diagnose the illness. It was something to keep in the back of his mind. Something Roger might find useful.
So far, though, there wasn’t anything so unusual as to warrant messaging the CIA back. Driskell wasn’t absolutely sure which branch of the U.S. government he’d signed on with. He’d answered an ad in
Soldier of Fortune
magazine for an electronics whizz. In a matter of two days, he’d found himself driving to Mississippi with three hundred crisp, newly printed one hundred dollar bills and instructions to develop a relationship with the Hares. Now his assignment was to provide detailed observations.
The telephone at his elbow shrilled and made him jump. He picked it up without thinking. “Hello.”
“Is this Bo’s Electronics?”
“Indeed.” Driskell assessed the voice on the other end. Someone hesitant, defeated sounding, unsure of even the telephone number he’d dialed.
“My television is on the blink. Could I bring it by?”
“The shop is closed. We’ll open tomorrow—”
“I know this isn’t your problem, but the wife has locked me out of the house, and I have this old black and white set in the garage. I’d like to watch
Matlock
tonight.”
Driskell started to say no, then relented. How could he refuse a man who had been reduced to watching an old black and white unit in the garage. “Sure, bring it on.”
Pushing his laptop under the counter, Driskell picked up the pliers and screwdriver and lifted a VCR onto the counter top. In three days of working at the shop, he’d earned Bo’s praise. He was making himself invaluable to Bo, but he had to figure out a way to spend more time watching Lucille. Trouble was, she went straight home from the bank and got on her computer to write her epic western romance.
As if answering his thoughts, Lucille jangled through the door of the shop.
“Bo and Iris are in the back,” Driskell said. His reaction to Lucille was strange, the odd sensation of dark smoke drifting into his veins. Maybe there was something to Roger’s cautions.
“I know.” Lucille came up to the counter. “I came to talk to you. I need advice. For my book.”
Driskell put down his pliers. “I’m not a writer, Lucille.”
“I don’t have anyone else to ask.”
Driskell’s red lips turned up in a smile as he reached under the counter and brought up his laptop. “I saw something the other night on one of the writing bulletin boards.” He punched the keyboard, shifting through image after image. “Ahhh …” He signaled her to come around the counter. “It’s an ad. A writer’s group here in Biloxi is looking for a new member and a place to meet. Why don’t you give them a call? Perhaps Bo would let you use the shop for meetings. It wouldn’t bother me.” And it would be the perfect opportunity to observe Lucille more closely, Driskell thought.
“That’s a great idea.” Lucille copied down the information on the palm of her hand. “I’ll—“
The front doorbell jangled a warning. They stepped back from each other and turned to watch a slender, dark-haired man lugging in an ancient television.
“The shop is closed,” Lucille said automatically.
“It’s okay.” Driskell stepped around the counter and lifted the set with remarkable ease. “I’ll take a look at it Mr …”
“Dr. Beaudreaux.” He stared at Driskell’s gelled back hair, the distinctive ears, and settled on his red lips. “Are you, by chance, of Transylvanian descent?”
“I’m a Cranberrian,” Driskell answered as he zipped off the back of the set. The doctor’s stare made him uncomfortable.
“Oh.” Robert Beaudreaux pondered that information. “Does everyone in your family look like you?”
Driskell put down the screwdriver. “I’m the only one in my family, so that’s hard to answer. Now about your set? Do you want it fixed or not?”
“Of course.” Robert pressed two fingers to his chin. “That was rather indelicate of me. I didn’t mean to pry into your
So far, though, there wasn’t anything so unusual as to warrant messaging the CIA back. Driskell wasn’t absolutely sure which branch of the U.S. government he’d signed on with. He’d answered an ad in
Soldier of Fortune
magazine for an electronics whizz. In a matter of two days, he’d found himself driving to Mississippi with three hundred crisp, newly printed one hundred dollar bills and instructions to develop a relationship with the Hares. Now his assignment was to provide detailed observations.
The telephone at his elbow shrilled and made him jump. He picked it up without thinking. “Hello.”
“Is this Bo’s Electronics?”
“Indeed.” Driskell assessed the voice on the other end. Someone hesitant, defeated sounding, unsure of even the telephone number he’d dialed.
“My television is on the blink. Could I bring it by?”
“The shop is closed. We’ll open tomorrow—”
“I know this isn’t your problem, but the wife has locked me out of the house, and I have this old black and white set in the garage. I’d like to watch
Matlock
tonight.”
Driskell started to say no, then relented. How could he refuse a man who had been reduced to watching an old black and white unit in the garage. “Sure, bring it on.”
Pushing his laptop under the counter, Driskell picked up the pliers and screwdriver and lifted a VCR onto the counter top. In three days of working at the shop, he’d earned Bo’s praise. He was making himself invaluable to Bo, but he had to figure out a way to spend more time watching Lucille. Trouble was, she went straight home from the bank and got on her computer to write her epic western romance.
As if answering his thoughts, Lucille jangled through the door of the shop.
“Bo and Iris are in the back,” Driskell said. His reaction to Lucille was strange, the odd sensation of dark smoke drifting into his veins. Maybe there was something to Roger’s cautions.
“I know.” Lucille came up to the counter. “I came to talk to you. I need advice. For my book.”
Driskell put down his pliers. “I’m not a writer, Lucille.”
“I don’t have anyone else to ask.”
Driskell’s red lips turned up in a smile as he reached under the counter and brought up his laptop. “I saw something the other night on one of the writing bulletin boards.” He punched the keyboard, shifting through image after image. “Ahhh …” He signaled her to come around the counter. “It’s an ad. A writer’s group here in Biloxi is looking for a new member and a place to meet. Why don’t you give them a call? Perhaps Bo would let you use the shop for meetings. It wouldn’t bother me.” And it would be the perfect opportunity to observe Lucille more closely, Driskell thought.
“That’s a great idea.” Lucille copied down the information on the palm of her hand. “I’ll—“
The front doorbell jangled a warning. They stepped back from each other and turned to watch a slender, dark-haired man lugging in an ancient television.
“The shop is closed,” Lucille said automatically.
“It’s okay.” Driskell stepped around the counter and lifted the set with remarkable ease. “I’ll take a look at it Mr …”
“Dr. Beaudreaux.” He stared at Driskell’s gelled back hair, the distinctive ears, and settled on his red lips. “Are you, by chance, of Transylvanian descent?”
“I’m a Cranberrian,” Driskell answered as he zipped off the back of the set. The doctor’s stare made him uncomfortable.
“Oh.” Robert Beaudreaux pondered that information. “Does everyone in your family look like you?”
Driskell put down the screwdriver. “I’m the only one in my family, so that’s hard to answer. Now about your set? Do you want it fixed or not?”
“Of course.” Robert pressed two fingers to his chin. “That was rather indelicate of me. I didn’t mean to pry into your
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