The Trail Ends

Brown-headed Cowbirds are nest parasitizers. Meaning, the female lays one of her eggs in another (smaller) bird's nest. She'll probably knock one of that bird's eggs out when she does. The Cowbird hatches first, and it's bigger and louder than its nestmates, so it can dominate the food and attention of its unwitting foster parents. As survival strategies go, it's not a bad one, even if it does seem terribly lazy.

The other thing about Cowbirds is they keep an eye on those nests. If you remove their egg from it, they'll trash the nest. That forces the other bird to start over, and the Cowbirds then parasitize that nest. Which is why I should have had Maggie and her boys burn down at least one of the houses in the story. Also would have been a good chance to find some stray ammunition in the smoldering remains, and establish the gun-running angle a little sooner (I've been informed by one reader that it came on abruptly, and I can't really argue it).

Ink-Stained Trail had the same problem a lot of my attempts at writing had: I didn't plan things out well enough ahead of time. I did try to set things out ahead of time, but it always seemed as though a scene would solve one issue, but create three more. Either that, or it would feel awkwardly shoehorned in to provide necessary exposition. I guess a detective story is really not the sort of thing you can make up on the fly. Not if you're trying to be at least somewhat logical and fair to the audience. Or I can't anyway.

That was my goal with this, to try writing something that didn't rely on magic, or super-science, or remarkably out of left field plot contrivances. I do love writing all those things, but I thought I'd try changing it up. The idea came on a job, where Cowbirds were an issue, but so were raccoons, running about stealing bait as they often do. I figured between the thievery and near mob tactics of the Cowbirds, a detective/noir thing might work.

In reality, trying figure out how it would all fit together became a real chore. I had more doubts as to whether I could make it enjoyable than any other story I've put up here. I considered stopping it midway with, "Then a meteor fell and they all died. The End." Which is why it took 10 months to finish writing the last dozen or so parts (contrast that to the less than 6 weeks the second half of Tales From the Woods took me), and there are some things I should certainly have added.

I think I originally planned to make Maggie more ruthless, but changed my mind part way. I like writing these sorts of cordial, not completely ruthless villains. It keeps that voice in my head that argues "Why doesn't she just shoot him?" from getting to speak. One of these days I ought to write a villain who is just flat out evil. No banter, no kinder moments, just a real bastard. Well, maybe a little banter, but no mercy. Though the character I think I'd most want to write down the line is probably Charlie. I'd need to learn something about running a business first, or else it'll be a laughable mess.

The Ink-Stained Trail - Chapter 14

It was cool that night. It had rained through the afternoon, moisture brought on the tail of a decent north wind. A car pulled up in front of the Guttierez house. A nice car - black, sleek, shiny under the half moon - but just a single car. Four people emerged: three hulking shadows, and one smaller form they fell in step behind as it strode confidently toward the front door. There were lights on inside, two lamps set one each in front of a window. Stepping onto the porch, the lead shadow rapped politely at the door. It swung open, silent as a breathless scream. Now the larger shadows took the lead, entering first, scanning the nearby rooms, then indicating the other could step inside. As she did, a light turned on in the kitchen. They advanced quickly, the larger shadows still in the lead, the smaller not waiting this time, but following at a more sedate speed. By the time Maggie reached the kitchen, I had 3 guns pointed at me. For my part, I sat at the table, sipping some coffee.

"No need for all that fellas, I'm unarmed." I stood slowly, arms away from my body as one of them did a quick frisk. A pretty shoddy frisk. If I had a .38 tucked in my belt, he'd never have known it. Maybe the numbers made him cocky, or maybe he wasn't used to taking prisoners.

"Mr. Curtis, what are you doing here?" Maggie didn't seem pleased to see me, but she didn't look put out, either. I seated myself before answering.

"Waiting. For you, though I wasn't positive you'd handle this personally."

"Handle what? A friendly visit to some friends?" Maggie normally wore that steely gaze, the one that kept her boys in line, but she had a pretty decent innocent waif look in the kit. Like the best trick in a skilled magician's kit bag, it was enough to make you doubt everything you thought you knew about the world. I took a moment to shake off the doubts, then responded, trying to maintain that confidence.

"Don't play stupid, sister. It doesn't suit you. Besides, it's what you have these lunks for. They don't have to play. I'm talking about the guns. The ones you hijacked from the Charlanes. The ones you've been stashing in the basements of these homes they built for their employees." The innocent look vanished, swept away like whisper in the wind. The steel slammed back into place.

"Very well. I won't bother feigning innocence."

"Good. It'd be a waste of everyone's time."

"Where are the Guttierezes?"

"I convinced Hector and Marisol to take their kids to a fair one county over. Best not to be around so many people with itchy trigger fingers." I cast a significant glance at her boys, who certainly looked ready to let the lead fly.

"And how did you know we'd be here tonight? Or were you planning on waiting here every night?"

"You didn't have much choice. This last heist was too big. People got hurt -"

"That wasn't our fault! They refused to lay down their weapons!"

Well. She seemed legitimately bothered by it. Not what I expected, but clearly her boys had caught hell about it already. Old Sean certainly didn't look happy. "You didn't lay down your weapons when people back home told you to, did you? None of you did. That's you had to leave, and you're still fighting. Now don't interrupt."

I might have overreached there. One of the boys looked ready to let his fist have a conversation with my face, but he wouldn't without her order. And Maggie stayed silent. "This last one was too noisy. Thompson and the Charlanes both like having control - which you knew, you'd been relying on it - but they couldn't keep the state out of it now. And those troopers don't live here, don't have to worry about reelection. They can be as nosy as they please. Once you realized what you started, you knew you had to get things moving before they could start snooping for real."

"If you knew the guns were here, why not use them against us? I've looked into your background. You have considerable experience."

"Several reasons. One, that's not how I like to handle things now. Two, I'm not looking to kill you, never have been. Just wanted to get to the bottom of things. Three, I promised Hector and Marisol I wouldn't damage their home. Four, I wasn't expecting so few of you. You split up?"

"As you noted, time is short."

"Question for you:  How'd you convince them to hide all this?"

Maggie smiled thinly, without humor. "They can't expose our thefts without exposing their employers' misdeeds, either directly, or when we talk after our arrests. And if they tried destroying the guns, well, fires are a common occurrence here, as you've no doubt noted."

"So much for not wanting to hurt people."

"There's a difference between not wanting to hurt people, and not being willing or able. You should know that."

I let the jab pass. "Did you come here looking to steal guns. Is the Charlane's kid fighting against you?"

She shook her head. "Nothing like that. Their son is fighting somewhere across the Pacific. Manchuria perhaps, or Indochina. I forget which. As he's fighting an established government, I suppose we're on the same side."

"Which doesn't stop you from raiding supplies meant for his battle."

Maggie leaned against the kitchen counter, and stared out the window as she talked. "I've never considered myself a 'revolutionaries of the world, unite!' sort. I'm hardly a revolutionary at all. I saw injustices at home being let go, and wanted to eradicate them. That's all. I considered it over when I came here. I'd been cast out of my country, could no longer fight for it. I had relatives who moved here generations ago. As I told you before, I thought it would be like home."

"Except the Charlanes stole your relations' land decades ago. And when you learned about the guns, you had the perfect chance to get back at them, and get back in the fight!"

She turned to look at me, an eyebrow raised in confusion. "Stole? My relatives' children wanted to try the city, so when their parents passed away, they sold the farm gladly. They used the money to open a car dealership back East. Why would you think it was stolen?"

Oh. Count that as a swing and a miss. Maggie sounded like she was trying not to laugh, like the idea amused her the more she thought about it. The boys just looked annoyed. I tried to get back on topic.

"I have a natural suspicion of successful businessmen, not being one myself."

The laughter was still in her voice. "A curious philosophy. Do you have a natural suspicion of women, since you aren't one?"

"Nah. Them I just don't understand. Businessmen I understand too well."

"Perhaps not. You misjudged me."

"You a businessman?"

"A bit. A person can be many things. You're a poor businessman, and a private detective. John here," she motioned to a tall man with a thin face, and thinner mustache, who stood in the doorway, frequently looking back down the hall, " is an excellent driver, and makes a fine hash."

"If you're a better business man than me, then you know when to cut your losses. Like now, for instance."

"If you're suggesting it's time to leave town, I can't agree. It would raise rather a lot of suspicions."

"Then what are you doing here, if not to grab the loot and split?"

"It's not time to depart, but it is advisable to get the shipment away from here. We gather them, send them out with a few of the boys, and keep the rest moving about the town in plain sight."

"And the way your boys are always moving around town, nobody will be able tell a few are missing. Definitely a smart plan, as long as nobody knows about it. Unfortunately for you, they do. I told Sheriff Thompson everything this afternoon. He's real eager to round you up. Said something about a 'hound dog after bacon on the floor', whatever that means." The boys all tensed, but Maggie didn't flinch.

"I doubt the good sheriff would take your word for it. As much as I enjoy these conversations, time is still something of a factor." Her eyes went off to my right, and I saw Sean advance from that direction, reversing the grip on his pistol. I laughed loudly (partially from relief she wasn't planning to kill me), and Sean stopped with his arm raised.

"You're right. I didn't go to Thompson. I went to Charlie Washington. I don't know what he did with the information. He might have passed it on to Thompson. I think you'll agree the 'good sheriff' would listen to his business partner."

All the boys were sporting troubled looks, and at least one was shooting glances towards the front door, ready to bolt. Just a little more of a push, then. I drew a cigarette, struck a match off my shoe (didn't want to mark Marisol's table), and lit the cig. No ashtrays in the house, I used my empty coffee mug.

"No guarantee he did that, of course. The Raccoons were Charlie's old group. They might not appreciate having all this laid at their doorstep. Since the troopers know Charlie used to be in the group, he won't appreciate the interest they'll take in his business. You can imagine they'll be less. . . polite, than Thompson.

"Do you expect me to panic, run screaming into the night like a helpless child?" For the first time in this conversation there was real anger in Maggie's voice.

"No, I expect you to recognize that it'll be easier to escape if you can scatter, than if you have to stick together around a convoy full of guns and bullets. I expect you to realize using the guns and bullets to defend yourself would just draw more attention, since shooting is what's brought us to this point. And I expect you to recognize when to cut bait!"

