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Just Another Morning in LA

9/23/2022

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Spanky Arnold was a nasty piece of work.
I’d run into him a couple of times, leaving me wanting to take a long hot shower. As a PI, I often dealt with the underbelly of the City of Angels. But Spanky was in a league of his own. The cops had been trying to put his ass in jail since the war ended several years ago.
It was my search for a missing witness that had brought me to a lonely parking lot in the early hours of the morning to meet an informant named Larry, who claimed to have info for me.
“So, you’re St. James, eh?”
I nodded at the small figure partially hidden in the shadow.
“Heard you were a Big Deal or something.”
“Something.” I agreed coldly.
The sounds of a distant train reached us, mixing with the sounds of an awakening city.
 “You got the information?” I pushed.
“Cash?” I nodded, reaching into my trench coat but not taking my hand out just yet. It could quickly move from the stack of bills to my revolver.
The sister of a hooker Spanky had allegedly killed hired me to find her other sister, who had witnessed the killing. There were a couple of problems finding her. Spanky knew about her and was looking for her, and she was drunk most of the time. Her sister told me she’d been on a binge for the last week and was likely sleeping it off in some dump. I had a list of her usual flops, but all I’d gotten was a run-around. She’d been here, there, everywhere except where I was. Eventually, I found someone who had just seen her, but he was hiding from Spanky too. He cost me a C-note, which, if he were smart, he’d used to leave town that night.
For almost the entire week, I sensed someone was following me. I saw a familiar coat disappear into the darkness several times.
At two in the morning, the dim light from a broken chandelier that hung haphazardly in the lobby barely reached the floor and about halfway to the walls, bathing the space in eerie shadows. Stale beer, cigarette smoke, and other smells I cared not to think about stung my nose. The elevator was a do-it-yourself affair. Sliding the safety cage closed, I punched the button for the fourth floor and listened while the motors groaned and came to life, with the gears and pullies working harder than they should. Somehow, it got me to the fourth floor without dropping me in a pile of steel and cable at the bottom of the shaft. The stench from the lobby followed me on the elevator. I tried to forget about it and keep on task. Room 403 was on the front side of the building. The door was old and weathered, the kind that could stop a shotgun pellet, but it’d never stop my thirty-eight. From the peppered plaster on the wall beside the door, I could tell it had already stopped some pellets in its day.
I put my ear to the door. All was quiet from the inside, so I tried the knob. It opened on my turn. Shit. She hadn’t bothered to lock the door.
 I stepped to one side, slid my forty-five from its shoulder holster, and waited. Nothing. No shout of indignation or scream of passion, only silence. Shit.
Light from the streetlamps shone through the window. The blinking neon sign from the building across the street showed me all I needed to see— Debbie Malone passed out on the bed. Her slow regular breathing made her small breasts swell up and down as she slept. Occasionally she’d half snore or snort as she flung an arm to and fro. Other than that, she could have been dead—she might be soon.
 Leaning against the door frame, I considered what to do. Leaving her here was tempting, but I’d spend a week trying to find her, and dodging Spanky’s boys was a chore. I knew what I had to do. Sighing heavily, I picked her up by the arms and managed to half haul and half walk her to the elevator. Balancing her between me and the wall, I opened the cage and maneuvered her into the elevator. Not sure which was worse, the stench wafting up the elevator shaft or from Malone, who I figured hadn’t had a shower in a few days.
Some days I hated this job.
She was a bit more awake but not very cooperative by the time I got her to the Packard and plopped her into the backseat. Slamming the door behind her, I hoped she didn’t puke on the backseat on the way to the bar.
Brenda met me at the back door. “You found her?”
I nodded, then kissed her hello. It took both of us to get her inside and into the room that we kept for such emergencies. It was comforting to be in the bar, a familiar, safe place. The feel of Brenda in my arms was equally comforting as I kissed her again.
I nursed a beer while I told her about meeting the man in the parking lot and the five twenties I’d given him for the location of Debbie Malone.
There was no point in trying to wake her up yet. One of us had to stay with her in case she woke up. I knew Brenda could handle her, but I volunteered to babysit her till morning. Brenda headed back to our place at three in the morning.
I got comfortable in my office, caught up on paperwork, and generally kept busy and awake in case she rose from the dead in the bunk room. At about five in the morning, there was a quiet knock on the back door. I opened it and let my best friend, who I had called, inside and secured the door behind him. I pointed to the sleeping lady lying in the bunk room, then headed into my office, and I updated him on how I found Debbie. He then told me what he knew.
The sun was peeking through the bar’s front windows when I heard noises coming from the back room. I stood in the doorway while she tried to sit and not fall back over. The smell of her booze and bodily fluid reached me several feet away from her. I saw the puke look coming on and quickly moved to the side, pointing her towards the bathroom. She passed me quickly.
I sipped my coffee while the sounds of Debbie trying to return to the human race echoed through the bar. My friend stayed hidden in my office since e I’d conveniently left the door closed.
Eventually, she came out looking slightly better than she went in, but still not steady on her feet. The stench from a week’s worth of booze seeped from her at close range. I kept my distance and pointed her toward a chair at a table near the bar. I poured her a cup of coffee and slid into the chair across the table from her. I reached under the table, ensuring the shotgun I had placed there was within reach.
 I pushed the coffee across the table, and she snarled. “Who the hell are you? And where am I?”
“And good morning to you too. I’m James St. James.”
“Who the hell is James St. James?”
“The PI your sister hired to find you and save your drunk ass before Spanky and his boys find you.”
“Mary? That goody-two-shoes? Tell her to go to hell.”
“Word is you saw him ice a dame last week. That dame was your other sister.”
“Yeah, so? I’m not talking.”
“You almost talked to the cops once already. That’s enough for Spanky, and you know it. He doesn’t like loose ends, especially drunk ones. Drink up.”
She sipped the coffee and looked at me over the top of the cup. I couldn’t tell if it was a good look or a get-dead look. I assumed it was a drop-dead look. Either way, it takes a lot more than a look by a half-drunk dame to do me in.
Debbie slouched, one arm on the table, the other slung over the back of the chair, the coffee cup in front of her. I didn’t offer food because I knew it wouldn’t stay down yet. But I was hungry.
Getting up, I headed for the kitchen. Come back a few minutes later with more coffee and toast. Resuming my seat across from her, I tried my toast.
“What, none for me?”
“Oh, you can have some when I think it’ll stay down. Meanwhile, sit and think about last week. What do you remember?” She played with her cup and sipped some more.
“Hell, I don’t know. I was pretty out of it.” I nodded for her to go on.
“Spanky and your sister?” I prompted.
‘Yeah, that. He always had a couple of hookers with him. Stupid Cherri thought he loved her. Hell, I tried to her that he always had the bitches around. She was just the latest in the line, and he’d toss her like the rest of them. She got mad at me and told me to get lost.”
That was Spanky. Heard he liked to use and abuse the girls he pimped out, then left them on the street. “Tell me what happened to Cherri.”
“Yeah, right.” She slumped back into the chair. It was down on Tenth street. One of those all-night dinners, you know? I’d been working for Izzy Lee, and I was tired, busy night, and needed food. I didn’t know she’d be there. She just glared at me when I walked in. I just thought what a bratty bitch she was.”
 I nodded, munching more toast.
“Some guy came in, headed right to Spanky, yelling that he owed him for the girls. They were his girls, and he wanted his cut off their take. Something like that, I was pretty far away, but I got the gist of it. You know Spanky.”
“Not personally.” But I knew the type.
“Next thing I see, he’s pulled his gun from that fancy leather holster and waved it at the girls. He swore and told the other guy that he would just as soon shoot them than pay him for them again. The next thing, I heard a loud crack that kinda echoed off the walls. I tried not to scream when I realized it was Cherri that dropped to the floor. The other gal was gone in a second.”
She took another slug of coffee. I noticed her hands shaking. “What then?”
“The other guy is looking down Spanky’s barrel, and I hauled ass out of there. The guy comes out, running down past me into the night, Spanky on his heels. Then Spanky sees me in the streetlight and realized I’d seen the whole thing, and I panicked. I managed to hide, but the cops came and found me hiding. Yeah, I almost told them Spanky did the girl. I didn’t tell them she was my sister...” Debbie’s voice tailed off.
“You ducked out when a cop got called away, and you’ve been running and drinking ever since then.” I finished. She nodded.
 The front door rattled and then swung open. I grabbed the shogun from the table and pulled Debbie behind the bar next to me.
By now, the front door was hanging open, and Spanky Arnold, accompanied by two thugs, stood with the morning sun behind him, glaring at me with a shotgun in his hands. I leveled my shotgun at him. Neither of us said anything for a second.
“Spanky.”
“St. James.”
“You’re later than I figured.”
“Yeah, that idiot Larry wouldn’t talk for a while, But eventually, he told me about the hotel.”
“Is he still talking?”
“Hell, no, he’s feeding the fish in the bay right now.” Spanky grinned. “You did good, St. James. You found her when my guys couldn’t.” Spanky nodded towards Debbie and grinned.
“I figured it was one of your boys following me this week.”  I wanted him to know I Knew they were following me the whole time.
“So now you’re just going kill her and let me go?”
“Hell no, I’m going to kill both of you.”
“I see you have to have help killing anything more than one woman.”
Spanky worked his way into the room with his two men now on either side of him.
“Why don’t we even the odds a bit there, Spanky?”
He looked at me, puzzled for a second. “Now, how could you even these odds?”
“Bob.”
My friend, Bob, stepped from behind the kitchen door into the bar, his gold shield hung from his jacket pocket, holding a shotgun.
“Spanky, meet my buddy, Detective Bob Crane,” I announced. “You heard him?”
“Yeah, we found Larry floating in the bay a little while ago. Somebody broke most of his bones.” Bob confirmed what Spanky had bragged.
Spanky aimed his shotgun at Debbie.
“You’ll be dead before she hits the floor,” I told him.
Spanky spun to his right and lunged at me. I stepped to my left and buried the barrel of my shotgun in his gut. At the same instant, Bob rushed the thugs and pushed them back against the far wall with his shogun.
“Let’s keep this fair.” Bob shifted around so he could see both the thugs and me.
Spanky doubled over, holding his stomach. He swung at me when he straightened up, his face red with anger and pain. I was too slow, and his fist caught me in the jaw, knocking me back against the bar. I felt warm blood trickle down my face from a cut above my left eye. The shotguns clattered on the floor as he regained his balance and shifted around to hit me again.
I stood up and was ready for him. I didn’t wait for him to lead. Stepping close, I could smell the stale beer on him as I buried my fist into his gut again. I followed with another fist to his face, connected with his jaw, and turned his head sideways as he fell against the chairs and table.
Something glinted in the sun. Spanky stood up, a switchblade in his hand, and pointed at me.
“I’m gonna cut your balls off and feed them to you.” He grinned manically.
I didn’t wait. I rushed him again and pushed the knife hand to the side while landing two more blows into his gut. Then I twisted his knife hand and twisted it hard to the opposite way it wanted to go, forcing him to drop the knife. At the same time, I pushed him away from me. We circled each other, the knife lying on the floor between us like a prize waiting for capture. I got close to it, but instead of reaching for it, I kicked it back under the bar out of reach.
By now, both of us were breathing hard. My eyes watered from the sweat and blood from the fall against the bar. My hands hurt, and my fingers stopped working after the first punch. I’d forgotten hard it was to fight.
 Spanky was slowing down a little, but I had to keep on him and not let him get his second wind.
He lunged at me, head down. I shifted to the side and caught his head in a headlock, holding him bent over. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I squeezed just enough so he couldn’t move. I released him and pushed him away. He dropped to the floor, half out of it.
I was panting and sweating. “Had enough?” 
Spanky shook his head no and started to get up. All my weight bore down on him as I kicked him in the face, breaking his jaw. I lunged on top of him and buried my fist into his gut again, then rolled him over and caught the handcuffs Bob tossed me. I snapped them on his wrists and stood up. My breathing was jagged as Bob moved around to cover everyone with his shotgun.
The LA police charged Spanky Arnold with the murders of Cherri and Larry and a host of other related charges. His thugs quickly started talking, backing up Debbie’s version of events.
Brenda and I decided to help Debbie start over again. We helped her get dried out and arranged for her to reunite with her sister, Mary. Hopefully, we got a murderer and a mixed-up gal off the streets.
Just another morning in LA. 


