cost to get it from her. I can't stand being at a disadvantage. Right now, she owns me.
Still confused about her choice of lunch venues, I park at the courthouse and enter through security. It's as one would expect: police, lawyers, and criminals. I find the cafe and scan the area for Bea. No luck. It's five after noon. Have I missed her? I grab a cup of (awful) coffee, pick a table for two, pull out my phone, and wait. The text rings in.
Bea Plastique: Dearest, Uncle M: It seems I've been assessed a five-minute major for fighting. I'm stuck in a penalty stall. Please rescue me.
Oh, Jesus. The games never cease with this woman. Penalty stall? What the hell is she referring to? It's a penalty box, not a stall. Oh, shit. She's in a bathroom stall! No doubt she's picked a ladies room stall to make my hunt more difficult.
Mormon Silver: Bea, stop playing games. Where are you?
Bea Plastique: 4:30 remaining.
Mormon Silver: There must be four bathrooms on this floor alone. Where are you?!
Bea Plastique: 4:15 remaining.
I can't let her beat me. The clerk behind the counter points me to the closest restroom. There are police everywhere. I can't walk in or I'll be fucked. In fact, I'll be fucked either way, but I prefer the kind that doesn't involve a TASER. I need to find an accomplice. There's a Latina woman sitting outside a courtroom--obviously a call girl. I approach her.
"Hi."
"Hi, yourself, handsome."
"Are you busy right now?"
Bea Plastique: 3 minutes.
Fuck.
"Court is in recess until twelve thirty."
"Perfect. How'd you like to earn twenty dollars?"
"Man, you are brave, soliciting a woman in a damn courthouse."
"No, no, not for that. I just need your help. I'm looking for someone and I think she's hiding in a restroom."
"Kinky."
"Forty dollars?"
"Make it fifty."
"Let's go."
I show her a picture of Bea on my phone as we jog to the first bank of restrooms. She darts in and checks.
Bea Plastique: 2 minutes.
"Nothing?"
"Nope. I am getting some dirty looks from people when I look under the stall doors. I may need another twenty."
Bea Plastique: 1 minute.
We head down another corridor past angry couples obviously there for divorce hearings. My new friend enters. I hear voices, then she reappears.
"Yep, she's in there. Center stall."
I attempt to enter. She stops me.
"What are you doing? You can't go in with other people in there."
Bea Plastique: 30 seconds ... :(
"Damn it! Look, here's another fifty if you go in and get everyone to leave."
My friend takes the fifty, goes in, and starts yelling like a crazy person. Women come streaming out.
Bea Plastique: 10 seconds ... >:(
Finally, the coast is clear. I sprint into the bathroom and throw open the center stall door. There's Lovergirl, sitting on the john, phone in hand, skirt up, panties down.
"Hello, Uncle M."
(if the stall is shaking, it's love we're making)
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