I cast a glance over the room. Two of the boys, John and Michael, the young guy who helped push my car that night out there on the road, looked ready to bolt. Sean just looked ready to kill me. Maggie was watching me intently, like there were scribbled answers on my face she was struggling to translate. Tough luck sister, no answers there. I oughta know. I'm the one who has to look at it every morning in the mirror.

Maggie came to the same conclusion. Now it was a question of whether she'd take the time to kill me for spite. She sighed. "It's always lonely men . . . Let's go boys."

"What about him?" Sean sounded excited, but was bound for disappointment. Maggie shook her head once, sharply.

"We haven't killed anyone here yet. Let's not break that streak." Sean glowered at Maggie, a big, sulky kid who wanted a sucker but was told he couldn't have it. Even so, Maggie turned her back, completely dismissing his challenge. If he wanted to stay for revenge, fine, but he'd have to walk for freedom. Sean was stupid, but not that stupid. He fell in line as she stepped quick, but light out of the house.

I exhaled softly. Brother, was she good. I wondered who drove her out of her home? Her enemy, who couldn't kill her, or her own, who couldn't control her? Not my concern. My cigarette had burned down during all the shouting. I snuffed it and carried the mug to the sink to wash the ash and coffee out of it.

I promised I'd keep the place tidy.

Using the pump almost drowned out the police sirens as Thompson came tearing down the drive. Guess I stalled things long enough for him to wrap things up at the other houses. There was a crash.

I dried the bowl, set it aside, and walked to the front of the house. Turns out John wasn't a good enough driver. He'd plowed into a car coming up the lane. Thompson had been cagey enough to avoid it, as he stepped from a car that had swerved off into the grass. Sean emerged from the wrecked sedan, one hand to his head, the other holding that pistol. I saw a thin arm lunge from the back seat, and I think I heard Maggie yell once to put it down. But Sean had been itching to shoot someone, and she was too far away. Thompson didn't hesitate, and he was shielded from Sean by his car, and the glare of the other vehicles' headlights. It ended quickly.

Thompson eyed me as I strolled out, coat over my shoulder. "The way they was tearing outta here, I figured you for a dead man."

"Dead man wouldn't want a drink as bad as I do."

"Cain't help you there. Lotta work to do."

"I take it you listened to Charlie."

"Yep. These are the last of them. You could have approached me yourself."

"Got the impression my presence wasn't appreciated. Mother taught me not to go where I'm not welcome."

"I'd say she needed to teach you a little harder."

"Just a slow learner, is all."

Thompson turned to watch as Maggie and the last of her boys were loaded into a paddy wagon (just a modified truck, was all), a satisfied smile on his face. John didn't survive the crash. "At least this group put up less of a fuss. The others all tried running for the basements when we came in. Reckon that's where they hid the guns, but nothing was there but some empty boxes and a few scattered rifles. Know anything about that?"

I had visited Charlie a little after 10 that morning, before telling each family to step out of town for the evening. "When did Charlie call you?"

Thompson glanced over at me. "3 o'clock. Next time you want to tip off the police, try giving more advance warning."

I'm guessing Charlie called a few friends back on the coast. I wondered if he'd really been ousted from his old group. I wondered if Maggie was the only one who'd gotten wind of the gun-running. "Sorry. Forgot to account for how slow you cops are out here in the wilderness."

Thompson's grin disappeared, vanishing behind that curtain of a mustache. I turned and ambled behind the house to check on my car. She better start up, I wasn't likely to get a jump from anyone out front now. I'd solved a case nobody hired me for. I got paid nothing. Just a lousy businessman, I suppose, giving it away for free.

In the front seat of my car, there was an envelope, a paw print stamped on it. Inside, a wad of bills, adding up to a couple of G's. There was a note, too: "Finder's Fee". I turned the key, her engine caught right off. I couldn't think of a better sign that it was time to go back to the city.

Country life is too complicated.

The Ink-Stained Trail- Chapter 13

John dragged me out of my thoughts as he hauled out of the way by me sleeve. We watched Lyle and the first shipment rumble and bounce into the darkness. Five minutes later, the other set of trucks rolled out and headed in the opposite direction. Time passed, I wasn't sure how much. Everything was quiet, except for a few birds you could hear flitting about up in the rafters. I didn't know for sure anything was wrong, or if I could do anything if there was, but what the hell. I'd come this far, might as well see it through. Besides, John kept poking me with the gun - to see if I slept standing up, I guess - and I was getting a little tired of it.

"You know one of your guys slipped out before the trucks left, right?" John ignored me. "he probably went to clue his buddies in."

"Be quiet. You're just making up nonsense."

"Your pals are gonna be in dutch. Don't you think you oughta warn 'em?"

John jabbed the gun into my side a little harder and said, "Mister, I've had about enough of your hash, now shut yer yap before - "

Funny thing. The padlock I picked off the Charlane's gate was still in my coat pocket. I'd just wanted to keep the gate open for a return visit, but it came in handy for clocking John Boy here. Not sporting, but effective. His head whipped around and the rest of him followed in a graceful downward spiral. Like a pigeon taken out of the sky with a slingshot. He was gonna need some dental work, but judging from his breath, he was overdue. I pocketed the padlock and headed for my car.

She wasn't in a cooperative mood. I checked under the hood, on the off chance someone had the bright idea to disable her. No such luck. Then I heard gunfire, to the west. they fell for the decoy. Good for whoever the guns were headed to, bad for for the guys in the trucks. I'd hoped this wouldn't happen, since most of the thefts had been quiet heists, a little smash and grab. I guess when Charlane upped the stakes with more armed guards, the thieves did, too. I tried the key one more time, pleading under my breath with her to start for me, sugar. The engine coughed, rattled the whole car, but at least it was running. I headed west, the same direction the whole neighborhood was gawking at from their lawns.

As I drove, I realized I couldn't do much with a padlock, if there was even anything to do. I reached across the car, careful to keep an eye on the road. never know when a cow will go for a stroll. In the glove box was my revolver, a well-oiled but beat up .38. I keep it in good working condition just in case, but letting it bounce around in the glove compartment doesn't do the outside any good. I don't like guns. I'm good with them, and in the past I've leaned too heavily on them. Not using them makes solving some problems harder, but also prevents others from cropping up entirely. Besides, I keep forgetting to renew my permit.

Turns out I didn't need it. The whole thing was over by the time I got there, though I didn't have any time to find out much. Thompson and his deputies were already there. Thompson was livid, his language would have lit up the sky if the burning trucks weren't doing a fine job already. He wasn't likely to be happy to see me at any point, but certainly not now, and he harangued his deputies to get me out of there. I was just able to confirm no one died, though plenty were injured, and a couple might be touch and go, as they hustled me away. Good news was Bill wasn't one of the injured, and he filled me and the other fellas in over breakfast the next morning.

It's hard to say how much he embellished the story, but the attack came at a sharp turn, with thieves using hay bales as a temporary roadblock, and others in the fields for cover. The roadblock only had to hold long enough to let them shoot out tires. Nobody was sure how many thieves there were, with the dark clothes and masks, but Hill assured us they were all giants, heavily armed (that part I figure for half-true). The first few guys who returned fire got shot down pretty quick, and then some of the ammo in one of the trucks went up and the rest of Charlane's men bailed out. At that point, with no cover of their own, the guys gave up the fight. Smart move. A few shadows moved in to start unloading crates, and turns out Charlane lied to me. The shipment that went west wasn't the decoy. All the workers knew that before I ever showed up. I guess Charlane was betting I'd escape, which made me feel a little better about hitting John. Bill swears John is the type to hold grudges, though, but hell, who isn't?

I mulled things over in the park while breakfast settled. Another shipment taken. They'd left behind another Raccoon mark, real elaborate the way Bill described it. Not just the track, but a mask, little nose, even whiskers. Someone fancied themselves an artist, and was also a little too cute for their own good. This is much too loud for the Raccoons. There were only two people in town I'd bet had the manpower to pull this off: Charlie or Maggie. I've been told the local ladies for Liberty are tough enough, but they only number a half-dozen.

I wanted to dismiss Charlie. He'd always liked how the Raccoons handled things, and this was too loud, too flashy. Making a deal with the sheriff so he could run illegal gaming, that was more his style. Crooked, but with enough respectability people don't object. He didn't announce himself, just let how well he ran things speak for itself.

Of course, if he was going to try something like this, the sheriff was a good person to be partners with. But that didn't jibe, either. Thompson couldn't want this level of trouble. The buzz had been growing that state troopers were about to get involved, and Thompson didn't want them investigating. If Charlie brought that heat down, it'd be the end of their partnership.

Which left Maggie and her army of boys, but where would she hide the guns? I had a good guess, but I'd need to make some plans. I rose, looking at the clouds to the northwest as I walked back to the boarding house. My car didn't give me any grief today, and rolled smooth as could be onto Main Street as we headed east.

The Ink-Stained Trail - Chapter 12

I sat watching the shipping bays from my car. Grain elevators were barely visible shadows looming in the background. I'd been there two hours so far, trying not to fall asleep from the heat. Through the open bay doors I could see a lot of guys moving around. A half-dozen trucks were idling, but nobody had made any move to get in and go yet.

The night dragged on. A sliver of moon rose in the sky, casting just enough light to remind a fella how much he couldn't see. For example, someone sneaking up behind my car and pressing a pistol against my ear.

"Hands up where I can see them," the gun drawled.

"You can see out here? That's one up on me."

The gun pressed a little harder. "Just do it." The accent was local. A neighborhood gun. I raised my hands. My door opened, and the pressure behind my ear vanished.

"Get out." I did.

"Start walking."

"Where?"

"Thataway."

"Which way is 'thataway'?" I saw the gun whistling towards my face as clearly as I'd seen it gesture towards the shipping bays. Sometimes I can't help myself, and no one else is interested in the job. After I checked to see if I'd lost any teeth (No), I picked myself off the street and headed for the shipping bays. No need to try for a twofer.