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The Potter Case

3/29/2022

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I turned off on a side street, cut across town, and barely got there before they did. Pulling into the drive and getting out, I popped the trunk and pulled out the pump shotgun and lever-action rifle. By the time they arrived, I had the long guns on the hood next to me and my forty-five in my hand.
 
The Caddy pulled in first, followed at an angle by the sedan. This time he didn’t wait for the door to be opened. He wore a black fedora pulled down low over his face. Approaching me, he looked puzzled.

“Victor Simpson.” I greeted him.

 Victor stopped where he stood. ‘You have me at a disadvantage, Mr..?”

“St. James, James St. James, and if you’re looking for Lew Potter, he’s unavailable. He did, however, tell me about your proposal this afternoon. Upon further discussion, we’ve decided that I would be handling things from now on.”

I pulled a folded paper from inside my jacket. “This is a bill of sale. He sold me the entire business, lock stock, and barrel. I now own Lew’s Auto Sales and Salvage and all its holding. So, any ideas you have about dealing with Mr. Potter are null and void. You have to deal with me now.” 

My gun never moved an inch from his chest. Victor stood still. I could see the wheels in his mind turning. He hadn’t expected to be met by someone else, much less someone armed to the teeth.

“About that deal, it was just an idea. I thought he could help me with is all. I can get someone else to do it.”

“You do that, Victor.” Victor turned on his heels and headed back to the Cadillac. His goons backed up slowly and got back in the cars. The sedan backed out, and the caddy backed out. I didn’t move a muscle. Once they were out of sight, I breathed again. I’d bluffed them once and bought myself some time, but I knew his type. I’d just slapped him with a white glove and challenged him. I called his bluff. He had to back it up.

Earlier that morning, Lew called, asking me to come to the salvage yard to discuss photos he’d received by mail the day before. The photos, taken through his living room window, showed him with a young girl that wasn’t his wife. He told me the gal showed up asking to use the phone because she was stranded. When he took her to the phone, she had thrown her arms around him and kissed him to thank him. There is no doubt that Victor fabricated the scene to put Lew in a compromising position. 

Lew told me that Victor visited Lew’s shop in the afternoon and asked him to fake new titles for cars with changed VINs and make them legal again so that they could move the stolen vehicles. Cash was offered and refused, and Lew told him he’d already showed his wife the pictures, so good luck trying to blackmail him. Angry, Victor left, saying he’d be back. 

When I arrived and got the lowdown, I told Lew to close up shop and leave town with his wife but had him sell me the business for a dollar before they left. Once I got them out of harm’s way, I made some calls from a payphone to learn more about Victor. Then I called Brenda at the bar. 

“Hi, Hun, Walt there yet?”

“Sure,” I heard her hand the phone to Walt.

‘Listen, The case from this morning just got ugly. I need you to watch the guy’s lot and make sure it doesn’t burn down overnight. I’m going to check out this Victor Simpson and rattle his cage some more and see what else he’s up to.”

“Okay, I’m on it.” He handed the phone be back to Brenda.

“I should be back in time to help close up. Be Careful. This guy knows who I am.”

Brenda told me she had the shotgun under the bar and not to worry. 

I went back to Lew’s shop and waited for Walt. Ten minutes later, Walt’s black Mercury sedan slid into view. I fired up the Packard, took off in the other direction, and headed to Lew’s house. 

I swung by the home address Lew had given me. The drapes were closed, but the hairs on the back of my neck were at attention. Something was wrong. I’d had the same feeling back in the war and had learned to pay attention to it. I checked the address he’d given me. I was in the right place. I headed up the driveway and noticed his car was still in the garage—he hadn’t left. I headed to the back door and found it wide open. My blood ran cold. Nudging the door with my pistol barrel, I peeked in. 

Lew and his wife were still there. Dead. Blood splattered over the wall, where Lew had slipped down the wall after a shotgun blast, fired at close range, had torn through him, cutting his insides up into ribbons. His wife was lying next to a suitcase, its tweed fabric already soaked with her blood. 

“Shit!” was all I uttered. Lew hired me to protect them, and I failed. Careful not to touch anything, I left the place as I’d found it and headed for the dinner I had passed on the way and used the payphone there to call my friend Bob, an LA detective.

I reported finding Lew and his wife dead and gave him the address. He said he be right over, but before he hung up, Bob gave me what information he had on Victor that I had called him about earlier. 

Bob said Victor Simpson was a wanna-be tough guy who wasn’t as tough as he thought. He only kept any muscle working for him because he paid well, but it was a mystery where he got the money. He was known to deal in stolen cars, but no charges had stuck to him. 

Bob gave me a couple of addresses where they thought Victor hung out, and before I hung up, I told him about Victor’s visit to Lew the day before and my run-in with him. 

The first address took me to the seedier side of town. It was a garage and looked like Lew’s place, except rundown with overgrown weeds. The main yard gate had padlocked with a heavy chain, and for a minute, I considered getting the bolt cutters from the trunk and going in anyway, but the office door looked easier to open. I popped the excuse of a lock on the door and slipped in. 

