"I'm just worried about Mr. Callahan. He's coming back in two days."
"Sheila, you've been keeping that place spotless. It'll be cleaner than when he left."
Sheila shrugged; she was not convinced. She knew what a pain in the ass it was to remove blood from carpeting. She stood and told Josh to order for her, she needed to use the ladies' room. She shuffled through the tables, past the kitchen, and down the dim , carpeted hallway to the bathrooms. She listened through the women's bathroom door and heard two voices talking on the other side. She scowled and wondered why women thought it was okay to chat it up while they voided their bladders into public basins. Sheila, on the other hand, much preferred the quiet solitude of a corner stall, a place where she could get many things accomplished.
She sighed and looked across the hall at the men's room door, listened, and decided to peek inside. The room was empty, and she quickly snuck around the door and closed it behind her. She pulled from her purse a tiny, spring-loaded, aluminum doorstop and pressed it against the bottom of the door. It would not stop a really motivated individual, especially a man, but it would -- at the very least -- give her a head's up if someone were to enter.
Of course she didn't have to pee, she had long ago taken control of her bladder and colon to the point where she could delay going to the bathroom for days, if need be. One certainly didn't have the luxury of stopping to poop when on the run from the Mafia/assassins/government spies/what have you. But she did need some privacy. The worst part of her job was the unknown, and as much as she always tried to learn all the players and their motivations, there were always times when things caught her off-guard and unprepared. She hated not knowing what the hell she was doing. Hated it.
So she needed to make a call, a quick one, to a friend in Boca Raton, who could illegally monitor certain chatter and get back to her with any red flags about her aliases, whereabouts, and who might have her in their crosshairs.
Sigh, such was the life.
Her call was picked up on the first ring by a heavily altered voice that sounded all at once sped up and slowed down; it reminded Sheila of the first time someone had given her Sodium Pentathol, "Goldman's Deli."
"Yes, this is Lisa Ruiz at 1222 Heldemann Court,"she spoke with a thick Puerto Rican accent. It didn't matter what name or address she gave, it was new every time. 1222 was her identification number.
"Of course. How can we help you today, Miss Ruiz?"
"I've called to complain about my order. I specifically ordered NO roast beef."
"And when did you receive your order, ma'am?"
"Less than an hour ago."
The robotic voice continued, "I see. I'll look into this personally."
"Are you still using your mother's number?" That was code for a secure email account with which they could communicate with greater ease.
"Yes," she rang off and deposited the phone back in her pocket.