Inside, everything was lit up nicely. There were men with guns everywhere, 27 as best I could tell. Not professionals, just farmers and the like. I spared a glance at the guy behind me. The same. I didn't entertain any notions of running. Just because they weren't professionals didn't mean they didn't know how to use those things. With all the hunting and general messing around, they were probably better shots than half of the hitters back on the coast. They all eyed me with varying degrees of wariness, not sure of the surprise guest. A thin, wheedling voice called out from above.

"Mr. Curtis, is it? What brings you to my property, again?" It was an older gent, full head of silver hair, wire-rimmed glassed perched on a narrow nose. He was dressed well, maybe a bit too much for the loading dock. Double-breasted suit, starched cuffs on his black pants. The walking stick he leaned on was hand carved, the only thing that didn't fit. I figured that meant it was part of the real Aldophus Charlane, and the rest was just window dressing.

"You tell me. I thought I was here at your invitation."

"I thought you'd be excited to see the inside of my operation."

"Not really. manual labor has never been an interest of mine."

"I gathered as much from your chosen profession. Making a living digging into others' lives."

"Well, we can't all inherit land our ancestors purchased from others' misfortunes." Charlane's nostrils flared slightly, and his eyes widened, but he said nothing, unless the rhythm his fingers were tapping on the head of the cane were a code. "I'm more interested in what's coming out of here than the building itself."

"You mean all manner of produce?"

"I mean whatever you're shipping under all that. Guns, I imagine."

"You imagine? You implicate me as a gun runner based on your imaginings?" Not much of a denial, I noted., and his fingers were fluttering over that cane like a hummingbird's wings.

"All the men with guns are a pretty big clue. You don't set up security like this for grain. It's to help your son, isn't it?" The fingers grew still, along with the rest of him, like a current was running through, paralyzing him. "He's across the ocean somewhere, mixed up in something that doesn't concern him. And you're trying to load the deck in his favor with arms shipments. Does he know, did he ask you to, or are you dealing with his superiors behind his back? Guns in exchange for keeping him well out of the firing?"

Charlane said nothing, just clenched his teeth and glared at me. The workers didn't seem surprised by any of it. Either Aldophus had been upfront with them about it, or they pieced it together on there own. Given how much I'd figured out just from scattered conversations, the latter option wouldn't surprise me. The mice know more about the cat's life than it would ever expect.

Charlane's paralysis broke abruptly, as he started pacing, jabbing the stick at me for emphasis. "Who are you working for? It's the thieves, isn't it? You're their informant."

"You were getting robbed before I ever came to town."

"You could have been here earlier, hiding in the shadows. It's where your kind is most comfortable, anyways."

"I'm impressed you've researched the habits of my "kind" so thoroughly, but I had nothing to do with the thefts. If I did, why didn't you catch me until now? Your guy here," I jerked my thumb at the fellow with the pistol, "sniffed me right out. What I suddenly got stupid tonight?"

"Then who do you work for? Why are you meddling in my affairs?" Charlane took a step towards me, and all the men tensed up. Whether they planned to stop him if he got violent, or me if I did, I don't know.

"Sheriff Thompson hired me." I hoped invoking the law would make Charlane ease back.

"A pathetic lie. Thompson hates outside interference."

"He also hates a bunch of heists going on under his watch. Hurts his re-election effort." There must have been something true in that, because Charlane paused to consider it. Then he turned to a man to his right.

"Lyle, take 10 men on the first shipment and head east towards 103." He turned left. "Silas, you wait 5 minutes then take the decoy shipment west to Route 13, then onto County Road 219. Make like you're headed for the border. See how they handle that." He turned to me. "You'll wait here with John. If the shipment makes it through without you able to warn them, I'll have to conclude you're lying."

He stalked off, that cane rapping out one sharp note after another on the concrete floor. I'd have been worried, but before everyone got to work, I noticed there were only 26 men in the room. Someone had already ducked out. I hoped it was just to find a restroom, but I doubted it.

The Ink-Stained Trail - Chapter 11

I retreated to my room for the heat of the day. The time I didn't spend regretting leaving that bottle with her, I spent going over the conversation. The comment about shipping was interesting. She wouldn't be the first to clear a space for herself by destroying an established competitor. It didn't explain implicating the Raccoons. It couldn't be common knowledge she was planning to enter the shipping business, even if people knew she bought some trucks. If it was, she'd have been a suspect. Thompson was smart enough to look into that. Unless he was being paid off, which might mean Charlie was involved, his claims of innocence to the contrary. Maybe it was payback for the Raccoons kicking him out. Or maybe Thompson didn't tell Charlie all the deals he had going. Or maybe shipping was just something Maggie told me to set my head spinning. If so, it was working.

That evening, I stepped out for some air, maybe grab a bite. Two blocks east from the boarding house, there's a bunch of ball fields. Hadn't really planned to go there, but I could get more of a breeze out i the open, and it was on the way to all the eateries.

It's a pretty nice place to play. Dirt infields looked neat, grass was trimmed, real bases and fences. It wasn't just some section of field the kids had claimed. A sign at the entrance stated plainly it had been built with money donated by the Charlanes. I wondered if they donated their groundskeepers as well, and if so, would they try to run me out of here, too.

I watched the game from under a tree, enjoying the rare sensation of my shirt not stickin' to me like a second skin. Both teams were shorthanded. One had 2 outfielders, the other was trying three infielders. Both were a work in progress. I would have said the first team had the right idea, but the boy manning the middle infield for the second team could move. 3 infielders was enough. The game wound down, I wasn't sure who won. The kids made their way off the field and one of them noticed me. He waved. "Hi mister!"

I said before I don't like to use kids in my work. They get in enough trouble on their own without someone else encouraging them to find more. Still, it doesn't hurt to find out what they already know. So I waved back. "Hi yourself. You boys put on quite a show."

"Gee, thanks!"

The other kids had turned to watch the chat. One of the taller ones spoke up. "Aren't you that nosy p.i. from the coast?" As quick as he said it, his eyes dropped. I guess the "nosy" crack was made by whoever he'd been listening to.

"That sounds about right," I agreed. "Name's Milo, though I do answer the "Nosy Gumshoe". It's one of the nicer things I've been called." That broke the ice a little. Most of the kids were still at an age were a private detective talking to them might seem neat. Much older, and I'd just be another adult nosing into their business.

"I'm Chet," the first boy piped up. "That's Tommy," he jerked his thumb at the taller boy, then went around introducing the rest of them. He was smaller than most, but they deferred to him. Some people just have that, even as kids. "So what are you investigating now? A murder?" He sounded pretty eager, and the rest of the kids leaned in.

"No, nothing like that." Their faces fell. "Unless you know of one around here that needs looking into?"

Chet shook his head. "A murder? Around here? Naw, we figured you followed a lead out here on some other case."

"Nope. I came out here for my health." The boys looked crestfallen, reality coming up short of their dreams. "I have a severe lead allergy, so I left town for awhile on the advice of, well I wouldn't call them friends, exactly." The boys acted like they caught my meaning, or pretended they did. Now that they knew I investigated things that might get me shot, I had their interest again. "I'm looking into the thefts of the Charlanes' food shipments."

"They hired you? I bet that riled Sheriff Thompson, having to work with you." That came from a freckled, big-eyed kid named Samuel.

"I'm operating independently of Thompson, but he's still not too happy." I shrugged, like unhappy cops were no big deal. "I'm hoping to catch them in the act."

"Then you should be down at the yard. One is going out tonight." Everyone looked at Frank. He shrugged. "My dad works there, ya know."

"That seems early."

Frank shrugged again. "I don't know. I heard my dad say the boxes arrived last night, and he has to work tonight so. . ." he trailed off, maybe worried it wasn't as obvious to us as it was to him.

"Boxes? What boxes?" Tommy had decided to interrogate. Frank shrugged. I wondered if it was really a twitch. I knew a fella, his right arm would jerk forward sometimes. It jerked forward when Katarina Rodonsky was standing in front of him, and the arm wound up a chew toy for her wolfhound. While it was still attached to the original owner.

"Maybe it's boxes to store food in." That was Joey, or Josephine. Bright eyes, hair back in a ponytail she tried to hide under her hat.

"Don't be dumb, Joey!" Tommy retorted. "They already have boxes for that!"

Joey flushed red. "Maybe they don't have enough, Thomas! Besides, the boxes have to come from somewhere!"

"I think the boxes already having something in them. I heard him complain about how heavy they are, and how careful you have to be unloading them."

I'd kept quiet through this. The kids were doing a fair job laying the pieces out. "Well, it sounds like I better get over there. Don't want to miss a thing. The Charlanes are real eager for this to be wrapped up before their boy gets home from school." I tipped my cap and started off when a different voice piped up from the back.

"Their son isn't away at school." It was a boy who'd been hanging back, like he wasn't totally in the group. His name was Juan, and when he sniffed and wiped his nose across his arm, it hit me. Hector Gutierrez' son. The one with the allergies.

"What do you mean, Juan?" I tied to be easy with him, easier than I'd been with his dad. He looked nervous, and I didn't want him to clam up. "Need a handkerchief?" I handed him mine, which he took and blew into loudly.

"I heard my Mama and Papa talking one night. I was supposed to be asleep, but with my nose, I couldn't breathe well. . ."

"I understand. I get summer colds, they're like that." Juan accepted this, and maybe noticed how all the other kids were giving him their undivided attention. I doubt he got that much. He stood up a little straighter.

"They were downstairs at the dinner table. Papa was drinking some coffee. He said the Charlanes were worried about their son. That his letters weren't coming as much, that they said things were getting worse over there."

"Where's 'over there'?" Joey asked.

Juan shook his head. "I don't know. He just said 'over there'. Wherever their son is. My papa said the Charlanes were really worried about the shipments not getting through, how they're watching all the help, thinking they're in on the thefts."

"Well yeah, if your dad's gonna go blabbin' everything!" Frank remarked.

Juan's face grew tense. "He just told my mom!"

"Easy," I cut in. "I've met Juan's dad. He likes the Charlanes, and I don't think he'd do anything to make their lives difficult if he could avoid it." But Maggie's nocturnal visits to his house lingered in my mind, arguing differently.

Frank tried to save face. "Well, I didn't mean he was doin' it on purpose!"

"Really? Sure sounded like it."

"Yeah."