A top of a small desk, pushed against one wall was covered in papers. I rifled through those and checked the filing cabinet but found nothing of interest. I entered the back office—probably Victor’s. The desk was a mess of papers, but I lucked out searching through the drawers. Buried in a bottom drawer of the desk, I found a listing of cars—makes models and old VINs with the new VINs beside them. I figured it was a list of the vehicles for Lew to create titles. There were too many numbers to copy, and I didn’t dare take the list. I jotted down the first five numbers in my notebook and stashed the list where I found it. 

I needed to find the cars attached to the VINs and catch Victor with them, but I had no idea where he had stashed the cars. 

The sun was beginning to work its way towards the horizon. I eased the Packard out of the driveway, heading towards the other address Bob had given me. There had to be at least fifty cars on that list, requiring considerable space to store them. A warehouse would be ideal, but the address was an abandoned salvage yard and not a warehouse. 

I got out to look around, finding most of the windows broken in and the locks rusted and covered in grime. I wasn’t climbing over broken glass, so I drove around to the side to see if there was another door. The doors were chained shut, and the weeds were so tall, I couldn’t get to the door without a machete. I was no closer to Victor or his stolen cars, and the sun had disappeared, and streetlights replaced the sunlight. It was getting late. I needed to get back to the bar. 

Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the alley behind the bar, unblocked the backdoor, and stepped inside the storeroom. My office was on one side, and Brenda’s on the other, with another small storeroom and freezer behind the kitchen.

Brenda was behind the bar serving beer to a regular when I joined her. “Yo, St. James, you finely made it.” was the greeting I got from a regular customer. I nodded yes and started helping Brenda behind the bar. After we closed, I told her about finding Lew and his wife dead. 
 
~~~
Early the next morning, I drove to Lew’s Salvage Yard to relive Walt. He said it had been quiet, and no one had been around. While he headed home to sleep, I knew I couldn’t keep a twenty-four-hour watch on the place and still deal with Victor. I still wasn’t sure what he’d do, but it would be violent. I fished out the card he’d left for Lew from my pocket. There was a phone number. 

I headed back to the bar and called the number. “Victor?”

“Yeah. Who’s this? How’d you get this number.?”

“It’s St. James. We met yesterday at Lew’s.”

“Yeah, I remember. What do you want?”

“Lew told me about the cash, but he didn’t say how much there was.”

“Twenty Grand. You want it?”

“Maybe. Lew might not have been interested in your deal, but I could be.” I let my words trail off. I didn’t let on that I knew Lew was dead. 

“Yesterday, you told me to get lost.”

Yeah, I know, but I just found out I need some serious cash right away. I know some people who can move your cars.”

 “What about Lew?”

“What about Lew? I own the business now.”

“So, it’s like that?”

“Yeah, it’s like that. Hate to do it to Lew, but I need the cash fast.”

“All right, The deals are the same, You get me new titles and make my cars clean again, and the twenty grand is yours.

“Fifty.”

“Fifty?” Victor’s voice raised an octave. 

“Yeah, at least that much. If I do this, I need enough to disappear for good, and frankly, Lew needs some for his trouble. I want to see the cars before I start creating the paperwork.”

“You’ll see ‘em when I deliver them for the new paperwork.”

Not good enough. I want to know what I’m risking my neck for and screwing Lew over.”

“Yeah, right.” He was quiet for a minute.

“All right, You can see them. You got a number?”

I gave him the number for the third line to the bar. We only used it for my undercover work.

“I’ll call you later today.”

After he hung up, I called Bob, filled in him on my findings at the first yard, and gave him the VINs I copied. Then I told him about my deal with Victor. He wasn’t happy about my arranging the meeting but agreed it was better than doing nothing. He told me they had found witnesses that put Victor and his cronies at Lew’s house. 

I spent the rest of the morning working around the bar and catching up on paperwork in my office. About noon, the third line rang.

I picked up the receiver. “Yeah?”

“St. James?” It was Victor. 

“Yeah, you got the cars?”

“Yeah, I have them at one of my lots. You can come see them for yourself.”

“Where and what time? And the fifty grand?”

“Hell no, I’m not giving you fifty grand upfront.”

“Twenty upfront, rest when I’m done.”

“Yeah. That’s fine. I’ll bring the twenty.”

“That’s assuming I take the job. If the cars are all junk, I’m not doing it, no matter how bad I need the money.”

“They’re all good.”

He told me where and when and hung up. I called Bob, giving him the information.
 
~~~

I arrived at the lot early. Not sure what I’d find, I didn’t get too close. I spotted an old church that overlooked the lot. I decided I wanted a vantage point to get the lay of the land. I pushed in a side door of the abandoned church and climbed up the winding staircase inside the bell tower. It was dusty and full of cobwebs, but I could see the car lot from the top of the tower quite well. I noticed tracks in the soggy ground from a big rig, probably a car carrier that transported the cars here. 

A movement at the far end of the street caught my attention. Recognizing Victor’s Cadillac, I hurried down the circular stairs to my car. I stood by the Packard with my hand near my revolver as the Cadillac pulled up.

Victor got out and slammed the door. The resounding thud echoed through the empty street. Victor was still wearing his hat low over his eyes, and the coat he wore looked expensive even from a distance. Up close, he oozed money, and I knew he liked everyone to know he had money. Two goons got out of a second car. 

 “Well?”

“Wells are deep. Let’s see the cars. You got a list?”

He pulled the paper I’d seen yesterday from inside his pocket. I took it and read it over. Victor played with his hat while I took my time reading the list. Most of it was for show. I wanted him to stew as much as I could.

 “Okay, looks good. Let’s see if the cars match the list.”

He led me to the main gate. One of his goons ran ahead and unlocked the padlock and chain, and swung the gate open as we approached it. I saw nearly 50 cars enclosed in a tall privacy fence.”

I walked past the cars, looked at each VIN, and checked it against new ones on the list. Bob had confirmed the first five VINs I had given him were stolen vehicles. They were here.

“Let’s see the money.” 

Victor grunted, and the other goon appeared with the same briefcase from Lew’s place. The goon unceremoniously slammed the case onto the hood of a 1949 Mercedes-Benz 170S. The two-door convertible was in excellent shape and would get a good price on the black market.

 “Careful!” Victor growled at his henchman, who muttered “sorry” as he opened the case. Inside was the stack of bills that Lew had described. “Twenty grand as we agreed.” 
I nodded and glanced at the open gate. Reaching under my jacket, I extracted my revolver. “I’ve got a new deal for you, Victor, I don’t shoot you, and you go to jail for grand theft and attempted blackmail and murder.” 

As Victor reached for his gun under his fancy coat, a voice yelled out, “Don’t even think about it. Pull the gun out slowly with two fingers and lay it on the money.”

“What the hell?” was all Victor could get out.

Bob and several uniformed officers emerged through the gate. Victor turned red as he realized I’d set him up. His goons, who had drawn their weapons, carefully laid their guns on the grounds—dissuaded by the officers’ shotguns. 

Bob twisted Victor’s arm behind his back and cuffed him. “I’m arresting you for the murder of Lew Potter and his wife. We have several witnesses placing you and them,” Bob pointed to the two goons, who were now in cuffs, “at the Potter house before their deaths.”

I spent the next day giving an official statement to Bob. A week later, Brenda and I attended the Potter’s funerals. That night I sat in the bar drinking a beer. Brenda sat down next to me and kissed me on the cheek. I returned the kiss.

“Damn.” 

“Look, Jim, you did the right thing and the best you could. You tried to help him, but….”

“Victor was one step ahead of me.”

“Jim, put it behind you. Victor’s going to jail, and tomorrow a new case will walk in, and you’ll do your best for them. “ 

Brenda kissed me again, and I slipped my arms around her. She was right. The next time that door opened, it could be a new case. I took a drink of my beer, and as I sat the mug down, I heard the bell on the entrance door tinkle. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. 

Wonder if that’s my next case. 









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The Photos

12/24/2021

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Lance Cardiff tossed a picture onto the table in front of me. It was of me skating. He then added several more photos of me, one of a woman skating by herself, followed by a dozen more of us skating together or sitting at a park bench adjusting our skates.

I glanced at them and back to him. “So?”

“Mr. Tate, you met with Veronica Smith, and she passed you information.”

“I used to skate a lot back then. I was young, and it was fun. As for her, what’s her name? I sat at a lot of benches and fixed my skates a lot. I would expect that I sat next to a lot of people over the years.” 

I had spent time in New York City right after I got back from Vietnam back in nineteen sixty-eight. Back then, I skated a lot. I’d met Veronica in Nam, and she’d been transferred to the states with her boss not long after I got here. She had contacted me and arranged the meeting.

I had retired from the spook business decades ago. But then, one never completely retires from anything—especially from the company as the CIA was known. I did remember the meeting, but I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of admitting it. Besides, it was all water under the bridge, and nothing could be gained from digging it up now.

