“Mrs. Berkowitz is it?” Brent asks, while staring at a file
T.B. has generated for him in a matter of minutes. Man, really nothing is
private anymore. I called T.B. 15minutes before we arrived while we were in
route with the evil pin-up girl. When I walked in, he had everything from her
Kindergarten Class Photo and Birth Certificate to her numerous nightly visitors
at her apartment.
“I’m
not married, but if you’re interested, it could be Mrs,” she pouts through her
lined and stained and glossed and reshaped red lips. At this point she’s either
really stupid or really smart. It can go either way at this point.
“So,
Berki, it’s okay that I call you Berki now is it?” I ask rising from my seat.
“Not
really.”
“Well,
Berki, Brent and I here are having a bet. You are either playing stupid or are
really stupid. For some reason here, this old muscular dope has some faith that
your brain hasn’t been hindered by the tightness of your pin-up. I on the other
hand, beg to differ.” Leaning against a wall, I glare at her. If one glares at
you, you can’t help but glare back, no matter what character you’re in.
“Now
wait a second Rose, I don’t think you’re being that fair,” Brent interjects.
“By
all means, take the floor,” I pronounce with my over dramatic gestures.
“Why
thank you, Rose” he bends. “First off, by coming with the investigative crew
and being interviewed, isn’t that the best way to find out what they do and do
not know?”
“But
how do you exit once you’ve retrieved your information?”
“Shoot
out?”
“She
has no guns.”
“Tracking
device?”
“T.B.
is interfering with any signals.”
“Good
plan, didn’t work if true though.”
“So
she’s doomed?”
“I
guess so.”
“Then
she is stupid.”
“What
about a bomb?”
“You
mean the one Dan sniffed out 5 minutes ago, disarmed, and brought up for proper
disposal?”
“So
it was the bomb,” Brent declares.
“Then
she is stupid,” I declare. “You owe me Twenty bucks.”
“Oh,
I would have gotten away with it too, if it weren’t for you and your stupid
little lackey,” she feigns horror and disbelief. Folding her wrist faintly over
her forehead and releasing her body to gravity in the chair.
“First
off, you’re not getting any Emmy anytime soon,” I sigh.
“Your
not in little league anymore Elizabeth, this is the big leagues, and you’re
little town superhero act won’t play here,” she slowly breathes in a choking
voice.
“How
do you know my name?”
“For
your information, Brent, or Jackson, I meant that line before, call me if
you’re interested.”
“I’ll
know just where to find you. Saves on the phone bill,” Brent breathes onto her
face.
“Oh,
and tell T.B. back there, or Eugene, though, I think his was the first name
that was an improvement, that frequencies are the old technology.”
“How
did you know that, there are no records on us?” I inhale.
“Do
you like Literature, Elizabeth?”
“Do
you know that classic poem? Roses are red, Violets are blue, Sugar is sweet,
and so are you,” She rises from her seat.
“What
does that have to do with anything that is going on right now?”
“There
are so many versions of it, so many different meanings. Just that simple
structure people can build off. Using their words to fish for police on a
killing spree to asking a friend out to prom. Beautiful, isn’t it?” She unpins
her hair.
“Words
are infinite expressions,” Brent recites. Bating the woman in vocabulary heat.
“Exactly,
Jackson,” She picks her black blazer up and reapplies it to her slender frame.
“I
personally prefer Shakespeare’s poetic phrases myself,” Brent shares.
“I
know. You hate yourself for being cliché and joining the fan group of Hamlet
Lovers in the To Be, Not To Be Speech,” her hands dig, scoop, and walk through
her pockets and shoes.
But
Brent, his brows fury for an instant with hands clenched in his back pockets to
try and hide it.
“I
personally prefer, Roses are blood, Violets are bruises, Rings are suffocation,
and We’re married to the world.” She drops through the floor.
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