"Yeah, frank." And I thought syndicate guys turned on each other fast. I tried to steer the conversation back on track before the other kids measured Frank for cement shoes.

"Did your parents say anything else?" Juan looked around nervously. Whatever it was, he wasn't sure about sharing it with so many people. "If it helps me solve the case faster, then it'll be helping the Charlanes." I hoped Juan and the others took the hint, that he was doing a good thing.

Juan sucked in a breath, then blurted out, "My mom said she didn't know how much longer the Charlanes could keep trying. They were only making things worse. My dad said things were already bad enough, for everyone. They couldn't make it worse."

Vague, but ominous. Not my favorite lead, but take what you can get. "Thank you, Juan, you've been a big help. I really better move if I'm going to make it to the yard."

"Wait a minute, mister." It was Tommy again. I noticed he wasn't using "Milo". "If you're working for the Charlanes, how come you didn't know this stuff already?" Kid was sharp. Put it together with his charisma, he'd go far, on either side of the law. Still, it wasn't a hard question to answer.

"In my experience, rich people are used to giving servants orders and having them done without explanations. They get to the point they handle everyone that way. Even people who need to know to do their job. The Charlanes are rich people. You do the math." I tipped my hat, again, and walked away before Tommy could raise any other questions. I wasn't sure he bought it.

The Ink-Stained Trail - Chapter 10

I awoke the next morning in my room with a dull throb. it's placement near the back of my skull said it was from whatever knocked me out, and not the high octane hooch. I made my way slowly to the bathroom, and while I splashed some cold water from the sink on my face, debated my next move. I knew what I wanted to try, I just wasn't sure it was a smart idea. But when had that ever stopped me before?

After I cleaned up a little more, I made my way to the diner for some breakfast with Bill, wearing yet another flannel shirt. At least he had more than one. We watched the Cowbirds make their usual rounds, but Maggie was nowhere to be seen. I guess she's trained them enough they don't need constant supervision. I walked back to the boarding house to get my car, and my best bottle of liquor. I wanted to have a real conversation with Maggie, shake the trunk a bit, see what fell off the branches. Once I saw the best bottle, I decided to stop at the store before I reached the hotel out by the highway. Not many cars there, guess it isn't the tourist season.

Once there, I explained to the thin, pinched face clerk behind the desk that Ms. Duncan had helped me recently, and I wished to give her a gift as a thank you. He nodded and without a word, picked up the phone to his right and placed a call. A few sentences were exchanged, he hung up and told me, "Room 13, end of the hall, on your left."

Maggie was waiting with the door open by the time I got there. Her hair was down, not far, since it's short, but covering her ears. She was wearing a plain white shirt, buttoned to the neck, but with the cuffs undone. It looked big on her, but I figure that meant it would breathe a bit. She wore an equally plain set of dark pants, those too, looking a bit large. Still haven't quite got used to dames wearing pants. "Ah, it's you. I thought you were only sociable one night a month?"

"That's right, and this is my one midday to be sociable. Sometimes they line up right."

She moved aside, and I stepped into the room. Standard hotel decor. Two beds, only one that showed signs of being slept in. A plain table in the corner, with a chair on either side. Curtains drawn. Maggie took one chair, nodded to the other. "Like the stars, then. Were you able to have your car fixed?"

Quite a shift between sentences there. I can't tell if it's natural, or a deliberate attempt to throw me off. "Nah, can't really be fixed, just have to live with it. She's a good car, mostly. Just temperamental, sometimes."

A knowing smile, the Cheshire Cat if its face was partially paralyzed. "And you place a certain emotional value on her. You boys, always so sentimental."

"Sentiment is for joes who can spare it. I'm cheap."

The smile reappeared. "Of course. I told you last night, it was hardly necessary to thank me for assistance."

"I know, but it seemed a good thing to do. Even I can spare sentiment sometimes. And since you aren't playing, I thought we could have a drink." I set the bottle on the table. "This might not have the kick of the stuff at Charlie's place, but you're less likely to go blind from it, too."

She raised a thin eyebrow. I wondered how hard it was to keep them that neat. "It's a little early for a drink, don't you think?"

I shrugged. "It's only too early if you think it is. But we can wait, pass the time." I leaned back a little more, let my eyes drift over the room, take in the faded watercolor of cobblestone street in a distant city. Reminded me of Italy. Without looking at her directly, I asked, "What brought you to this sleepy little burg?"

"When I was younger, all I wanted was to get away from home. After some time away, all I wanted was to go back. Have you ever felt like that?"

Now I was making eye contact. "Not particularly, but none of the places I called home were very homey. Why not go back home?"

I expected her to look away, maybe evade the question, but her eyes took on a distant look, instead. "My family wouldn't welcome me. This town at least is a lot like home." Best kind of evasion, one with a little truth in it. I just wasn't sure which part. "And what brought you here, Mr. Curtis? Sleuthing?"

I shook my head. "No, it was for my health. Doc's orders."

"Ah, the pollution in the city was getting to your lungs."

I laughed. "It'd have to fight the cigarette smoke first. No, Doc told me if I didn't get outta town it was gonna be bad for my fingers, toes, and face." Doc was one of Johnny Two Left Shoes enforcers. Fortunately, one I got along with, and one willing to offer warnings, before he started in on you.

"It's difficult, living under the constant threat of violence." Bit of a forlorn line to her mouth, that distant look creeping back in.

"None of that here," I agreed, "unless you count your boys marching around town, spooking everyone."

She looked at me, startled, or appearing so. "What do you mean?"

"They act like an occupying army. Always making sure people know where they are, always making people detour around them."

Now she was glaring. "They're just exploring. Keeping busy. They miss their homes as well."

I wasn't sure when I'd decided to press the issue. Maybe I was getting frustrated I couldn't get a read on her, when she was being genuine. But now that I had, no sense doing it halfway. "Maybe you need to find more stimulating activities for them. Like a coloring book. Maybe painting classes. One of them has an artistic touch?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"All those signs at the recent heists. The raccoon prints. Someone likes to leave their mark."

Are you saying I'm involved in those thefts?!"

Her voice was rising. The anger, I was sure was genuine, but I wasn't sure if she was angry about being accused, or angry about someone catching on to her scheme. "I never said you, just one of your boys. But now that you mention it, I figure they're taking orders from you, sure."

"And what business would it be of yours if I were involved?"

That almost felt like an admission, but nothing you could take to the bank, or to the cops, for that matter. And she was already getting herself back under control. I hadn't managed to shake her as well as I'd hoped. So I changed tack again. "None. I'm not getting paid by anyone. Don't even know why I brought it up. Let's forget the whole thing. What are your long-term goals? Farming?"

She sat there for a moment blinking, like I started speaking in tongues or something. Then she smiled. A little friendly, a little amused. "No. I had enough time on the farm. Shipping might be good. An exporter. It's obvious people around here need another option. The Charlanes' regular shipments being raided on the road, or before they even leave. Total incompetence, but an opportunity. And you, what are your plans?"

"I never plan long-term. Every time I've tried it's gone south. Stay here until it's safe to go back to the coast, see if I can pick up where I left off. Have to rent a new office, I'm sure my old one has been taken back."

"I wish you success in those endeavors." She rose, the sign our conversation was over. "If you don't mind, I have some business that needs attending to. Perhaps we can have the drink another time. Will your afternoon to be sociable happen soon?"

"Hard to say. It doesn't like to plan long-term, either. Keep the bottle. It was a gift after all. Or consider it an apology for my rude manner earlier."

"What rude manner? I'm sure I must have forgotten whatever you mean." Well, she'd enjoyed herself, at least. And so had I, even if it hadn't been as productive as I'd liked. I shook her hand lightly, placed my hat back on my head, gave her a slight nod, and stepped back into the hall.

The Ink-Stained Trail - Chapter 9

When the curtains went up, it looked like I'd won a free trip into the room at the top of the stairs, with an aching head thrown in as a bonus. Not unusual for me. People give me sore skulls for gifts like everyday's my birthday. I was sitting in a plain wooden chair, with another man leaning back in a much nicer one a few feet in front of me. Older, grey taking residence in his sideburns and bushy mustache. Nice black suit, shiny boots. There was another fellow standing a few feet behind him. Much younger, nervous, wearing a sport coat, clutching his hat tightly in his hands. And the way his eyes kept flicking over my head, I was pretty sure there was one more person somewhere behind me.

The seated gent spoke first. "Well, Mr. Curtis, that's quite a fall you took. Good thing one of the customers saw you head downstairs, or you might have been there all night. Not good for a man's health, sleeping on a cold cellar floor."

His voice said he knew perfectly well that was a line of bull, but no point in calling him on it. "Yeah, my dear mother used to tell me the same thing. Guess I wasn't ready for the power of your drinks. No one's ever gonna accuse you of watering your booze." I tried for a grin, but couldn't feel my face well enough to tell ifit happened.

"Oh, I'm not the owner, but I'll be sure to pass your compliment along. Still, what were you doing in that cellar?"

At that question, he shifted position, leaning back a little more to drape his left arm over the back of the leather chair. His coat slid to the side, revealing part of a badge. Swell. I pretended I didn't notice. "I don't know. I don't remember going down there. If you aren't the owner, then - "

"Sheriff Thompson. The owner is a friend of mine." Meaning partner, which explains how the club operates so openly. Thompson's supply of coy ran out. "Let's be frank, Mr. Curtis. You were struck on the head. I'd ask if you had any enemies, but I imagine the line stretches clear back to town."

"Yeah, I'd hate to burden you with chasing down leads. I know how you cops hate doing your jobs." Thompson grinned coolly, but I noticed his right hand slide towards a long thing stick balanced across his legs. The young fellow tensed, and I got ready to roll with the hit that was coming, but his hand stopped. I don't know if he regained control of himself, or if he noticed I was expecting it and wanted the element of surprise, but either way, I was glad to miss out on it. My head was still swimming, and another belt wasn't going to help it come up for air.

"Thompson, let me speak with him." The man behind me speaks. Smooth, low, no hint of a rasp or twang like all the other voices I'd heard out here. I knew the voice, but didn't turn to confirm it. I wasn't giving Thompson an opening if I could avoid it.