“You must have been bored or had a lot of extra manpower to follow me around,” I noted as I glanced through the pictures again. The photos were from the same spot, the bench, but she faced a different direction than me. I knew a data sheet accompanied the photos and logged every frame, time, and location. 

“Ok, I’m tired and bored. I’m leaving.” I shifted around in my chair to stand up.

“Whoa, you can’t just leave like that. We have questions for you.” Cardiff’s face flushed pink.

By now, I was standing and getting my jacket.

“Look, you’re not charging me with anything. I’m not going to sit here and try to remember something that happened thirty or forty years ago to appease a bunch of kids who weren’t even born when someone took these pictures. I have important things to do. Like watching reruns of Hawaii Five-O.” 

The door slammed behind me as I left.

Outside I hailed a cab and watched my back as it took me to the address I’d given it.

I’d done it. I buffaloed them and got out of there without admitting anything, but it wouldn’t last. I remembered the meeting with Veronica and the information she’d passed me in the glove she laid between us while we fixed our skates. I still had it, and it was time to use it.

Several hours later, I was in my second safe house. Having taken great pains to make sure I wasn’t followed or bugged. I retrieved the information from the place I’d hidden it decades ago.

The small microfilm roll of pictures would cause a lot of people a lot of trouble. At the time, I had decided not to use it and allow things to progress as they were, but I knew the truth would come out eventually. I didn’t think it would take this long.

It was time.

Veronica had gotten pictures of our government’s involvement in war crimes in Vietnam. As a private secretary for several high-ranking government officials, her job gave her access to information that she’d sworn she’d never reveal. She had always kept her non-disclosure agreement, except for one set of pictures she processed and a copy of them. I had that copy. Now, thirty-two years later, they wanted it.

I wondered why they wanted to dredge this up after decades. The war was almost forgotten, and most vets were close to retirement or retired, as were the government officials involved with the war. There was no one it could hurt anymore. Veronica died a few years ago and had no family. Why not just let it stay buried along with the rest of the state’s secrets?

Someone was digging up the past for a reason.

Back at my place, I considered what to do with the microfilm. Burning it was an option, but they would never believe it was gone. 

Lance Cardiff, the spook that interviewed me, seemed sure he had me. Those pictures didn’t prove anything, and I told him as much. The surveillance didn’t surprise me. What was rattling around in the back of my mind was who were they watching, Veronica or me? At this point, it almost didn’t matter. She was gone. I wasn’t far from it. But why the interest in a forgotten war or incident buried decades ago?

Pulling out my old microfilm reader, I examined the pictures one more time.

Time had changed nothing. 

The images remained as horrifying as they had been at the time. The black and white pictures clearly showed the terror and desperation of the civilians slaughtered in the small village. I didn’t recognize the village. I’d been in Vietnam in ’68 but never left the bases. My assignment to find a mole within base command was over quickly. I discovered the mole and handed him over to the military. I never knew what happened after that and didn’t want to know. This was different. Veronica had copied a report on a village that a squad of rogue soldiers had destroyed. No one talked about it or the soldiers in question.

It went away except for the pictures copied on microfilm she’d smuggled to me.

I never knew what to do with them. So, I hid the microfilm and tried to forget the entire incident. 

But now, someone knew about the pictures and what they revealed and wanted them. The question was, what do they show? It was time to find out. I scanned the roll of film into the computer and enlarged the images. 

The pictures were grainy, and blown up on a large monitor didn’t help, but with the software I used, I was able to sharpen and clarify them.

Then I understood.

One of the soldiers shown firing his M16 into the crowd of children was a face I knew. 

I’d known him for decades. Charles Winston McGraw’s service record was exemplary, not a blemish on it. He’d served with distinction in a dozen campaigns during his career, and I was involved in many of them. He retired as a three-star general and still held sway over significant policymakers, and his next challenge was to run as a governor of his home state. A position he had a good chance of winning, given his background and current standing with the public. An excellent chance unless the public learned of his involvement in a rogue operation that killed innocent civilians. It would destroy his reputation and political career before it began. 

The disgrace would follow him to his grave. How he knew about the pictures or Veronica, I didn’t know. 

I saved the files to a thumb drive and put the original film back in the safe. I nursed a large tumbler of rye whisky as I considered what to do with the pictures. Going directly to him and asking if he was behind the Fed goons that interrogated me was out of the question. As much as I wanted to hear his side, experience had taught me never to let your opponent know how much you know. 

I decided the best approach was to tell him I heard he was running for governor, and offer my help, perhaps for security issues. I called, and he agreed to meet me the following day.

I didn’t sleep at all that night. The images of the atrocities in the village kept coming back into my mind. What could the general say that would explain them and his actions? I knew I couldn’t ask him directly without revealing that I had seen the pictures. I wasn’t sure how to angle to it without tipping him off.

***

I remained unsure how to approach the subject with him as I pulled into the restaurant where we chose to meet. I decided to do what I always did, not say much, and let the other person talk.

At almost sixty years old, Ret. General Charles McGraw still looked the part. He’d been retired now for several years, and despite being a civilian from what I heard, he preferred to be called general. Because of that, I knew I could get him to relive his not-so-glory days at some point. I only needed to prod him.

Pushing the thought aside, I greeted him with the usual comments and small talk. Over the next hour, I led the conversation from his early career and his time in Vietnam and how he’d risen through the ranks, eventually coming out as a captain. He regaled me with stories of his days “in country,” as they called it back then.

At one point, I asked him about rumors of rogue operations that had killed innocent civilians. He looked at me and, for a second, turned white, but as a good liar and leader, he quickly regained his composure.

“Yes, there had been operations that had gone wrong, but they were all documented and personal responsibility dealt with.”

I let it slide and moved on to his later career and aspirations for being the governor. 

In the middle of a question about his ideas for governor, I asked if he had nightmares about his time in Vietnam. He stopped mid-sentence and gave me a funny look.

“Nightmares? That was thirty years ago. Why should I still think about that?” He sipped his coffee and shifted in his seat.

“I just wondered, is all. I know some people have nightmares until their dying day.” I watched his face, trying to read him.

 “Yeah, I did some pretty bad stuff in the name of war and saw even worse, but I locked all that away a long time ago.”

“Hmmm.” I thought for a minute.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he snapped.

“I know I still have nightmares from what I’ve seen…” I let that thought trail off.

Which, strictly speaking, wasn’t true. I had had some bad dreams from some of the operations I’d been on over the years, but nothing approaching what I hinted at him having.

He sat up straight, holding his coffee mug in his hands. Steam rising from the mug clouded his eyes for a second, but he didn’t comment. I continued.

“Just curious is all. Being governor is a lot of stress, and I wouldn’t want past stresses to come back and haunt you.” I watched his eyes widen and decided to switch gears quickly to rattle him. “Hey, you remember the old gang. Whatever happened to them?” Changing the subject quickly.

“Huh? What are you talking about, Tate?”

“You know the ops crew—Leon, Brent, and Veronica?”

Technically she wasn’t part of it, just a glorified secretary, but I knew better, and so did he.

“Hell, I don’t know or care.”

I let it slide. Leon was alive and working in corporate security. As for Brent, he was killed in a firefight during a mission for the company a few years ago. I knew what the official report said and what happened.

The general was cool. He never blinked when I mentioned Veronica or rogue missions or Vietnam. So, I tried a new tact.

“Have you heard about section 21? They’re going through all the old files, checking for mislabeled files or what they can declassify. I heard they were working on your old section from back in the day.”

“So?” McGraw grunted.

“Just wondering what they may find, is all. I know my section’s pretty clean…”

“I cleaned up my messes.”

“I’m sure you did. Funny, a company man, you might know him. Lance summoned me to meet with him the other day. He asked me about some files they found.”

“What files?”

“Not sure. They didn’t say. You know how spooks are. They assume you know what they’re talking about, so they give no details. Something about a missing village. They seemed to think pictures were floating around of a massacre, but they never really said as much. Just hinted like I was supposed to know, which I don’t.”

“You were there too.”

“Yeah, but never off the base where I was assigned.” I was there towards the end in ’sixty-eight, and McGraw had acquired lieutenant’s bars by then and was already angling for captain’s bars. I was familiar with McGraw’s record, having read it earlier in the morning before the meeting.

“What’s this about? Don’t bullshit me, Tate. What’s going on?” He’d lost his patience with me.

“All right, here’s the deal. When Lance Cardiff hauled me in the other day, he showed me some pictures—boring pictures of people skating.

“Yeah, so.”

“I did some checking. He works for you, not directly, but for people you know very well. My question is this, General McGraw. Why are you interested in people skating thirty years ago?”

I leaned back and waited. McGraw rolled his coffee mug on the table as his eyes shifted around the room. He lowered his voice and leaned forward. I leaned in to meet him halfway across the table. 

