Unknown: Driving Daisy Crazy

And would believe, despite common sense, despite caution, because she wants to.

Away.

A place to stay.

Money in her pocket.

And it would just be temporary, just until she can find "something better".

Something better.

That's the name of the dream, something better.

So he chooses not to see her.

She is loitering, but he will give her that much of a break.

And of course, if the guys in the patent leather shoes and the flashy vests and those hats with buckle bands come up to her, he will intervene.

But, other than that, she is on her own.

Not his choice, but a simple fact of life.

When you land here the way she has, you are, in every sense of the term, on your own.

She stands there with her cardboard suitcase, not knowing which way to turn and not moving.

And he knows what that is all about too.

Turn around.

Go back the way you came.

Chickening out, they'd call it here in the big city.

But she has nothing to prove to anyone here, only something to prove to herself.

So that there is that to be resolved as well. So many problems would be solved if she would simply go to the window and get herself a return ticket.

Where to stay, for example.

What to do, for example.

"Ah there, my little chickadee!"

She cannot believe this black man in those outlandish shoes is speaking to her.

He was, but he isn't.

Because "Don't tell me, let me guess!"

This from the cop.

"W. C. Fields, right?"

"Uh, yeah, bro', thass right."

"Well, W. C., you're gonna hafta go look for Mae West someplace else."

"Yeah, bu-"

"Or you could consider the alternative.

"And I gotta tell ya, I never laugh at the same joke twice."

The black man puts up his hands in front of his chest and backs away a half dozen paces, then scurries from the terminal.

The policeman looks at Daisy, clears his throat to speak, changes his mind, and walks on.

He does not want to see what becomes of her, because it can't be anything good.

"Excuse me, young lady."

Horn-rimmed glasses, a business suit, shorter than her, average build, colorless, balding.

She looks at him, curious.

There is nothing in him to inspire fear or wonder.

"You seem to be lost."

"No, this is the end of the trip all right," she replies.

He smiles.

But there is no warmth in the pale eyes behind the horn-rimmed spectacles.

"Let me rephrase that, then.

"You seem to be at a loss. Like you don't know what to do next."

She stonewalls him, admitting nothing, denying nothing.

"I have a suggestion," he says.

"That is, if you're qualified.

"Have you ever tended a garden?"

Now that, that she can relate to, can respond to.

"I was raised on a farm!"

"Who would have guessed?

"My employer has a garden.

"Or should I say, space for a garden.

"But he has nobody to tend it.

"He offers room, board, money to one who is able to do so.

"Does that sound like something that would be of interest to you?"

"Well, uh, I really haven't given it mu-"

"Problem here, miss?"

The policeman has returned, disgusted that he was not allowed to get far enough away from her to avoid picking up on the next approach.

Like flies on shit around here today, they are, he thinks.

Funny, though, how this guy doesn't look the type.

Probably an individual kink instead of the usual pimp, trying his luck.

This oughtta send him scurrying, though.

But it does not.

Instead "My good man, I happen to be Cranston, personal secretary to Randy Buck."

From his inside pocket, Cranston produces a card.

The policeman scrutinizes it.

Buck Enterprises, the guy's name, title-he's the genuine article, or so it would seem.

"I was passing through here on business of my employer when I noticed this young lady in need of assistance.

"Assistance, I might add, unless I am mistaken, which I doubt, that she was not about to get from you.

"Or am I wrong?"

The policeman glares at him, saying nothing.

"I thought as much.

"What is at issue here… officer?"

"Thought somebody was tryna pick ‘er up, is all," he mumbles.

"Which, in fact, I am. I don't deny it."

"Look. You know damn well what I mean! "You know, unless you're new on the job, in which case I can explain it to ya."

"Please don't bother.

"Although I must say, that hardly speaks well of my appearance."

And he manages a wintry smile.

"Tell you what, officer.

"Just to show that there're no hard feelings, please, take my card.

"That way, when you discover the young lady is wanted is wanted for murder in twenty states, you'll know exactly where to find her."

Daisy takes a deep breath, surprised, not understanding.

"But I-" she begins.

But Cranston holds up a hand, silencing her.

"Until then, the young lady has many veggies to plant. That is," turning toward her, "unless you've something better to do."

"Me? No, I, uh… no."

"Excellent! Shall we go, then?

"Anything further, officer?"

"Guess not."

Cranston picks up Daisy's suitcase.

"Shall we go, then?

"The limo is just outside."

The policeman watches them leave and sees that there is indeed a limo parked in the alleyway which bisects the terminal, long and silver, its windows one-way glass.

And something clicks in his mind.

Not because of Daisy or the unremarkable Cranston, but because of the chauffeur, his skin parchment white, completely bald, wearing dark glasses.

He remembers, a year ago.

And that chauffeur resembles those robed creeps, like monks except they weren't, driving a van belonging to something called the Brotherhood of the Body.

He watches the limo pull away.

And, pulling out his wallet, instead of placing Cranston's card in with his collection, looks through the cards already there.

He finds the one he is looking for.

And goes to the terminal's small police station.

And dials the number on the card.

"Marvel Industries, Security. How may I assist you?"

"Uh, yeah, this here's Patrolman Ryan, Port Authority Bus Terminal.

"Bout a year ago, one a yer people axed me ta keep an eye out fer any of them Brotherhood of the Body types.

"An you're not gonna believe this, but-"

"Try me."

"I think I just seen the guy used ta drive their van.

"On'y now, ‘steada that robe they all wore, he's got a chauffeur's uniform an he drives for Randy Buck.

"He just picked up…

"The Estate," Cynthia says.

"There, his office, the stadium-both stadiums- "

"I'd say forget the stadiums," Vanessa interjects.

"Scratch the stadiums," Cynthia resumes, as though it is her idea, which, since Vanessa had it on her time, technically it is.

"The Estate and his office.

"That oughtta just about do it, unless-"

Beep, beep, beep!

Vanessa looks at her lapel beeper, then shuts it off.

Cynthia looks annoyed.

"Ask ‘em if it can wait, will you? I really want to get this surveillance rolling soonest."

"Sorry, Cynthia, won't take a moment."

Cynthia shoves her phone at Vanessa, who punches in security's extension.

"Vanessa here… What? Lemme have that again… No shi-I mean, no kidding! Listen, get this Ryan back to the phone and pipe it into the baroness's office… No, we'll wait for it right here. And uh, thanks."

She hangs up.

"Speak of the devil!" she says, grinning.

"Cop over the Port Authority is on duty, swatting the flies off the runaways, when who shows up but Creep Cranston and Supercreep Eric and they spirit away some cornflower in the Buckmobile!"