Thompson regarded the man behind me, then me. He smiled a little, shrugged, and rose from the chair like he didn't want to leave it. "Suits me. Time I was gettin' home to the missus, anyway." he tipped his wide hat in my direction, and swaggered casually out the door, the younger fellow scurrying along behind him.

Now I turned to the other voice. "Charlie, how are you. Wouldn't have figured you for a country boy." Charlie used to be pretty high up in the Raccoon organization back home.

Charlie strolled around and settled into the chair Thompson had vacated. It suited him. He always had good taste in furnishings. "Well, I had to leave town after that thing with Alderman McShane got out." Vote fixing. I hadn't paid much attention, since someone was always getting a politician in their pocket. Why not Charlie Washington, I figured. I guess certain folks hadn't approved.

"Needed a change of scenery, huh? I know the impulse."

"You certainly do. I'm being a poor host. Would you care for a drink?" Charlie and me mostly got along. I didn't mess with his bunch any more than any other organized group. Which is to say, I did so just infrequently enough - and only when I was paid to - they didn't kill me in my sleep. Charlie and the other top dogs seemed to respect that. Why not? They operate on the notion a man's got to make a living somehow.

"As long as it has plenty of ice," I replied. "Are the rest of the guys here? Leon, Fast Willie, Bell?" Charlie froze a moment, ice cube held between two long fingers. Then he dropped it in the glass, and turned back to me, head shaking.

"No. When the story broke, I got tossed out for acting alone. Took all the blame, no one stuck by me. Don't know how you live like that." He handed me the drink. I immediately pressed it to my head.

"You either get used to not sleeping, or decide to sleep deep and take the chance you wake up again."

"Which do you favor?"

"Depends how well stocked my liquor cabinet is. These days, I'm not sleeping much."

"Oh, is that why your face always looks like that?" At least Charlie said it with a big, toothy grin.

"Naw, this is from passing out on your floor. You know what a clumsy lush I am. Normally the girls say I look like Valentino."

"That's the name of Ella Fitzgerald's dog, right?"

"Ha, ha."

"I'm not behind those food thefts, Milo. Anyone can put that insignia at a crime scene."

Charlie always did like to get serious suddenly. "Including you."

"Yes, but I'm not a part of the Raccoons any longer. I'm a legitimate, successful businessman now."

"How about 'law-abiding'?"

"As much as I can be. I said I was a successful businessman, not a destitute one."

"Fair enough. Your old gang hasn't expanded into the sticks? Less competition out here."

"Tell me about it. But no. If they have, nobody's approached me. I think you were on the right track looking into Maggie."

I didn't ask how Charlie knew what I'd been up to. Either Thompson kept him in the loop - since Charlie knew me and all - or he had other sources. Knowing Charlie, probably both. "And the Charlanes?"

Charlie looked thoughtful for a moment. "Not so sure about them. They're odd, but that doesn't mean they're crooks. Might be they like privacy. You ought to be used to people like that by now."

"Yeah, everyone gets that way around me."

"Maybe it's your coat. Looks like you're trying to sneak out with the family sliver.

I rose from my chair and set the glass aside. All the ice had melted, but my head felt a little better. "I'll keep it in mind."

Charlie followed me to the door. "Keep this next to it. If Maggie's involved, then it's probably not food she's after. Thompson made a few calls, at my suggestion. Back home, she's clean, but a lot her boys were mixed up in nasty business. Shootings, assassinations. I stick to bribery or blackmail. Murder's another matter entirely.

By now we'd moved downstairs to the main floor and towards the front entrance. The place was deserted, except for a few guys sweeping up. "No chance she's reformed them with her loving spirit then?"

Charlie snorted. "Those guys wouldn't follow her unless she's stronger than they are. You can't tell me you haven't noticed."

"I noticed," We'd reached my car. I turned to face him. "Thanks for the tip, Charlie. And the drink. Any reason you're being so helpful?"

Charlie grinned again. "I get you back on track, you don't wreck my place starting brawls to cover your snooping."

"It is a nice joint. 'Night, Charlie."

The Ink-Stained Trail - Chapter 8

I spent the first night watching the Charlanes' house. Turns out they have employees there at night too. Different bunch, and all house staff, but not any more inclined to let strangers in. One brushoff was enough to convince me to try something else. I decided I'd spend the daytime hours I wasn't sleeping watching the Charlanes, to see if I could catch one of them in the open for a friendly conversation. The rest of the nights that week I spent following Maggie and her boys. At least this way I felt I was accomplishing something, even if I was just sitting in my car in a different place. Each night they'd visit a different one of the homes in the new development. Only ones that were finished and occupied. Five cars would drive up, but only Maggie and the fellas in her car would go in the front door. Sometimes the other cars would sit until they came out, anywhere from 15 minutes to an hour. Once, one of the cars drove around to the rear of the house, stayed there for ten minutes, then came back around to the front. Maggie and her boys exited through the front door, and they all left together.

All through this, I tried to hang back. Follow at a distance, park on the furthest hill I could see anything from. Even so, they aren't dopes, and by the last night, I noticed only 4 cars in the procession at first. After I pulled out to follow, a set of headlights pulled in behind me. I went north at the first chance and headed for the next town over, made it look like I wanted to try a diner there. Had some coffee, some mincemeat pie, stopped at a general store to buy some Scotch, went back home. Anything to look like a city boy bored out in the country.

The Charlanes were continuing to keep a wall between me and them. Either a real one, or their servants. Either way, I wasn't getting near them, and they didn't answer their own phones. Now Maggie or her boys had their suspicions up about me again. I decided to take a day off from snooping. Slept in, stayed out of the heat. Night came eventually. The sun refuses to go down, that punchdrunk palooka without enough sense to fall. But it does, finally. Tonight, I head east. There's a club east of town I'd heard about. It sounded a little rowdy for my tastes, but something I'd read about it's owner made me want to visit. I might get something more than overpriced drinks out of this trip.

The Bird's Nest looked like a barn. Which made sense because it used to be one. The sign out front was a simple wooden one, not much of an attention-getter. Guess they rely on word of mouth. The inside was cleaner than you'd expect. I wasn't too surprised. The man running it was fastidious, and a big believer in looking classy, even for a hick barn. The bar was neat, orderly, and packed, with hooch and thirsty customers. The card tables were the same, and who should I see at one but Maggie herself. There were three other players besides her at the table. The one in the checkered shirt chewing on a piece of straw seemed to be doing all right, and so did the one in the slightly battered smoking jacket. Maggie's pile of chips was about even with theirs, but the third guy, still wearing his fedora and smoking a big cigar, he was winning big. About then, Maggie turned and looked me right in the eye.

"Taking a break from nighttime drives?"

I strolled closer to the table. "It's my one night a month to be sociable."

She hmmed, then responded, "And here I thought it was my presence that drew you here." There was a joshing tone to her voice that almost covered the steel I'd heard that night at the Gutierrez farm. Still, it was a friendly voice, inviting me to sit down, maybe spill my guts

"My horoscope only said it was a good night to meet old acquaintances. Maybe buy them a drink. Seems to me I owe you one for your help that night."

She shook her head slightly. "Hardly necessary, and I never drink while I play."

Mr. Fedora - who was the only one seated to her left - chose that moment to butt in loudly, "Well then let's get playin'. I ain't finished winnin' all your money yet, missy."

Maggie smiled at me and the other two for an instant before turning back to face him. Her voice took on a dumbfounded tone. "I'm sorry, mister. I didn't mean to hold everythin' up with my gabbing. I'll just go ahead and bet everything, all right?"

The other two fellas folded immediately, but the loudmouth didn't catch on. Better entertainment for the rest of us. He pushed all his chips in, even though he could have just matched her. Some guys just have to go down in flames, though for this one, I might like for gasoline to be involved. The look on his face when she threw down a straight flush, then swept all her chips in would have to do.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Magge said, with a sweet voice lacking in sincerity, "I know you needed my money so very badly, what with the big hurry you were in, but I seem to have cleaned you out. Such poor luck."

She turned back to the other two. "Gentlemen, shall we continue without him?" The two exchanged nervous glances, then look at her massive pile of chips. Maggie noticed, split the pile, and pushed the halves towards each. "Here, now things are on equal footing, and we should be able to play for some time." It was a gracious tone, and they took her up on it. I took the hint. She was busy. I moved on.

Off in one corner of the club I found a cockfighting ring. Not what I was expecting, certainly not what you'd find on the coast, but the hicks in the sticks have their own interests. The sports fans were really into it. Money was flying, spectators were cheering and jeering the birds. The winners were tossed popcorn, the losers were pelted with it. Lots of strutting and chest puffing. And then there were the birds. Still, it was all good-natured, nobody going for guns or knives. I kept walking.

Further back, there were two staircases next to each other. One went up, the other down, but I didn't like how there was a drunk leaning on the support beam nearby. I walked past looking left and right, like I'm just checking out what's available. Then I spun and walked back to the front, to the bar. Ordered a gin. I'm more a whiskey man, but I thought I'd stick to something with less kick. Good call. If the gin was any indication, the whiskey would have put me on the floor. I sipped slow and careful while I watched the room.

Maggie was still playing cards with the other two. Fedora was making some noise about getting cheated nearby, until he tripped. The fall must have knocked him cold, because some helpful customers carried him out. That's how it went. No obvious security, but there were a few guys, dressed like most everyone else, standing in a way that said security was their job. Wherever things were active, they were nearby, but never involved, always on the edge, watching. One of them noticed me watching. I raised my glass, a friendly gesture to a fellow reveler. He raised a glass too. His smile wasn't as friendly, but it was a nice try. Probably only water in the glass, which wouldn't make me feel much like smiling, either. The exception was that lush near the stairs. Maybe he was soused - with the kick the gin had, I could believe it - but he wasn't staggering, or slumped on the floor. He stayed on the post like he was glued to it.

With a distraction, I figured I could get to the stairs, but up or down? Wouldn't be able to pull the trick twice. The drunk had piqued my curiosity, and he was mostly blocking the basement. I started towards the cockfighting ring, and eased my way into the crowd. The next bout was in full swing. There was one guy standing very close, almost falling in, a full drink in his hand. I bumped his arm as I passed, and he soaked one of the birds. Whoever trained them knew their stuff. The wet bird got distracted, maybe blinded, and the other went on the attack instantly. I felt bad for the losing bird, even as I slipped back to the edge of the crowd. Fortunately, someone stopped the fight so they could bawl George out for ruining the match. He claimed innocence, that someone bumped him, but I guess I picked a good patsy. Everyone believed he was clumsy enough to spill, or crooked enough to do it to win a bet. George objected to be called clumsy, shouting turned to shoving, then punching.