“Look, Bobby, I’ve known you for years. Decades even. We’ve always been straight with each other.”

The truth was I hadn’t seen him in years and hadn’t missed him. I said nothing. 

“They say there was a village where a lot of people died, and there are pictures.” I put words in Lance’s mouth.

“Yeah, there probably is. So what? It’s too late to fix it now.”

“What if someone in the pictures later becomes a public figure…” I let it trail off as well, then took a breath. “Phi Dinh Loc sound familiar? Of course not. It’s not here anymore.”

He turned white.

“There’s a picture of you, a young lieutenant, shooting into a crowd of children.” 

“There can’t be.” He gulped for air. “I wasn’t there.”

“You were, and you know somehow that Veronica smuggled a copy to me. How did you know about her?”

For once in his life, I suspected, Ret. General McGraw was at a loss for words. He stared at the tabletop then raised his eyes.

“Bobby, you have to understand.”

“I don’t care. I wasn’t involved. If it weren’t for the pictures…”

“The pictures, can I have them?”

“What do you think, McGraw? No. They’re safe unless you don’t call off Lance and his spook brigade.”

He nodded. “Done.”

“And today, within the next hour, you’ll announce your withdrawal from the governor’s race and public life. If I ever see or hear from you again, those pictures go straight to the press.”

I stood and walked away but decided I needed to give him one more piece of advice. Turning around, I walked back to the table. Leaning down, I glared at him. “One more thing. If I ever so much as feel like I’m being watched or stalked, you’ll be dead in twenty-four hours.”

I left Retired General Charles McGraw sitting alone at the table. His face drained of color.

Never mess with a retired company man.

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A Night In LA,           A James St.James story

11/28/2021

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Picture
A Night In L. A. 
​a James St.James Story



By the time I finished another cup of coffee, the pills and caffeine had begun to work. My head had stopped pounding enough so I could sort of move without the room spinning. 

I did remember the girl—long black hair, kind of skinny. She was friendly, offered to buy me a drink. That was all I remembered, a fuzzy picture of her smiling and a beer set in front of me. 

Something else came to me. She made a nod to her right. There was no one there except the waiter, a kid barely old enough to drink. Then something else came to me. She’d pushed a mug toward me. The pounding in my head wasn’t from the beer but the Mickey I’d been given. I’d heard they could leave a hell of a headache. They were right.

She’d made sure I drank the beer with the Mickey in it. No wonder I didn’t remember anything, but knowing all this didn’t get me out of the jam I was in. No one would believe me anyway. Hell, I didn’t believe me.

I checked my holster. My gun was still there. At least she didn’t take it. I pulled it from my holster and dropped the magazine. Eight rounds. A full mag. Good. I checked my spare mag. It was missing a bullet. Seven rounds. I froze. 

It was all clear to me. There was a body somewhere with my bullet in it. 

I usually carry a spare magazine with me. Whoever replaced the magazine with the fresh mag knew it would appear I hadn’t fired any bullets. It wouldn’t be until they looked closer that they would find a slug missing. 
 
I considered what to do. Not carrying that gun was a good start. So, it and the magazines went into the safe. I slid a different pistol into the holster when the door rattled with a loud knock.

I spun the lock on the safe and left my office. “Coming.” The front door rattled in the frame.

“Yeah, what do you want?” 

Los Angeles Detective Lindsay plowed his way into the room as I stepped out of his way. He stopped in the middle of the room, chomped on a cigar, and eyed me. “St. James, where’ve you been since last night?”

I thought fast. “I met a client at the Long Arm Bar on Seventh street.”

“Yeah, right, a pretty one?” Lindsay insinuated.

“I didn’t notice. I was working. What do you care anyway?” Although I had a pretty good idea. I glanced at Brenda leaning against the kitchen door frame where the remains of last night's spaghetti still sat on the table. I’d left in a hurry.

“We found a body with one of your bullets in it.”

“How do you know it’s mine?”

 “Ballistics matched it with the slug we recovered from your gun after last year’s shoot-out.”

“Who’d I kill today?”

Lindsay pulled his notebook from his coat pocket, flipped pages, muttering to himself as he tried to read his writing.

“Raymond Chambers. You know him?”

“Yeah, sorta. He tried to hire me months ago to do some work for him. I turned him down.” 

“My, you’re noble all of a sudden.” Lindsay sneered.

“I didn’t like the guy. He was mean, arrogant, and an asshole. So, I turned him down on the spot.”

“And came back to kill him.” 

“After six months? Get real. Even you don’t believe that.”

“I believe your bullet is in him. That is all that matters.”

I did meet with Chambers but left him in mid-martini. Who would have seen me there?

Branda went into the office and returned with my appointment book. “Here. He met Chambers at the bar and then left. He noted the time. If he’d accepted the case, we would track the hours he worked.” She shoved the book in front of Lindsay. He grabbed it and pawed through the pages. When the detective closed the book, Brenda snatched it from him and said she would return it to the office. With a glance at me, she left.

“See? I didn’t see him again after that.” I reminded him as I tried to think of who else I'd seen that morning.

Larry Pine. Yeah, he was there at a table not far from us. I passed him as I left. He had no love for Chambers or me. He’d had a couple of dames with him, but then he usually had a dame or two with him. 

But Lindsay was right. Why wait six months?

I leaned against the table nearest me, both to hide the safe and help keep me upright. Lindsay’s barging in here hadn’t helped my head any. I took a long swallow of half-cold coffee to buy myself some time to think. 

Lindsay fiddled with the notebook in his hands and acted like he was looking for something in one of the back pages of it.

“When did Chambers eat my bullet?” 

Lindsay glared. “About midnight as far as the doc can figure for now. And eat is right. You shoved the barrel of the gun in his mouth and blew half his head off. It was a god-awful mess.” 

I’d seen what a forty-five can do at close range. The bullets are big and slow, but they plow through bone like a battering ram. I didn’t need any more descriptions.

“Where’d you find the bullet?” 

“In the wall behind what’s left of his head. It hit a stud, or it’d kept going.”

“Look, it wasn’t me. Here.” I pulled the pistol from the holster and handed it to him. 

Lindsay dropped the mag and smelled the barrel. “Mmm, it’s clean.”

“Yeah, I keep ‘em clean. Hasn’t been fired in ages.” That was true.

He handed it back to me. I slid the mag back in and dropped it back into its holster and waited. 

“So?”

“So. You never answered my question. Where were you last night?”

“I told you, I met a dame down at the Long Arm Bar. She wanted to hire me.”

“To do what?”

 “Find her boyfriend. At least that’s what she said.”

“And?”

I thought for a minute. “I told her no. I didn’t believe her. Her story didn’t add up, and she had too much cash on her.” I made that part up. We never got that far before I had the beer with the Mickey in it, but Lindsay wouldn’t believe me, so I didn’t try to tell him—yet. 

“This girl, she have a name?” 

I fumbled around on the table next to me and found the notes I made when she called. “Yeah, Lori something or other, I couldn’t understand what she said. It was over the phone.” Again, I was making part of the story up as I went along.

“So, this Lori calls you, and you go running to her?”

“Well, no, I told her I was busy, and couldn’t meet her right away, so we met later at the bar.” 

“What time?” 

I glanced at the small clock on the far side of the room and tried to remember. “'Round ten-ish, I think.” 

“Okay, for now. Find this Lori and get her to back your story.”

With that, Lindsay left, not bothering to close the door. I stared at the open door, cold coffee in my hand, and wondered what had just happened. Shit. I was in trouble.

Brenda came into the living room and kissed me on the cheek. “I know you didn't do it.'' 

“Thanks, hun.” I pulled her closer and gave her a proper kiss. 

Releasing Brenda, I slid the bolt home to lock the door. I didn’t need any more uninvited guests. As a PI, I often worked on the wrong side of town and Lori from last night was definitely from that side. Right now, I needed to find out more about the Chamber killing. An eyewitness would seal the deal and get me in the slammer for a long time. I needed to find them too. 

