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122 Rules(8)

By:Deek Rhew

“All of it. This mystery boy lets you stay for free. You almost never go to class, yet pull straight A’s. You just happened to be there when one of the biggest drug lords in New York decides to renew his library card.”

Monica shrugged and continued to gaze at him.

He looked back at her for several minutes. Finally, he gathered his belongings and stood. “I need to go have a conversation.”

“Oh? Am I boring you?”

He opened the door but stopped before exiting. “Do you need to pee?”


“Pee.” He pointed at the mirror. “Earlier you told my people you needed to go.”

Maybe she could get out of here after all. “Yes. I need to urinate.”

“Very well. I will send a female agent to escort you.”

“Don’t think you can handle me? Got to get a real agent to do your dirty work for you?”

“In my position, I’m above having to take a dog for a squat.”

“Whatever. Go talk to your goons. I’m sure they want to congratulate you on a job well done. Maybe give you some kind of commendation, Biggest Asshole at the Agency.”

“Probably. Sit tight.”

Bad Facelift returned a few minutes after the door closed. “Come,” she said and allowed Monica to exit.

The narrow hall felt as cavernous as a baseball stadium compared to the confining space of the interrogation room. Bad Facelift marched Monica past a series of unmarked doors to one with the female bathroom symbol. The agent followed her into the sterile space.

“Don’t I get a little privacy?” Monica mocked.

“The stall has a door, Ms. Sable.”

She entered the stall but could not force herself to go. She hadn’t actually needed to pee, just wanted out of the interrogation room and hoped for the possibility of escape. But Facelift had kept her distance and probably carried a weapon.

“Are you almost done, Ms. Sable? We have an organization to run, and I do not have the time or the patience to sit here waiting for you.”

“Maybe it evaporated. Besides, what are you going to do? Come in after me?”

“Yes,” came the unhesitant reply.

This girl means business. Monica could almost hear the smile in the woman’s voice. Try me, the tone said. Shit. “Fine. Fine. Whatever.” She cleaned up and came out of the stall.

As they marched back, Monica asked, “Can I get some food too?”

“I was instructed to see you safely transported to and from the restroom. You will have to take up other amenities with Mr. Smith.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. You would be helping to keep my strength up.”

Bad Facelift held open the door. “This isn’t a hotel, Ms. Sable, and I’m not your maidservant. Now, if you please.” She gestured toward the entrance.

Monica sighed as she re-entered the small space and once again found herself alone.

Monica resumed her place on the floor, counting the holes in the ceiling, starting where she’d left off. She had almost doubled her original number when Jon swooped in, followed by Crew Cut. Jon resumed his seat while the man with the Super Bowl-field hair stood next to the door.

“Hey.” She grinned at Crew Cut. “How’s the nose?”

He didn’t react or say anything but just stared at her. She studied his face a little closer. Could he be scowling more than normal? Is somebody in a bad mood? Poor boy.

Jon still had the yellow legal pad, which he flipped to a middle page.

“So,” she asked, turning her attention back to her interrogator, “did your little conversation go well? Did you decide if I’m lying or not? Want me to tell you something else?”

“Actually, it doesn’t matter.”

A jolt ran through her. “Pardon?”

“It doesn’t matter if you’re lying or not. We are about done here.”

Her body stiffened. Were they going to let her go? She had anticipated at least one more round of interrogations. “So what does that mean?”

“It means that we need you to tell your story again.”

Her anger flared as they pulled the rug out from under her again. “What? To whom? You?” She directed this last question at Crew Cut.

Jon chuckled. “No, no, you have it all wrong. To a jury.”

She smelled a trap. “I don’t have any idea what you are talking about.”

“We’re going to bring charges up against Laven Michaels, and you’re the star witness.”

This game Jon played fanned the flames of her already lit and stubby fuse. “Who’s Laven Michaels?”

“Joe Pesci.”

“Joe is Laven?”

“One and the same.”