The drunk didn't budge, even as the fight escalated. I chanced it he really was a rummy, and walked past him down the stairs. I reached the bottom shortly. Cleaning supplies along one wall. Extra tables and chairs. At the far end was a solid door that felt colder even than the air in this cellar. Probably storage for booze. Still, I started to pull it open, just to take a peek to make sure. And that's when the lights went out.

The Ink-Stained Trail - Chapter 7

I sat in my dark room, the blinds down, the window open. I was still sweating, but the breeze helped. I was certain Maggie and her boys had something going on out in the housing. I was less certain if Hector or any of the other families were involved. Hector's fear could mean he was an innocent guy getting pushed around, but he could just be some low-level mook, worried about riling his boss. He wouldn't be the first crook with a family, if that's what they were. I remembered the Shrew brothers, Pac and Bly. They'd hire themselves out as kids for people who needed to pose as family men, or wanted muscle people would underestimate. I'd been socked in the jaw - and the garbanzos - more than enough to know they were up for it. Then they riled Victor de la Cruz and wound up sharing a steamer trunk at the bottom of the bay.

One other thing I felt sure of was the Charlanes' involvement. It couldn't be a coincidence they sold the land so cheap, after going to all the trouble to build expensive-looking homes on it. They gained something from all this, the question was what.

I tried looking them up in the archives for the local paper. Didn't find much. The family moved here over a century ago. Started with one small farm, but lucked out that it had a deep well that kept them going through the drought years. They grew, and eventually bought most of the surrounding land over a span of 20 years. Not bad. During the last war, they got some notice for shipping large quantities of food overseas on their own dime. Since they used their own ships, I had a hunch they got Uncle Sam to foot at least some of that bill, but none of the articles mentioned it. Now they were building homes. The paper didn't have any answers as to why, but one advantage to being the wealthiest folks in town is you can convince people not to ask questions.

Even so, the papers noted the Charlanes were notoriously reclusive. Didn't throw big parties or get active in local activities. No lions' Club or anything like that. Just kept to themselves. The family was currently Cyril and Josephine (Cyril was the one who knocked over the display in the general store that day), and their daughter Rosalind (pretty good student by on the awards she was pulling in). They had a son off at college, no specifics as to where. Just "overseas".

None of that told me much, so I decided on the direct approach. Their estate was to the west of their housing plan. Up on a hill. Big gate, high stone fence, gravel drive winding it's way up the hill to an even bigger house. Made me wonder if they bought it in England and had it shipped over. Didn't really fit here. I stopped in front of the gate, which was locked. There was no buzzer to ring to announce myself. The lock was heavy duty, a grey slab of pig iron serving as a padlock. It looked intimidating, but easy enough to pick if you know how. Few minutes work and I was pocketing the lock as I shoved the gate open, and followed the path to the house. My hat was off to the grounds crew. It was a big lawn, but they kept it cut short and neat. There were some trees near the house, but most of the lawn was wide open. The house was a three-story job, made out of granite. It looked well-kept, too, but it had a secretive air to it. Like when you step into a room and everyone gets quiet because they were talking about you. At least the door had a brass knocker to use. I lifted it and let it drop a few times.

After an couple eternities, the door opened. A pair of sea-green eyes peered out from behind the door, set in a young face. "What are you doing here?"

I took a guess. "Rosalind Charlane?"

The door opened a fraction wider. The face was flushed, too much sun, not a hard thing to accomplish around here. The face watched my suspiciously. "No, I'm Laurie Breston, the head maid, and I repeat, what are you doing here?"

I tried for cordial. "I'm sorry, you have such a young voice, I thought you were a teenager. I have an appointment with Mr. Charlane."

The eyes narrowed, that green sea getting pretty stormy. "I highly doubt that," she sniffed. "Mr. C never sees guests."

"I'm really more a prospective employee."

"Then he'd meet with you at his office." I noticed she didn't say that's where he was at the moment, so I kept pressing.

"It's about a private matter."

She'd had enough. "I'll not listen to any more of your stories! Be gone, or I'll set the grounds crew on you." The door slammed in my face.

I've had friendlier conversations hanging upside down in my bookie's basement. I turned and scanned the lawn as I started back to the road. I glanced back and saw Laurie was keeping an eye on me through a window next to the front door. I also noticed a curtain shift on the third floor, but didn't get a glimpse of who'd been there. Nice to see my curiosity had sparked someone else's.

Evidently I'd walked far enough Laurie didn't need to watch me. I turned and ambled around the side of the house, looking for another entrance, trying to be casual about it. Just a guy enjoying the view. I didn't make it far before a man stepped out of the shadows. He wore a straw hat big enough to use as a beach umbrella, with skin so burnt and weathered it looked tougher than his boots. He had a pair of gardening shears in his hands, pointed right at me.

"Mrs. Breston told ye to shove off," he rasped out. His voice was like sandpaper against the wood of his throat.

"Er, sorry. Which way is out again?" I really can't help myself.

"It's that way, ye daft snoop," he jeered, and jerked his head in the direction behind me. "And if ye still can't find it, I'm sure an ambulance can carry you out. Or a hearse." He jabbed the shears at me. I tried not to laugh. Maybe it was all the sun, but he looked old enough to be my grandfather's father. I was pretty sure I could take him, but assaulting the elderly isn't my style. Not when it won't accomplish anything.

I figured I'd pissed enough people off for the day. I turned and walked quickly back down the hill to my car, and drove back to town. I wanted to get a quick nap before I tonight. I had things to do.

The Ink-Stained Trail - Chapter 6

I walked slowly back through town, trying to decide on my next move. Or I tried, but the question of why I was bothering at all kept cropping up. I hadn't been hired, wasn't being paid. Not something I want to make a habit of. I'd gotten involved at the start because I couldn't figure what the Raccoons were doing running a racket out here in the sticks. I'd gone wide off that trail.

I had a feeling I was getting in out of my depth, but before that train of thought went any further, I spotted the husband and father from last night's trip to the country, Mr. Guttierez. He was headed into the drugstore, so I followed him in, wandered up and down a couple of aisles, and eventually sidled up nest to him to introduce myself. He looked up, kind of distracted. he'd been eying the allergy remedies. Good place to start.

"A summer cold? Those are the worst."

He shook his head. "Not for me. My son Juan has allergies."

"Must be rough then, living in the middle of a field full of flowers." Hector, that was his name, look surprised, but then shrugged.

"He never had them back home, and his mother and I thought it would be good to have room to play."

"There's certainly plenty of that out there," I nodded vigorously, my head bobbing like a cork in the water. "Must have cost a pretty penny."

Now Hector looked a bit uncomfortable. Understandable. Some folks don't like to talk about money. Usually they've got it, but don't want anyone to know it. Didn't seem like the case here. "No, not really. The Charlanes gave us a very good deal."

Hector was starting to back down the aisle, allergy remedies forgotten. I decided to press before he bolted. "I thought maybe your old friend Maggie lent you the bread."

Eyes darting about, anywhere that wasn't my face. "I don't know what you mean. I don't know any Maggie."

I stepped closer, pitched my voice low, sharing a secret with just Hector. "I figured anyone who drops by to visit after dark like she did last night my be an old friend. The sort of friend who would help you out." I tried to keep it a friendly whisper, like it was a private joke we were sharing, but Hector just looked petrified. It took a moment for me to realize he was focused on something over my shoulder. I glanced back and saw one of, no, two of the Cowbirds back there. One was working behind the register, the other was standing nearby. They tried to look like they were discussing eczema treatments, but they kept looking our way. I turned back to Hector. I'd seen the look in his eyes before, Buddy's in The Dive Bar. Two hours later, they'd been empty, cold, and dead as he was flat on his back in an alley. I tried to shake the memory off, but there was no getting around it: I'd handled this poorly. Now I had to fix it.

I discarded the idea of making a big scene, make it look like Hector stonewalled me. As shaken as he looked, a loud noise might spook him into blurting something out after all. Better to stick with the original plan.

"So no one helped you out?" I put on my best hangdog look, the one Nancy had found endearing - she had a real soft spot for down and out types - and tried to sound disappointed. "That's too bad. Not for you, obviously, but my pockets are a little empty these days. I was just hoping there was someone who helped." Hector's face relaxed a bit at that, like an old door you broke the hinges off of.

"Well, like I said, the Charlanes gave my family and all the others fair prices. I bet if you asked, they'd work something out with you. The homes mean a lot to them, and they'd be glad to have people moving in."

I lifted my shoulders up and put some pep in my voice. "That'd be just great. I'll have to be in touch with them. Thanks." I shook his hand rapidly, like he was a pump I wanted water from, and I rushed out into the street. Hopefully I hadn't gotten him in dutch with those overgrown doorstops. Just to be sure, I crossed the street and turned left, then watched the drugstore from an alley. Hector found something he thought was worth trying, bought it, and left. he crossed the street same as me, but went north instead of west, probably towards' Charlie's, one of the higher-end restaurants in town. The high-end restaurant in town, which wasn't saying much. Our eavesdroppers didn't follow. One was still working, but the other exited, and turned east, in the direction of the hotel. He cast a glance around, on the lookout for me, maybe, but I went a third direction, continuing west back to my room.

The Ink-Stained Trail - Chapter 5

A lot of gumshoes like to pay other people to do research for them. I'm not against the practice myself, when I can spare the cash. But then you have to find someone you can trust to do the job right, and to keep their mouth shut. I didn't know anyone around here who fit the bill, so it was up to me.

The county courthouse was a low, squat building, a fat red tick on a dog's back. It shimmered and baked in the late morning sun. The inside wasn't much better. The tile floors were worn and scuffed, the fans on the ceiling rotated slowly, barely making headway through the hot, still air. The doors to the courtroom were shut, but the silence through the rest of the building made it easy to hear the attorneys blather on about some guy's repeated drunkenness.