After taking more headache pills with my cold coffee, I grabbed my old sports coat and headed out. My car was an old Ford with mostly rust and gumption holding it together, but it always started.
 
~~~

I considered some options, one being that Lori probably left town right after I passed out, but I headed for the Long Arm Bar anyway. Hopefully, someone would remember me being there last night and who she was. I expected the bar to be closed, but I knocked anyway. I heard noises inside, so I banged louder. 

“Yeah, what do you want?” The muffled voice sounded aggravated. 

“I need to talk to you.”

The door cracked open, and a short skinny bald man peered out at me. “What’s so important?”

I pulled my ID from my pocket and showed it to him. 

“PI—big wow.” He didn’t move the door.

“You were working here last night?”

“No. I decided to sleep here just for the hell of it. Yeah, I was here, so what?”

“I was here last night. You remember seeing me here? About ten-ish?”

“Why should I remember you? The place was packed. I don’t even remember crashing in the back room.” 

That I understood, a busy night is a long night, and it all runs together. “Look, I need to see if anyone remembered me here last night. I met a girl...”

“Good for you.” 

‘Not that kind of girl. She was supposed to be a client. Tall, skinny, long black hair?”

“Shit, that describes half the dames here.” 

I decided to stop being polite. I leaned against the door, pushing it open a little more. I remembered the kid, the waiter.

“Look, I’ve had a bad night and morning. I’m not in the mood for your games. I was here last night. A tall skinny kid, barely legal age, served me the beer. You got a kid like that working here?” I shifted my weight a bit to show my holster enough that the butt of my pistol was visible. 

“Yeah, a new kid, just started a couple of days ago. Benny, I think his name is.”

I pushed the door open further, and he stepped back to let me pass. Standing in the doorway, I looked around and spotted the back corner booth where I’d been. I walked over. “I was in this booth. Benny served me a beer. Where did he come from?”

“Hell, he served a lot of beers last night.”

“Yeah, I know.”

He followed me to the booth and stood off to one side as I slid in and looked around. Trying to remember as much as I could, but most of it was a blur. 

“You want something to drink?”

“Coffee?”

“Yeah, I got that.” He disappeared, leaving me to try to remember more about Benny or Lori.

He returned with two cups of coffee. I nodded at the seat across from me, and he sat down.

“You never said where Benny came from,” I sniped.

“Oh yeah, sorry, He walked in off the street looking for a job, had an ID that said he was over eighteen. I was short a bar hand, so I hired him.”

I sipped the coffee. “What time’s he coming in today?”

“About four, to help open up.”

“He won’t be back.”

“Huh?” 

I let it lie. “You got paper on him?”

“Yeah,”

“Get it.”

He slid out of the booth and returned with an employment record for one Benny Long. I copied all the information on it and handed it back to him.

“What do you mean he won’t be back?”

I didn’t answer him. He’d find out soon enough. Thanking him for the coffee and information, I left.

I figured the address was fake, but I had to check it out anyway. The address was on the far side of town. It took me a while to get there. 

Pulling in the driveway, I noticed the lawns were unkempt, and the entire street appeared abandoned except for a couple of houses. Cars and remains of cars sat in the driveways and lawns were half-buried in weeds.

I loosened the pistol in its holster as I got out of the Ford and focused on the address listed on Benny’s employment record. I eased onto the half-rotted porch, and a familiar aroma greeted me. Great, he was probably as high as a kite by now.

Listening at the door, I slid my pistol from its holster and dropped the safety. After a couple of deep breaths, I banged on the door. 

“Benny!” I yelled over the radio blaring inside. I heard a scuffling noise, and the radio stopped. I banged on the door so hard that it shook the window next to it.

“Benny! Open up, or I’m coming in!” 

The door screeched as it slowly opened, revealing Benny wearing only a set of undershorts. I ignored his lack of clothes and pushed the door the rest of the way open and led with the pistol as I barged in. Lori was on the bed in the corner, covered up only by a sheet. That I didn’t expect.

I motioned for Benny to sit on the bed. He stumbled to the bed and sat down.

“I’m assuming you know me.” They nodded yes.

There was no point in lecturing them, so I cut to the chase. “Who hired you to frame me last night?” 

They looked at each other, and I continued. “Come on, you two didn’t cook this up all by yourselves. Someone put you up to it. Once done with you, you’ll end up as Chambers did. Think, man!” I half-shouted to cut through the fog that was their brains. 

They were too out of it to comprehend anything, so I ignored them and searched the room. A table held a pile of weed and other drug stuff on it. I didn’t touch it at all.

A dresser sat in the corner. In the bottom drawer, I found a pile of bills. Chambers paid them enough to keep them high for quite a while. Along with the cash was a slip of paper with a name and phone number. I copied it down. 
 
Benny and Lori remained on the bed, half-naked as I closed the door. Five minutes from now, they would forget I was there.

The name on the paper was familiar—Larry Pine. He was at the club when I met Chambers and ran drugs and hookers for the last couple of years. I’d run into him a couple of times, and when he sent his goons after me, I beat the crap out of his men. Pine didn’t like me at all because I couldn’t be bullied or bought. 

As for Chambers, I knew his reputation for being mean as hell, and while technically most of his operations were legal, he did put up a good public front. I knew better. I’d cleaned up after a couple of his messes. He’d tried to hire me as a bodyguard six months ago. I don’t usually do that work, and while money was tight, it wasn’t so tight that I wanted to be around him. Word was Pine was trying to move in on Chambers’s operations, likely prompting a mob war. He knew I would be all over him if he started a war, and framing me would get me out of his hair—all the better for him.

Larry Pine’s base of operations was downtown. I parked in front of the commercial building where he had his headquarters. Shoppers wandered in and out of the shops along the tree-lined street, shadows cast by the late morning LA sun. They were unaware that Larry Pine operated a gambling, loansharking, and prostitution business three floors above them. An operation I was about to shut down.

I opened the trunk on the Ford and pulled the shotgun from the rack. I fed twelve-gauge slugs into the bottom loading gate, pumping the slide and chambering a round. I glanced around as I slammed the lid down on the trunk. No one paid any attention. 

I glanced behind me as I heard a car pull up. I’d made a call for backup and to protect myself. A man exited the car and walked toward me. “Ready?”

I nodded yes, and we went inside the building and took an elevator to the third floor. A hard kick opened the door to Pine’s office and surprised the two guards carrying shotguns. I swung my shotgun to the right, catching the first one on the left shoulder, snapping bone, pushing him against the wall. His gun hit the floor as I kicked it away. Another kick with my boot and his face turned red as blood poured from his nose and mouth and he lost consciousness. 

The second guard tried to raise his gun, but I shoved my barrel into his stomach so hard he lost his breath and stumbled back into the hall. Leveling my shotgun at him, I mouthed for him to be quiet. He nodded and dropped his gun. My partner tugged the guard’s tie off, used it to tie his hands behind him, and hung his hands over the fire hose wheel in the hallway. 

I motioned to my accomplice to follow me down the hall toward Larry Pine’s office. We stood on either side of the door, listening as the sound of laughter filtered through the door.

I nodded and leaned in to kick the door open. The door banged against the wall behind it as we stepped inside. A glance around the living room told me we had been right about the drugs. I ignored the girls sitting on the couch. The guard inside tried to charge me, but my shotgun bucked in my hands, and a slug found its way into his gut, sending him falling back to the nearest lounge chair, dead. The girls screamed and fled to the other side of the room.

Larry sat at a small table digging into a heaping plate of spaghetti. He knocked over a glass of wine as we burst into the room. He said something but my ears were still ringing from the shotgun blast. I got the gist of it—Larry was not happy.

I ordered him to stand up, and he did so without a fight. Detective Lindsay pushed Pine into the hallway, yanked his hands behind him, and cuffed him, informing him he was under arrest for the murder of Raymond Chambers and attempting to frame me. 

Officers took Chambers away, and Lindsay turned toward me. “I was sure you were guilty, but after you called, I had Benny and Lori picked up, and recovered the cash and the note you found. That convinced me you were telling the truth, and they admitted they drugged you and gave Pine your gun. Pine returned it after he killed Chambers, and Benny drove your car home. Lori followed and picked him up.”

“Thanks, Lindsay.”

As he walked away, he called out, “Until next time, St. James. Watch yourself.”

I always do.

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Spy Vs Spy

9/22/2021

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Picture
​A frigid wind blew through the street as I sat watching the line of old sheds along Canal Street. One of them was a dead drop. I waited patiently, sitting in a car as old as the sheds, trying to blend in, in the rough part of town. I watched a man drop a soda can carefully into the bushes in front of the shed with the blue door—a standard drop method. When a blue Mercedes pulled up, I was happy my patience had paid off.
Russell Long exited the car and retrieved the soda can. Russell wasn’t careful. He pulled the can from its hiding place and returned to the car without a glance around. If he’d looked, he would have seen his old partner watching him. I am retired now, but I could still play with the big boys if I had to, especially when the big boys were careless.
Word reached me from anonymous sources that there was a shoot-to-kill order out on me. I expected that. What worried me and lured me back into the country was the word that my former bosses had questioned my mentor and old friend LeAnne Talbot about my retirement and my whereabouts. We had expected that too. However, they had taken it to a new level. Informal questions had become formal, and the government, my former bosses, charged her with treason for aiding and abetting the enemy.
