Thomas Prescott Superpack by Nick Pirog Page A

the California-Oregon border.”
    “How old were you?”
    “Twenty-six, it was my first year as a detective with the Seattle Police Department. I did the funeral thing then moved back in with my little sister Lacy.” I wisely skipped the part about the monumental inheritance.
    “Then you up and moved to New York?”
    “A couple years later, Lacy got a swimming scholarship to Temple and I decided to tag along. She was the only family I had left and I couldn’t imagine not seeing her every day. Plus, I’d spent my entire life in Washington; I was ready for a change.”
    “Then you started with the Philadelphia Police Department?”
    “Not exactly. I was more or less thrown off the force in Seattle and didn’t think I could follow the protocols of another department.”
    She nodded.
    I continued, “I had an old friend from college who was a Philly homicide detective and he would ask for my opinion on cases every so often. I broke a couple of his cases and pretty soon the department had hired me on as a consultant. And then a year ago, the FBI came a knocking.”
    Everything I’d just recounted Alex knew verbatim, but I didn’t feel like impeding the conversation. I saw an opening and swiftly asked, “Considering I thought you were a man until about eight hours ago, why don’t you tell me a little about yourself?”
    She shrieked, “You thought I was a guy?”
    “Well the name doesn’t leave much room for imagination.”
    “Yeah, well if I said I didn’t do it on purpose, I’d be lying.”
    No shit? Why not just go by Façade Tooms, Hoax Tooms, or False Pretense Tooms. I asked, “So you started going by Alex instead of Alexandria?”
    “Nope. Alex is my given name. My parents were convinced they were having a boy.”
    “So I guess you’re lucky your name isn’t Jack or Fred.”
    “Oh, I don’t think they would have been that cruel. Although I think they’re convinced they made me into a lesbian as it is.”
    I laughed. “Why would they ever think that?”
    She ran her hands through her shoulder length, beaver brown hair. “Up until about a year ago my hair was always really short, like Demi Moore’s.”
    “Demi Moore, Ghost? Or Demi Moore, G. I. Jane?”
    She looked at me like I’d caught the short bus to her house and said, “I want to see that diploma.”
     
    Alex was indulging me with a little background information when I heard a rustling near the terrace wall. I grabbed the spotlight, illuminating the wild beast, a bunny-wabbit. Maybe he was a friend of the guy who beat up Baxter and came to gloat. I also didn’t rule out Bigwig, Fiver, Pipkin, Blueberry, or Hazel.
    Alex started back up, “I was up to college. I got a scholarship to Boston College for cross-country and studied journalism.”
    Cross-country. That explained the figure. I remarked on this, “You look like a runner.”
    She smirked. “I opted against the traditional method of binge and purge for the less conventional, binge and run.” She looked at me and said, “You look like a runner too.”
    To a woman this is an incredible compliment; to a man it’s an incredulous insult. “Thanks. I went on a lead-based diet.”
    “You mean bread?”
    “No, I mean bullets.”
    She covered her mouth, “Oh, I forgot. But aren’t you supposed to gain weight when you’re in a wheelchair?”
    I patted my stomach. “Good metabolism.” There are no two words in the English language that anger a woman more when combined than good and metabolism .
    Alex shook her head. “I hate people like you. If I don’t go running tomorrow morning there will be a cheesecake shaped fat pocket in my ass.”
    I didn’t believe that for a second. “How far of a run?”
    She counted on her fingers. “Eight miles.”
    “How did you come up with eight?”
    “One mile for each drink. Four miles for the cheesecake.”
    I wondered how many hours of sex that converted into. She studied my face and said, “Eight hours. One mile of running is equal to