How'd they know I was standing outside?

I found the assessor's office at the end of a side hall, wooden door flung open to try and generate some current of air in the room. It was a losing battle. The dame behind the desk looked up uncertainly when she saw me walk in. Early to mid-30s, rounded face with lines around her eyes that said she squinted a lot, some more around her mouth that said she smiled a lot, too. That's promising. In spite of the heat, her hair was combed back neatly into a bun, except for one strand that fell forward and was plastered to her forehead. The sleeves on her blouse weren't rolled up to combat the heat, and were actually still buttoned at the cuff. Her hazel eyes watched me patiently. "How may I help you?"

"Yes, well, I was hoping to do some research on the ownership history of certain piece of land." I hoped the glasses I'd put on were working with my tone of voice to make me look like a professor.

"Oh? Which pieces of land were you interested in?" She remained completely serious, not hostile, but strictly professional. I couldn't tell if she was buying it or not.

"Some of the fields southwest of town. Out near those new houses. Those as well, actually. If that's possible."

At first, I thought doubling down on the disorganized academic was a mistake. She gave me a long, calculating look, but then she nodded, and after a moment where she seemed to stare into space, she retreated into the filing stacks. She returned a few minutes later with a stack of books. I started to reach for one and she balked, like a skittish snitch. "You have to be careful with these," she explained.

She opened the first book slowly. Inside was a map, with papers glued to it. "It's not very efficient, but we're in the process of filing in a more convenient manner. Here's one for the property the homes are being built on." She pointed to a square with three or four pieces of paper stuck to it. I took her word for it, I sure couldn't tell that.

"That would be what you're interested in, right?" Her tone made me look up to see a sly look on her face. Clearly the "earnest historian" bit wasn't making it past opening weekend.

"Yeah, that'll work," I mumbled. Good thing she was more amused than anything else. Maybe this was the most interesting thing to happen in a while. She reached for a pitcher of water and poured herself a glass. She looked in my direction, bit of a grin still on her face, and poured one for me.

"It's pretty straightforward. It's been owned by the Charlanes for the last 80 years. They bought that parcel from the county, after some farms were foreclosed. They applied for housing permits three years ago, I believe, and they've only finished a half-dozen or so."

"Does that include the Charlanes home?"

"No, that's further to the north." She pointed to a different section of the grid, one with fewer papers attached. "That's been in their family for over a century."

"Do they own everything around their new houses?"

"There are some smaller farms out there - the Johnsons, Hansons, the Johanssons, a few others - but otherwise, yes. There were some hard times 80 years back, drought, I think - that led to people either giving up their land, or losing it, and the Charlanes bought it up when things started to turn around." She paused, then her eyes opened a bit wider. "There is one other parcel they bought 20 years ago. The Duncan farm."

I was in the middle of a drink, but that name caught my attention. "What about Maggie Duncan? She own any land out there? Maybe some of these pieces neighboring the Charlanes?"

She got a curious look on her face. "The lady all the somber-looking fellows follow? No, she doesn't own anything. Why?"

She was watching me like a cat eyes a mouse. "I saw her driving out there recently, and when you mentioned a Duncan had owned some land, I thought maybe they were connected, and she'd come back to buy the old family plot."

"Hmm." This lady wasn't buying anything I was selling. "I think she is related to those Duncans. She mentioned something to that effect when she first moved here, and people were getting to know her. But no, she doesn't own anything out there. However. . ." A cloud swept over her eyes, like she was on a different wavelength, as she rose and moved back into the stacks. When she reappeared, she had another book. She opened it carefully, like it might crumble to pieces otherwise. Even so, some of those pieces of paper fluttered like a dying rat's heartbeat. the old glue barely holding them in place.

She skimmed a few pages. "Here we are. She purchased a few warehouses when she first arrived, but she sold those a year ago. Since then, she hasn't bought anything property. I heard she bought some large trucks, though."

"She doesn't own a house? Where does she live then?" It sure wasn't the boarding house I was in.

"She has a room on permanent reserve at the hotel near the main road." Regular Fountain of Knowledge, this lady was. The sly grin was back. I wasn't sure what she thought was going on, but she was certainly enjoying it.

I tipped my hat to her. "Thanks kindly. You've been a great help, Mrs. uh. . ." There wasn't a name plate on the desk.

"Jody Castiglione. Ms. Castiglione. And I'm always glad to help an enthusiastic scholar." Perfect deadpan delivery, but with a twinkle in her eye that made me smile back. Heck, I didn't mind if she had a laugh at my expense.

"All scholars could use help like yours," I replied as I tipped my hat again and stepped out the door.

The Ink-Stained Trail - Chapter 4

The following day got off to a late start. Overslept, though you wouldn't know it from how cotton-stuffed my head felt. A shower only helped a little, so I headed for the diner, hoping breakfast would have more success. Heavyset flannel shirt - red this time - and his buddies were there again. Even waved hello as I came in. Burned Nose held up the tobasco.

"Need this again, fella?" The way my head felt, a good cleansing fire might be just the thing. Still, I shook my head. 'No, just the pancakes today. My sinuses and I understand each other now.' That got a laugh. I seated myself at the next table over, ordered my pancakes, and waited, tuning into the chatter around me again.

"There go the Cowbirds again." I looked up.

The guys were staring out the window. Across the street, Sean and Michael walked with 2 other guys. No lady in sight today. "Cowbirds?"

The oldest of the group, his wide straw hat hanging from his chair, glanced at me. "On account of them following that lady around."

"And they all got brown hair," Red Flannel added. "Just strange, is what it is." There were nods of agreement all around.

"Who's the lady? I've seen her around, but haven't been introduced."

The elder statesman responded. "Name's Maggie Duncan. Came here from overseas about five years ago."

"Naw, it was six years ago." The one with the burned nose corrected.

"The hell it was. She showed up the spring before the weevil blight. That was five years ago." Murmurs of agreement from the other two convinced Burned Nose to surrender and concentrate on his coffee. "Anyways, some of these boys came with her, others showed up later. Why you so interested?"

"Those two in the lead gave my car a push last night. We didn't get acquainted."

Burned Nose scoffed. "Hard to believe those fellas would help anyone."

"The lady told them to," I offered. That prompted a round of knowing looks and nods.

"That makes sense. Those boys would light themselves on fire if she said so."

"She's got a presence," the elder chipped in. "Don't rightly know what it is, exactly, but she's got that quality that makes you want to follow. had a sarjint in the war like that."

Down the street, the Cowbirds entered a drugstore on the corner. "Why are they in and out of the shops all day? More money than sense?" The fellas exchanged looks, but said they didn't know. I didn't press, I was just starting to make nice, no point in making enemies instead. My observations told me the guys spent most of the days going in and out, sometimes buying, but usually not. My breakfast arrived. I tucked in, hoping the sugar would help me connect the dots. Only one car followed me last night, out of five. Which means the others had business at the house. Which was as suspicious to me, as my presence had been to them. I knew what I'd been up to - nosing around - but what was their game? A more direct visit to that home might be in order, but I wanted to learn more about the land it stood on.

I paid my bill, actually introduced myself to the fellas, and got to learn their names. Burned Nose was Jeb, Flannel was Bill, the old man was Samuel, and Red Cap was Tip. Nice guys, at least when the coffee's flowing.

The Ink-Stained Trail - Chapter 3

The sun finally sauntered its way below the horizon. I waited a while longer, for the last of the daylight to scram before climbing into my old jalopy. It started with a cough and a rattle, like me after a long discussion with a bottle of Scotch. We chugged down to Main Street and hung a left, heading towards the new homes to the southwest.

In about a minute, we were out of town and into the fields. Feels damn unnatural at first glance, all this open space. Then you notice how it's all fenced off with barbed wire. They say the wire keeps livestock in, but it tries pretty hard to keep people out. Maybe not so different from back on the coast, where the blocks are split up by the families, and the lines are maintained with guns and knives.

The air was thick that night. I had the window down, but it didn't help much. My hand felt like I'd wrapped it in a wet towel. I tried to ignore the unpleasant, clammy feeling and concentrate on finding the right road. All these gravel roads look alike, but I got where I was going eventually.

I stopped on a rise, pulled off to the side and got out. From here you see could see miles in any direction, so I had a good view of these new houses. A half-dozen or so. Nice, if you like two-story wood frames with a big porch. The boys in the diner weren't kidding about isolation. A fella could get his daily exercise just walking next door for a cup of arsenic. The Polo Grounds could fit in some of these yards. Seemed like a real waste of space to me. Most of the houses were dark, but there was one place with lights on.  Two of them, one in front of each of the windows overlooking the porch. I slid back into my car, released the brake, and coasted downhill, coming to a stop at the edge of their driveway.

I approached the house through the grass, not wanting to announce my presence with the crunch of gravel.  I could have approached them directly, but I wasn't sure what I was looking for yet, and wasn't sure what to say. I moved closer, eyes open for a dog. Folks out here love dogs, but not this family. Lucky me. I peered in through a window. Not much to it. A happy couple and their two kids eating dinner. Typical domestic bliss at first glance, except nobody was talking. The adults kept glancing at a clock up on the wall. It could be they wanted to shuttle the kids off to bed so they could fool around, but it was a different kind of nervous energy.

I circled the house, trying to look into other rooms, but each one was either dark, or the curtains were drawn. There was a basement around back, but the door was locked from the inside. Completing the circuit, I paused by the porch and looked up at the sky, only half-noticing all the stars. This hadn't revealed anything so far, and I wasn't sure of my next step. Knock on the door? They were nervous, maybe I could bluff answers out of 'em. It had worked in the past, though I usually had a better idea what I was after. Then I heard engines, and caught movement inside the house out of the corner of my eye. The family rose, and the kids were sent upstairs. After they were gone, the lady vanished into the back of the house, then returned a moment later.

It might be wise to move my car. I ran back down the driveway, the sound of the engines getting closer. As quiet as it was out here, they could still be a way off. I could see headlights on the ridge, or was that my imagination?, so I tried to speed up, even as it felt like the air gelled around me. I lurched into my car, turned the key. Nothing. I tried again. Nothing. Peachy. By now they were cresting the ridge. I decided to roll with it the best I could. I stepped back out and into the middle of the road, waving my jacket. The procession of cars, six in total, came to a stop. A man emerged from the passenger side of the lead car. As he stepped in front of the headlights, I saw it was the fella with the bad dye job from this afternoon. I put on my best cheerful idiot face.

