9:03 p.m. Eastend

Rachel rose from her seat. Harry put his hand on her arm. She froze.

“My fine Rachel, hear me out, please? We can work together, y’know. Like pieces’re greater than the pie or somesuch BS.”

He winked. “I’m talkin’ business. My superior’s great to work for. Richer than Gates. Into stranger stuff than Dahmer. A bit of a holy roller, you might say. Fanatical about folklore and religious phenomena. Fits you to a ‘T’.”

“You’re crazy.” She downed the scotch. Steeled by its warmth, she leaned toward him. “Got balls to follow me. Y’buy me drinks—you don’t touch the stuff—I barely know your name and you wanna work with me? Forget it. Like I said, I work alone.”

Harry’s index finger traced a drop of condensation on the table. “Told you before. Name’s Harold R. Holt. Harry to a select few, like you.” He stood over her. “At your service, Ma’am.”
She smiled briefly.

He dropped back down. “What would you say to a stake in the biggest game in town?” He scowled. “Don’t be like that. Listen.” Eyes bored into hers. “What if I gave you the chance to expose the greatest religious hoax of all time?”

“Oh, yeah?” The liquor found her brain. She snickered. “The greatest religious hoax of all time. And what would that be, Harold? Armageddon?”

She fingered her hair. “No thanks, Mr. Holt. Don’t need some wing nut who can’t even grow a—I mean, get real. What is that, anyway?” She pushed a finger at his lower lip.

Harry’s face darkened.

“Forget to wash?” She giggled again. Snapped her fingers. “Find my own mysteries to solve.” She stood, too quickly, and grabbed the table. “Been a slice.”

He stood, grinning. Then trumped her. “Forget the slices, Rach. How about the whole friggin’ pizza?”

She hesitated.

“Your mother’s whereabouts. Interested?”

Speechless, Rachel slumped back down.