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Joe’s stomach. 
It was fear, he knew.
    Joe was
starting to get hungry, and the heat and constant sweating had accelerated his
thirst.  About an hour passed before he even had contact with anyone, and they
told him the detective would be with him soon.  He sat back and wondered what
they would do to him next.
    Joe
wondered how long they would leave him to his own devices.  His thoughts were
everywhere: Beauty, Dahlila, Melissa, and all that had come from meeting those
incredible women—and girl.  They were nothing but trouble , he thought. 
Even while he despaired his current fate, he couldn’t help but feel a sense of
excitement about it all.  Initially, it was his endorphins and the constant
threat of danger.  Now the excitement came from piecing together the events
from the stadium and trying to make sense of it all.  No matter how hard he
tried to get it all to make sense, he simply couldn’t.  All he could do was
ponder over events he didn't understand. He found himself wishing for some
company.

Chapter
9
    The P.I.
     
    The silence
was broken along with Joe’s current train of thought as two voices came
closer.  They seemed to be getting louder and angrier as they approached.
    “Remember
that favor you said that I had.”
    “Yeah,
but you’re not gonna call that in now.  This is hot stuff!  Big time terrorism,
and this boy has something to do with it.”
    “This boy
has nothing to do with anything.  He was just in the wrong place at the wrong
time.”
    Now that
they were right by the doorway, their voices became hushed, but Joe could still
make out what they were saying.
    “Whatever
the case, this guy is my prisoner, and my detectives will interrogate him and
get his statement.”
    “Listen
Carl, I don’t want no damn statement.  I just want five minutes with this kid
to see if he ran into one of my colleagues in there.”
    Carl:
“That’s why I brought you here.  I didn’t walk you down here for my health.”
    There was
a bit of silence.
    “I’ll be
honest, Carl.  Some of what we’ll be talking about you shouldn’t be hearing.”
    Carl:
“What’s the point in us even arresting this kid then?”
    "You
can ask him anything you want, I just want to get him off the record."
    The one
named Carl let out a huge sigh.
    Carl:
“Hank, if you do anything to mess up this case, I’m gonna deck you.  Your big ugly
gray mug is gonna go spinning into orbit.”
    Hank:
“Five minutes, Carl, that’s all.”
    Carl:
“You got your five minutes. Use ‘em wisely.  And he better be in usable
condition once you’re done with him.”
    There was
silence followed by footsteps, then more silence.  The wooden door creaked open
and in entered one of the talking men.  Joe guessed this one to be Hank, who,
to Joe, looked very old and tired.  The man’s clothes matched his hair, gray
and unkempt.  He bore down on Joe with his grayish green eyes and Joe struggled
to meet his gaze briefly and resigned to stare at the floor.  Joe’s brief
glimpse showed him that the man wasn’t too tall.  The way his shoulders set and
all of the frown lines on his forehead gave Joe the distinct impression that
this Hank was not a patient man.
    Joe dared
to look up at the man again; his grandpa wouldn't approve of him looking away. 
The man’s gaze was fiercely trained on Joe, and Joe began to fidget and squirm
in his chair.  He tried to sit as still as he possibly could, barely managing
to breathe in the process.  Joe let out all the air as slowly as he could.  As
the man approached, Joe tried to offer a bit of awkward stilted conversation.
    Joe:
“Hello, sir.  How can I help you, sir?”
    Hank: “By
dropping the crappy pleasantries, this ain’t the prom, kid.  You’re wasting
both of our time.  Now, you can answer my questions like a good little boy.”
    Joe’s
stomach twisted and turned.  He didn’t know what this man wanted or even if he
had the answers that he was looking for.  It had just dawned