I let my mind briefly wander back over the years as I followed Russell’s car from the dead to the living side of town. We worked together for the Company for over ten years, and both of us had done things we hated in the name of national security. He was now the agent in charge at this station. I’d worked with him in the “Good Ole Days” when it was fun to be a spy, but I also knew Russell’s dark side. The part he kept hidden from the world. I’d seen him go dark and dangerous more times than I cared to remember. The last time was in Russia seven years ago, and it almost cost us our careers and lives. 
We were undercover working on a construction site near the Kremlin, planting bugs to intercept messages from inside the compound. Our cover as construction workers gave us access to the grounds.
But a Russian general’s daughter who worked at the Kremlin had caught Russell’s eye. She drove past the construction site daily, and he became obsessed with her. He stayed after work one night and followed her back to the general’s estate. I trailed him. He cornered her there, and when she refused his advances, he became crazed. What he did not know was that I saw and videotaped his crime.
I should have reported him to our superiors, but the political climate was too volatile, and if our cover were blown, all hell would have broken loose. So, I hid the video where no one could find it. The authorities questioned us as we were on her daily route, but our construction worker covers held. I always suspected the Russians didn’t believe us, but they had no proof. The official report said she’d been raped and strangled by an unknown person. The Russian police had no solid leads and no suspects other than the construction crews working in the area, and there had been no arrest. The Company station director removed us from the country, and we returned to the states.
A year had passed since I abruptly retired from the Company, or more precisely, fled from the Company and disappeared. I had decided that I couldn’t do the work anymore, but one does not retire from this job and disappear completely, but that is what I did. My former employers had issued “shoot to kill” orders, but I had to come. 
The black ops prisons that former operatives disappeared into and never heard from again were common knowledge. We couldn’t tell secrets if there was no one to tell.
However, I kept a few trusted contacts, and the rumors were that LeAnne was scheduled to vanish. She knew too much, and they wanted her out of circulation so that she couldn’t talk to anyone. The people who wanted me dead retained her to question her before she was sent to a black ops prison because they suspected she knew where I was. LeAnne had helped me disappear but did not know where I had fled. 
I followed Russell’s Mercedes until he got to the area of town where there was extensive CTV. I dropped back and let him go because I knew where he was going, and I didn’t want to be recognized.
I spent the next couple of days outside the city to finalize my plans to rescue LeAnne. I had retrieved the information I had hidden and set certain wheels in motion, which would happen regardless of my success. Then I rested and waited.
I watched the comings and goings from my vantage point outside of the city, never daring to enter until now. My contact reported that Russell was alone with LeAnne at the covert location. The trek took longer as I avoided the security cameras around the city. The skills they taught me to keep the country safe served me well to keep myself out of the kind of jail they denied exists.
They held her in a black ops house that I knew well. As I neared the house, I realized this was my last chance to back out, but I couldn’t. I owed her.
Russell opened the door as I stepped on the porch. “I never expected to see you again.”
“You wouldn’t now, would you?”
“How did you find me?”
“I hung out at the sheds in Lower Town. You always hated to find new drop locations. Followed you until I was sure you were headed for this ops house. I heard you had LeAnne and plan to transfer her to a federal prison tomorrow. A prison she will never walk out of, will she?”
He scoffed. “You can’t stop it. Besides, we have what we want now—you.” 
“Not going to happen, Russell, because LeAnne and I are walking out of here right now.”
Russell pulled his gun from its holster and aimed it at me. “You know I can’t let you do that.”
I smiled. “Yes, you can, and you will.” I pulled a manila envelope from inside my jacket. 
“In here are the details of the Russian mission nine years ago—pictures, names, dates, and video of what happened when the general’s daughter died. It proves you raped and strangled her. We all know the official version and that they bought it. Barely. This will put you where you want to send LeAnne.” 
“I can just shoot you.” He stuck the gun barrel against my chest.
“Within five minutes of my death, a copy of this report will go to your superiors and every major news outlet in the world, starting with the Russian press. How long do you think you’d last?”
He started to respond, but I dangled the package in front of him. He crossed the room and unlocked a door. “Get out here.”
LeAnne timidly entered the room and ran to me. “Thank you. I hoped you would come.” 
Russell was still holding the gun on me. “Give me the file.”
“Sure.” I raised my arm as if to toss it to him, but instead, in one quick move, I sent an uppercut to his jaw, and he was out cold. 
I dropped the envelope onto his body and grabbed LeAnne’s hand. As we hurried from the house, she asked why I had given Russell the information. 
“No, there was only blank paper in the envelope. I mailed the real report to his superiors. Russell will pay for what he did.”
                                                                                ~~~ 
The drive out of town seemed to take longer than it did. For an experienced operative, I jumped at every sudden move that any vehicle in my sight made. By the time Russell woke up, the files I’d sent from an anonymous, untraceable email account would be landing on his director’s desk, along with the ones I sent to various news agencies. LeAnne disappearing would be the least of his worries.
Eventually, the Company would get around to LeAnne and me. Russell would tell them I was there, but we would be long gone before they came looking for us. The only way to truly disappear was to die, and that is what LeAnne and I did. I’d faked bodies before, but I never thought I’d be faking my own.
A raid on a cadaver farm provided the bodies, and the staged car wreck burned the bodies beyond recognition. I planted our DNA at the scene, so there was just enough material left to prove it was us.
Six months later, while sitting in a beach cabana with LeAnne, I read the local newspaper. On the back page buried under the local island news about the cockfight ring that had just been broken up was a small piece about a former US spy charged in the rape and murder of a Russian General’s daughter more than nine years ago. 
As for LeAnne and I, we settled down to a quiet beach bum life. No black ops prisons for us. But I never stopped looking over my shoulder. 





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Key Eighteen

7/25/2021

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​The key for the door to vault eighteen had been missing for centuries. It was the last of the old vault rooms in the castle anyone had explored. The solid wood planks and steel reinforcements had made forcing the door impossible, and no one tried despite the legend that there was a fortune in treasure behind the door. A whispered legend of crown jewels his family had kept safe for the monarchy. 

A nobleman named Lord Jonathon Rice ordered the castle built upon his marriage to Lady Willmont sometime during the late sixteen hundreds. As the current Lord Rice, the Fifth Earl of Riceland, I inherited the castle decades ago. 

When I first inherited the estate, I eagerly explored the castle. A handyman had found a stash of keys buried behind debris and farm equipment in an old barn. After discovering some of the keys opened the vaults, I was confident I would find the long-lost treasure. As confident as I could be with no proof the treasure existed. 

Over the years, I had the vaults opened and explored, only to find wine or foodstuffs such as honey that were long past use. Among the finds were some valuable pieces of armor, but the vaults held nothing of real value for the most part. Although with only one vault left to explore, I gave up. The odds of that vault containing the legendary treasure were unlikely.

I concentrated on the repair and upkeep, which proved more expensive than I could afford. While the sheep herd and sale of raw wool helped some, lack of adequate funds forced me to put off much-needed repairs and cut staff. There was a real danger that I would have to sign the estate over to the government for back taxes or open the estate to the public for tours. 

Opening the estate to visitors wasn’t entirely a bad arrangement as doing so would provide the resources for restoration. Support from the government was available for upkeep and staff, at least concerning the public tours. However, it was an idea that I loathed. If I could, I wanted to keep Rice castle private as long as possible, but each year the prospects looked dimmer and dimmer.

So I fought back the debtors as best I could to try and find funds to keep the estate going. In my quest, I became obsessed with the possibility that perhaps the treasure the family legend spoke of was in vault eighteen, the only vault we couldn’t open. 

There were precisely three thousand seven hundred and fifty-seven books dating back to the seventeenth century in the library. A few were valuable enough that they were on loan to libraries and museums, but most were ordinary books from over the years. Each volume was removed from the shelves, cataloged, and inventoried in the search for the Vault Eighteen key but found no reference. 

I was aware that the likelihood of finding anything of value there was slim and none, but there was little to lose, so I created a plan to open the vault. After the door was open and if I found nothing, I would start the sale of the estate to the government. 

                                                                            ***
The night before we attempted to force the vault door, I went to the dark-paneled library and poured myself a drink from the small bar. As I wandered to my favorite leather chair next to the fireplace and began to sit, I noticed a small gap in a section of paneling that filled the space between the bookcases, one I had never noticed. I used the library as my office, and yet, as many hours as I had spent there, I never saw that crack. 

Tumbler in hand, I examined the crack in the paneling. The gap did not look fresh as if someone had recently tried to pry it open. The edges were aged as the other wood was from decades of exposure. 

