Nobody Gets The Girl Read Online Free PDF Page A

work phone number, and his birth date. Then,
he had a clever idea. He ran the lipstick along his fingertips and
left a perfect set of fingerprints on the mirror.
    "That should make it easier," he said.
"Assuming Father Leibowitz has a fingerprint lab in the trunk of
his car. But what the hell." Then he banged his fist against the
wall several times, until Leibowitz came running, and his fist went
through the wall without leaving a mark.
    "April," said Leibowitz. "Let's try again.
I've got some more—what? You do have a listing in Salem for Bill
Rogers? Yes. Yes, that's a match. No, don't call yet. Check out
this Social Security Number first."
    Richard smacked his forehead. "Look, just
call my folks, OK?"
    Then he thought about it. Call and say what?
Your son is invisible and intangible and we were hoping you might
help? What good would a phone call to them do?
    "Maybe April could look up Stephen Hawking's
phone number," Richard suggested.
    Instead, April was giving Father Leibowitz
the results of the Social Security search.
    "Yes. Yes that is a strange coincidence,"
said Leibowitz.
    "What," said Henry.
    "The Social Security Number belongs to an
Alan Leibowitz in New Jersey," Leibowitz said with a shrug. "Could
be a cousin."
    Richard took another look at the mirror. That
was his number. He was sure of it.
    The priest addressed Henry and Martha. "This
is only a minor setback. This sort of confusion isn't uncommon
among the dead."
    "Father," said Martha.
    "Yes?"
    "Can I ask a personal question?"
    "Go."
    "Isn't Leibowitz a, um, Jewish name?"
    "I'm asked that all the time," said
Leibowitz. "I think it's time to call the parents. It's the only
information our ghost has given that April's been able to get a
confirmation on."
    "Finally," said Richard. He started to bite
his nails, until he realized he had lipstick under them. Just what
would Leibowitz say to his parents?
    "Is this Bill Rogers?" Leibowitz asked, as
April set up a three-way call.
    "Mr. Rogers, my name is Father Leibowitz, and
I'm call—yes. No problem. I'm asked that all the time. But, let me
get directly to the point of my call. Do you have a son named
Richard? I see. Second question: Does the date March 9, 1969, have
any meaning to you? I see. No, not a joke. No. No, you've been very
helpful. Sorry to have disturbed you. Have a nice day."
    "Well," said Henry.
    "They don't have a son," Father Leibowitz
said.
    "What?" said Richard.
    "We're left with only one possibility," said
Father Leibowitz.
    Richard's knees grew weak. He braced his back
against the wall and slowly slid down into a crouch. "This can't be
real," he whispered.
    "The spirit that haunts this house is quite
likely a fallen angel," Father Leibowitz explained. "From time to
time, the damned delude themselves into thinking they are something
they are not. In this case, the demon has made up elaborate details
about a former human life, in an effort to strengthen his delusion.
But, as we've just determined, all of these details are lies."
    "Lies," Richard said. "Oh God, this can't be.
This can't be. My name is Richard Rogers. I'm real. I have a life.
I have a wife. Her name is Veronica. I . . . can't believe
this!"
    "No doubt, the demon is listening even now,"
said Father Leibowitz. "It's important, no matter what happens,
that the two of you keep faith. God watches over us. No demon can
touch you."
    "I’m not a demon!" Richard screamed. He
wanted to grab the priest by the throat. He stalked from the
bedroom, back to the kitchen, flung open the cabinets and started
throwing pots and pans around the room. He wasn't sure why this
seemed like a good idea, but his present state left him few options
for venting his frustration.
    "Stop this now!" Father Leibowitz shouted as
he entered the kitchen.
    "Screw you," said Richard.
    Martha peeked her head into the kitchen, and
shrieked.
    "What?" asked Father Leibowitz.
    "I see it!" she cried.
    Richard raised his eyebrows. Throwing pots
and pans might work out for him