two

Oh, goody.

I get to go pick up some burned out rock star from prison.

"Police station," my boss emphasized. "We do not know if he's guilty of anything, or why he's there. And don't forget, he's one of our VIPs."

"Then can I use your Mercedes to go get his royal highness?"

I should have known better than to ask a question like that. Well, to ask it in that manner. Brighter people would have used logic and psychology to get what they wanted. I, on the other hand, chose to, well...not.

My Toyota is a finicky little thing and I take pride in the fact that only I know how to start it. You just have to get the key in the ignition at a certain sweet spot and jiggle it twice, then gun the accelerator simultaneously while starting it. I'm not totally sure, but I also think that whispering, "you better start, you sonofabitch" in a non threatening way has a lot to with it.

It took me all of 20 minutes to drive downtown and park, as instructed, on the back side of the station. That is where the holding cells' entrance is; a nondescript, windowless door with an intercom to announce your arrival.

"I'm here to pick up Mr. Sambora." Now that's a line I'd never thought I'd use.

I heard the buzzer and pulled open the heavy steel door and let myself into a tiny room no bigger than a cell. There was an officer sitting behind a window, much like a bank teller's, only this one had steel bars instead of glass. In case I try to steal his paperwork.

After filling out a few forms and signing my life away, I was told to sit and wait while they escorted Mr. Sambora out.

I should have brought a magazine, or a book, or my tax forms for it took quite a while before he finally emerged from the back.

He thanked the officers then turned and looked at me. I was certain that I saw a hint of a smirk as he sized me up. I bet he didn't expect that they would send a woman to fetch him, much less someone from middle management. I bet he thought the company president, no, the chairman of the board would be there with an entourage and a limo to escort him back to his hotel. I bet he thought.......

"Thank you for coming to get me. Shall we go?"

Hah?

He smiled at me, although I was pretty sure it wasn't a smile of appreciation. It looked more like contempt to me.

We walked out into the bright sunlight and he immediately pulled out a pair of sunglasses and put them on. He then glanced up and down the street. I was sure he was looking for the limo or the welcome committee when he pointed to my Toyota and asked, "is this your car?"

Brilliant! Ignoring the fact that it was the only car for blocks, I nodded and dug through my purse for the keys. Once we settled in, he turned to me. "I hope I didn't inconvenience you by taking you from some important work. It's just that I need to talk with someone from your company regarding what happened."

"Well, you're just going to have to talk to our president and he's out of town till the end of the week. If you want, Mr. Sambora, I can get you in touch with our general manager." I was trying to ignore his constant stare as I fiddled with my keys in the ignition. He was making me nervous and I missed the second jiggle of the keys. Damn it! Now I have to start all over.

He seemed amused as he watched me go through my ritual. "I bet you're the only one who knows how to start your car," he smirked at me.

Shaddup.

When I glared back at him, he just shrugged and chuckled to himself. Self righteous prig. I missed my cue again. I could see the mirth starting in his eyes and I swear if he said another word about my car...

"It's not necessary that I speak to a manager. Someone in your company is responsible, at least in part, for what happened last night and that's the person I want to speak to."

"I don't know what any of our staff did or said to you, Mr. Sambora, but I don't see how we could be held responsible. We may have made the arrangements for you, but you're on your own after that. What, exactly, did happen?"

"Do you know a coffee shop called the Mocha Latte?"

"Sure. We go there almost daily."

"Good coffee?"

"No, but it's better than the office. Besides, it's on the way to work." I didn't mention that the place was rife with strange characters but he seemed to already know this.

"Do you know a guy they call Weird Fred?"

I slowed down for the red light and turned to him. Weird Fred was a fixture at the Mocha Latte. The management just lets him stick around and the regulars are used to his spaced out revelations of conspiracies and quantum physics. Outsiders, though, may find his rantings a bit unnerving.

"Yeah, I know him. What about him?"

"I was in the shop yesterday, through the recommendation of one of your staff, when he started telling me about a plot to kidnap and murder someone."

Now it was my turn to chuckle. "Don't tell me you actually believed him, Mr. Sambora. He goes on about the most outrageous stuff all the time. Why would that incident get you locked up in jail, anyway?"

"It's Richie."

"What is?"

"My name. I wish you would stop calling me Mr. Sambora, it makes me feel old."

I decided to forego making comments about spring chickens and just smiled. "Okay...Richie."

"Anyway, why would Weird Fred's rantings land you in jail? It's all nonsense, you should have just ignored him."

"Well, it's hard to do that when Jon's name as well as mine are mentioned in the same sentence as kidnap and murder."

I looked at him. Well now, this was getting rather interesting.

"Still, just because one of my staff recommended the shop, does not make us responsible."

Richie sighed. "Okay, I used the wrong word. I guess a better word would be 'involved'."

No, that actually would be a worse word.

"This Fred person told me that he got the information from one of your staff and I really would like to speak to her. Can you find her for me?"

Her? There were only a few women in our company and I began wondering which one of those hair brained bitches did something stupid.

"He said her name was Dani. Do you know who that is?"

Yeah...that would be me.