"Could you give me a hand? She sputtered out on me at the top of the hill, and this was as far as she'd coast. I think with a push I could get her movin' again.'

Dye Job eyed me like a bug he debating whether or not to step on, a sour look on his face. " There was no one in the house to ask?" I put on a look of confused surprise, like it never occurred to me. His frown deepened.

A woman's voice drifted out from the back of the lead car. "Sean, the man asked for help. Why don't you and Michael give him that push?" There was warmth to the voice, a familiarity that made the order sound more like a request you'd be happy to grant. The firm line under the warmth, though, made it clear it was an order.

"Sean's" frown deepened even further for a moment. If it got any worse, his face might fall off. Still, he barked out, "Michael!" and another guy emerged from the 2nd car. Bit younger than Sean, about the same height, about half as wide in the shoulders. Brown hair looked genuine.

They stepped behind my car and look at me expectantly. I got in, they started her rolling, and I whispered, "Now'd be a good time to start, honey."

Give her credit, when you ask nicely, my car's real responsive. The engine caught, and we sputtered away. I remembered to wave to them like a dope as I left. If I had doubts about whether I fooled them, it didn't take long to receive an answer. The headlights of one of the cars, but only one, appeared in my mirrors. I drove around a bit, to see if I could shake him without being too obvious. Problem is, I don't know the roads around here well enough to drive like a complete idiot without risking getting stuck. I gave up eventually and went back to the boarding house, though I tried my best to stretch and breathe deep when I got out, like someone out for a nighttime drive. The headlights stopped a block down before making a right and heading east.

I stayed up the next several hours, watching the street through my window. Nothing went past but a couple of dogs that might have been coyotes.

The Ink-Stained Trail - Chapter 2

It's a hot mess here, which is an unwelcome surprise. I'm used to it in the city, where the buildings suck up the heat and try to smother you with it. I figured out here on the plains, where the wind is always going, and there aren't that many buildings, it wouldn't be an issue. Turns out the wind does shut its mouth sometimes, precisely when ya don't want it to. It makes me not want to move, even talking feels like too much effort.

Seems the locals feel the same way. They're friendly enough, in that fake way where they all say hello and ask how it's going, even though they know the answer. I'm sweating through my clothes at 9 a.m. in the shade, that's how it's going. Still, it's more than I got back home, where people couldn't be bothered to fake pleasant. Still, these farmers as just as good at shutting their yaps when they feel like it as the rummies back home. Which means my investigation into the food thefts isn't making much progress. Nobody knows anything about the thefts, why the Raccoons would be doing it or where they hang their shingle, or so they say, if they even say that much. Groups of people stare dead-eyed until I go away. Must be a contagious condition. There's something up with the Charlanes though. They run the other way if they even catch a glimpse of me. Lead to quite a commotion in the drugstore last weekend. Cough syrup and castor oil everywhere. You know, a guy could start to get a complex if this keeps up.

I've never been one to strongarm people for dirt, and now doesn't look like the time to start. These farmers stick together, and most of them are the size of my Edsel, and twice as sturdy. Drawing more attention to what I'm doing wouldn't be the smart play, not at this point. Maybe later, when I have someone to try and draw out, but I don't know whose attention I should be trying to get. So I go the other way, fade into the background as I head to Granny's House, a local eatery. Besides, I need to eat. Everyone looks up when I walk in, but lose interest once I pick an out of the way table and place my order. It's a flapjacks kind of day. I'll regret it later, when they're sitting in my stomach like a starchy anchor, but for now, it's good eatin'. Glancing at the other customers I have to figure the salad bar is listed on the menu as a joke. Or that's how everyone else takes it. As the conversations pick up, I try listenin' in.

'She told them she was going to retire in two more years, so they should just wait to close that branch until then.'
' . . .cut her loose and replace her with someone . . ."

"Had to go to the doctor. . . foot pain. . .'

'Why's this burger so crumbly?'
'That's how they. . .'

'Cain't understand that. Who's gonna buy houses all the way out thair?' Hmm?
'George said he heard it'd be young couples, wantin' a house to start a family.'
'In the middle of nowhere? That don't make no sense. Gonna have some lonely kids.'
'I'm just 'ellin' ya what George said.'
'Ah what does George know? He's in the bag half the time, and seeing William Jennings Bryan when he's dryin' out the other half.' A talkative drunk? Thanks Red Cap.
'Well, it's their money, and their land, they can build what they want out there.'
'Sure, if they want a bunch of empty, rotting houses on perfectly good grazing land.'
'Not like the Charlanes don't have plenty of other grazing land.' A third voice heard from.
'Say mister, something about us interesting you? Mister?'

Huh? Uh-oh, paid attention a little too closely.

'Just wondering if I could borrow that hot sauce,' I told the fellow in the red cap. His buddies looked at each other, then at me. A hefty guy with a burned nose a flannel shirt (which isn't much help, they're all wearing flannel shirts) spoke up. 'Hot sauce? For flapjacks?'

Good lie, Ace. I make a sniffing sound. 'Nah, for my allergies.' Sniff. 'Driving me crazy, so I'm gonna get tough with them, show them who's boss.'

They all break into huge grins. 'Well this I gotta see,' laughed Red Cap. 'Here ya go.'

I'm going to have to go through with it. They're all watching. Guess that answers what they do for fun around here. They watch people make fools of themselves. I dump some hot sauce on my plate, take a straw, and snort it up my nose.

I was hit across the face with a pool cue once, courtesy of Johnny Two-Left-Shoes. That hurt just a little less than this did. As I start coughing and tearing up, the boys break out laughing. At least I've entertained someone. The day isn't a total waste. All it cost me was my sense of smell for the foreseeable future. Which means I'll miss the pig crap smell when the wind comes out of the north. This is looking like a better idea all the time.

'Did it work?' A third guy inquires. This guy's my height, but twice my width. Grey flannel shirt, thin blond hair, his entire face is burned. Or it's red from years of hard drinking.

'Absolutely. My nose is as wide open.' I don't mention that actually breathing though my nose is like pouring salt in an open wound. I finish my meal and step outside, the boys waving good bye to me as I go, huge grins on their faces. The thought that maybe I'm making some friends vanishes as I step back into the clambake outside.

Across the street I see a lady. Not a kid, but not old, either. Not bad looking, but in a drab grey dress. There are four guys following her, each wearing all black with brown hair. Well, three of them have brown hair. One's wearing a brown rag on his head. They hover around her, not talking, always at least a half-step behind, not jostling each other, either. She turns suddenly, the boys collide with each, get straightened out, and hustle to catch up. I walk a block down to the park. Try keeping cool in the shade.

An hour later I decide I need to try harder, because the sweat's running off my like spaghetti sauce off a wiseguy's chin. Still, I've noticed three more groups like that first one. A woman in grey, several guys in black clothing with brown hair tagging along obediently. The lady doesn't even give commands, they just follow like dogs with their eyes on a stick. They're cruising the town, going in all the stores, , leaving a few minutes later, on to the next one. What's strange is none of them seem bothered by the heat. Well, there was one guy who had dyed his hair, you could tell because the dye was running and staining his suit. After awhile, they vanished. Either it got too hot, or they finished whatever they were up to.

Looks as though I have something else to look into besides that new housing and the food thefts.

The Ink-Stained Trail

I bolted town after that last case. Too many people looking to rub me out. Like it was my fault Johnny Two-Left-Shoes was shipping walnut hooch in crates marked "cod" over Port Authority's objections. Not that they objected to his shipping it. They objected to not getting a bribe. I tried working for the government, but they said I wasn't crooked enough. Maybe while I'm gone they'll all remember they hate each other and my problems will take care of themselves.

Yeah, and tomorrow a beautiful, rich widow will ask me to stay with her at her country mansion. That has happened, but she was a very recent widow looking for a patsy to take the fall.

So I moved my business further inland. Still settling in. It's different. Back home, all the buildings shield out the sun. You could forget it was there after awhile. Here the sun beats down all the time. Couldn't ignore it if you tried, though the wind makes a game effort to grab your attention. That's another thing the old turf blocked out. The wind goes all the time out here, a constant companion that won't let me light my cigarettes. I'm thinking of naming it Nancy, after my last girl. It's for the best she couldn't deal with my relationship with Sweet Lady Tobacco. She looks her best in the glow of a street light, and there aren't many of those out here.

At least people around here aren't like that. They want you to smoke, and just let the burning ash fall anywhere, that's fine, sonny. I suspect I'm in a town of pyromaniacs. The good news is I haven't had to buy cigs in weeks, not since word got around amongst the locals I do enjoy a smoke.

Not that I'm a popular guy. I'm still a newcomer, an outsider, and a busybody for hire, at that. Harder to do the work here, where there's no cover and you can see for miles. I'm sure some folks enjoy the view, but I miss the alleys and the steam coming up from the tunnels to watch from. You want shadows around here, you have to wait until night. Takes longer to get here than it did back home too. Always thought the towers and smokestacks pulled the sun down faster, and knowing that city, probably gave it a few swift kicks once it was down. No wonder you didn't see it much. Only a fool would linger around a place like that. Or someone who didn't know better.

It rained here yesterday. Not unusual; it's rained a lot since I arrived. Maybe I brought it with me, packed in the back of my car with my coat, camera, and whiskey. Most of the rain here is hard, fat rain, like being pelted with dead bees. Distracting, irritating. Yesterday was just a mist, moving under ladies' umbrellas and the brim of my hat because the wind carried it sideways. That felt normal. Mist was about all that could make its way to the ground in the City. Only stuff small enough to escape all those accusing spires and clutching ledges.

Not everything is different here. The Raccoons are around, and up to no good, stealing food intended for the less fortunate. They could just use the market like everyone else. Organized and cocky as always, hitting multiples locations at once, leaving just enough crumbs the cops know it was a raccoon, but not which raccoon. They're all guilty, and none of them are. Well, I have a little experience with them, and the wallet's getting light enough to float away. Maybe I'll look into it. . .