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great deal of conversation as the couple
sat on the balcony.
    “Is the balcony bugged?” he screamed at the
surveillance technician.
    “Yes, it’s bugged. We have our best
high-fidelity wireless devices in all the living quarters. We can
hear and see everything.”
    “Really? We can hear everything? Is that what
you said? All I can hear is a bunch of shushes and whispering,
sounds like a fucking funeral in there. Followed by her screaming, ‘What the hell is going on?’ I ask the same question to
you.”
    “It’s ... the mic is in the light—above—she
stood and that’s why it was so loud,” stammered the technician.
    This was followed by more whispering and the
technician, as much as he wanted to, couldn’t get a clear voice
path, the voices were too low and mixed in with the ambient noise
of vehicle and city noise on the street.
    Mr. Wright was losing his mind. Patience had
deserted him long ago and he just sat writing a note as the
whispering continued. He was fuming and tore up note after note,
until he seemed pleased with the last one he wrote.
    Finally, they could be heard again. They
entered into the living room and apparently, a trip was in order to
get a work schedule for the lovely Bridget, and Bridget, being the
good girl she was, was not going to leave James behind. Mr. Wright
stood. His hand made a circular motion in the air and three
associates, not including the technician, jumped to their feet and
began to mobilize. They were on the move.
    Wright ripped the note from the notepad and
handed it to the technician, it read:
    “Get this fixed. If a cricket farts in that
condo, or on that balcony, or in their car, I want to hear it, and
you never know, I just may throw a gassed up cricket in there as a
test.”
    As Wright was leaving the room, the
surveillance technician overheard him ask the associate holding the
door open, “Do crickets eat beans?”
    The associate replied, “Maybe bean leaves and
stalks. Maybe cooked beans?”
    Another associate replied, “I think crickets
are carnivores.”
    They were in the black Tahoe before James and
Bridget made it to their car. The laptops were glowing and the
planted GPS devices working.
    “Target is a go, sir,” announced the
associate in the back seat.
    “Perfect,” Mr. Wright replied as he reached
out and grabbed the drivers arm, “Now remember. We want him to know
we’re here, but not to know we’re here. We’re the spooky ghosts,
right? When we’re not here, I want him to think we are, I want him
to feel our icy stares on the back of his neck, and when we are
there, it should be obvious.”
    The associate started the Tahoe, all of the
passengers waiting for the engine to warm.
    “And we’ve taken care of the car radio?”
Wright asked.
    “Yes, the radio will only play the
pre–recorded songs, per your request.”
    “And we have a warm body at her job?”
    “Yes, he’s taking his seat now, has a clear
view of the front door, and will track her once she enters. We have
another ready to track Mr. Spain if he enters the restaurant.”
    “Excellent. Let’s let them know we’re
here.”
    The driver pulled out of the parking lot and
stopped on 8th Avenue, turned on its fog lights and rolled down the
driver side window, allowing the remaining light of the day to
silhouette the three men inside.
    The associate in the back seat piped up, “We
could cover larvae of some sort with bean paste, but are we even
sure a cricket can fart? I mean, just thinking—it—it would have to
be a very high pitched fart, you know, because its butthole is so
small.”
    The other associates laughed. One finally
replied to the open-ended question, “You eat beans and you’re going
to fart—it’s a natural biological law of some sort.”
    Mr. Wright watched James and Bridget intently
and smiled as he listened to the banter between his associates.
     

Chapter Three
    ~ The Schedule ~
     
    Bridget opened the
passenger door and let James into the car. She then