[I wrote this earlier today; couldn’t post it then, so I’m trying again.]
I am sitting in the Subaru dealer’s waiting room, creating life stories of people around me, people I do not know.
Two chairs down from me is a young (to me) woman who is in Little Rock for a business meeting. Her car broke down, so now she is stuck here until a necessary part is delivered, which won’t occur until tomorrow. She is planning to take advantage of her plight. Tonight, she will rob a convenience store this evening, using the courtesy car the dealer provides as a getaway vehicle.
The Scotsman whose distinct brogue readily reveals his heritage, sits nearby on a couch by the waiting room television. He fancies the woman. He will approach her soon, attempting to seduce her with his unique accent and what he seems to think is his irresistible charm. He will fail, but he will give her a business card, asserting that his home address and telephone number are on the obverse of the paper. She will “let” the card fall out of her pocket during the convenience store robbery, during which she will wear a mask and communicate only with typed instructions to the clerk: “Empty the cash register and the safe into this bag or I will kill you.”
The woman, who I’ll call Lucia, will not get caught, even though her name will be in the dealer’s records. You see, the car she left at the dealer isn’t hers. It belongs to Clare Beach, who Lucia left bound and gagged and locked in a closet, and then stole the woman’s car. Lucia’s bad fortune in stealing a car that broke down soon after taking it was just another bump the proverbial road.
The Scotsman won’t be jailed, but he will undergo extensive questioning early tomorrow morning, by highly suspicious detectives investigating the convenience store robbery.
This one finger typing is getting old. More when I’m in a better position to explore more lies.