Gently I placed a fingertip against the edge and pressed lightly. The panel seemed to move ever so slightly. What? Wiggling my finger into the crack, I pushed with a bit more effort. The panel slid open a bit more, and my skin prickled as I kept pressing, and a tall narrow opening revealed itself. I grabbed a torch from a cabinet and bent to examine the hole more closely. There were no tool marks to indicate someone cut the gap in the panel. It had to be original. 

There were several more of the panels in the frames of the shelves. I tested each, discovering they didn’t move. Only the one panel slid just enough to reveal a small hiding spot. 

I shined my flashlight into the hole and thought I saw a glint in the reflection that seemed to go back to the back wall of the shelves. Yes—there was something in there. A key? 

Poking around in my desk drawers, I found an old T-square ruler. I slid a chair next to the shelves and sat, where I would be at eye level with the gap. Light from the flashlight revealed there was something metallic in there. 

“Okay, here it goes.” I jiggled the ruler around and managed to get the crossed end over the object, and started gently easing it forward toward me. I dropped the torch as the object fell to the floor.

Key eighteen lay bathed in torchlight.

I sank back into the chair and stared at the floor, not moving. My eyes wandered from the key on the floor to the small compartment hidden in the bookcase. How no one had noticed the crack for all these years was a surprise.
 
I realized I wasn’t breathing and forced myself to inhale and exhale until my breathing and pulse returned to normal, and started to think again. I looked over the key in the light of my ancient desk lamp. Comparing it with the other keys, it was indeed one of the original keys from the collection. But this was the missing key.

It was late, but I couldn’t wait. Grabbing the torch, I hurried through the halls until I reached the door to the dungeon stairs. I paused, my heart pounding. All hinged on what was in that vault.

The catacombs were dank, and the narrow torch beam was swallowed in the darkness. I made my way to vault eighteen. The heavy wood and steel-clad door seemed more ominous than before. Holding my breath, I inserted the key. 

It wouldn’t budge. 

I tried and tried, but I couldn’t get the key to turn. After frustrating myself and fearful that I would break the key, I decided to wait for morning. I would call a locksmith to open the lock. I didn’t sleep well that night. 
 
                                                                            ***

At seven a.m. the following day, I called a locksmith from the nearest town, and he arrived by eight o’clock. He was angry at my insistence that he come immediately but happy for the extra money I paid him to get there. I was only hoping I wasn’t spending my dwindling funds on a lost cause.

He examined the lock and the key, cleaning out the door lock of dirt and debris from years of nonuse. He filed rough edges from the key and liberally oiled both. He handed me the key, and I inserted it in the lock. 

I wiggled the key, feeling the pressure in my fingertips. I held my breath as the resistance gave way and, with a metallic click, the door unlocked.

I thanked the locksmith and dismissed him. I was going to see what was in that chamber without other prying eyes.

Alone, it took all of my might to swing the door, with its rusted hinges, open. The smell of three-hundred-year-old stale air hit me, and I gagged. Stepping back to let the room air out, I swung the flashlight around the interior. 

I waited for a few minutes then stepped into the room. The smell of centuries-old stale air was oppressive, but I could breathe. The room was larger than the other vaults had been, and there were no windows in the room—the only light coming from my torch.

Centuries of family lore hinted at a treasure worth a fortune. Stories told of a valuable find by Lord Jonathon Rice during the seventeen hundreds. Now three hundred years later, I was standing in vault eighteen to discover if the legend was real.

There was only one thing in the chamber—a table in the center of the room with a wooden casket sitting on top.

It dawned on me to take pictures, so I pulled my mobile from my pocket and took a flash photo. The amount of dust settled on the casket obscured the top, and I brushed it away only to sneeze and gag for a few minutes until I could get my breath. Once the dust settled a bit, I took more photos. 
 
The box’s lid contained a burled wood inlay and a pattern in what shone like gold-embedded wood. I recognized that pattern as I had seen it many times before in the house. It was the family coat of arms. 

Running my fingers along the top, I realized there were no latches. I tried to raise the cover, but it was too tight. I searched my pocket for the small knife I always carried, and I slid it around the seam until the lid loosened. 

My heart pounded in my chest, my fingers trembling as I touched the lid. I was about to see if the stories of the family hiding a set of crown jewels were true. What if there was a second set? Was the original Lord Rice charged with keeping a reserve set of jewels, a way of keeping them safe from those who would overthrow a king? Or was the legend a fairy tale like Peter Pan or St. Nicholas?

I had my answer when I lifted the lid. The narrow beam of light from my torch shone on a large purple velvet bag, drawn shut with a gold cord—a wax seal with the royal crest securing the cord’s knot. 

***
I rushed upstairs carrying the casket and yelled for my wife. Lady Dinah came running into the library. 

“What is going on?”

“I found the key to vault eighteen. I couldn’t get the lock open last night, so I called a locksmith and,” he removed the cover, “look.”

She peered into the box, and the color drained from her face. “Oh my, that is the royal crest. You found that in the vault?”

“Yes.” My wife breathed quietly as I gently lifted it from the box. Someone slid the box out from under the bag as I lifted it.

“I think so, hon.” I could barely breathe as I set it down. 

“We shouldn’t open it. You should call James. He will know what to do.”

I agreed and placed the call to James Marsan, our attorney, who decided it was best to have someone from the government present. They arrived at three in the afternoon. 

My wife and I escorted our attorney and three representatives from the government and the Queen to the library, where the box sat on the stately family library table. 

As soon as the Queen’s representative saw the royal crest on the wax seal, he smiled. “We have known that in the seventeen hundreds, the then monarch commissioned a duplicate set of the crown jewels, St. Edward’s Crown and the Sovereign's Orb, out of fear that if the monarchy were overthrown, the rightful heir would be king or queen by possessing these crown jewels. It may have been a foolish thought, but if that velvet bag contains those two items, it would be the greatest find in English history.”

After documenting the bag, the crown’s representative instructed me to cut through the cord, leaving the wax seal intact. Carefully, I pulled the bag away from the contents. 

Before us sat the duplicate crown and orb, the Crown Jewels. 

To say that our lives changed forever at that moment is an understatement. Due to public interest, the government placed the estate on the historical places registry and funded all renovations. As the true Crown Jewels were secure, safely tucked in the Tower of London, these jewels were on display for all to see—for a fee, of course. 
To my surprise, I found that I have enjoyed escorting strangers through the estate, especially to my favorite stops, the library and vault eighteen. However, I found my deepest satisfaction when the visitors entered the parlor where the jewels are displayed. As they viewed the crown and orb for the first time, their eyes widened in awe— just as mine did.
Thank goodness, I found that key. 



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The Estate

3/30/2021

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The old estate had stood empty for decades. In the backyard, a children’s sandbox sat surrounded by a mass of overgrown weeds. The sand inside had managed to stave off most of the weeds, and remains of plastic toys lay half-buried in the box.
​

Out of curiosity, Josh Letterman took an old half-broken sand shovel and began digging around in the sand. He didn’t expect to find anything but more old broken toys. As he dug, he thought of the days when he had played in a box very much like this.

The sun beat down on his back, and the breeze blew sand in light, quick gusts as it caught the spray from the shovel. After a short time, his knees began to tell him he wasn’t ten anymore. He was about to stand to resume the work he was here for when he caught a glint of something in the sand—definitely not plastic but appeared to be a gold chain.

Josh tugged gently, and a pocket watch slid from under the sand. He stood up and held the watch by the chain. It spun. The sun’s glinting rays reflected off the gold surface.

The watch was a puzzle. There were no markings on the face other than numerals, but things seldom looked this good after having been in the ground for any length of time. So why did this watch look new?
He pocketed the watch—no time to think about that now. Renovations were going on inside the house, and the city hired him to clean up the grounds. They were planning on turning the estate into a park and event facility.

The first task was taming the expansive lawn. Josh spent a couple of hours on a bush hog as he mowed down the tall brush that covered the front yard, each pass crunching debris scattered across the grass. He found bottles, toys, cans, and remains of junk food, even pants, shirts, underwear, and shoes. He wondered who threw away clothes and why. He spent the next two hours hauling all the debris into a large portable dumpster parked by the driveway.

It was too hot to work in the sun at mid-day, and he decided to eat his brown-bag lunch in the shade on the porch steps. As he reached for a thermal jug filled with cold lemonade, Josh felt the chain in his pocket move. He pulled the watch out to look at it.

He examined it more carefully and determined it was indeed an old watch, but its condition was surprisingly good. Opening the back, he checked out the mechanical movement, which looked intact. Winding it carefully, he listened for the telltale tick of the mainspring as it began to tell time again. Shrugging, he set it with his watch.

By now, the sun had worked its way around so he could resume work on the side yards. By late afternoon he was hot, tired, and his bones hurt in places he didn’t know he had. The dumpster bin in the driveway was almost full. He called it a day.
The next day Josh was back at the old estate. After hiding the pocket watch in a sock at home, he forgot about it. Each day brought a new army of weeds and debris that he tamed. By the end of the week, the lawn looked like a lawn again.

The sandbox, now repainted, sat prominently under trees in the backyard and was filled with pristine new sand. Even though the landscapers would arrive soon to replant shrubs and flowers, he wanted to leave something pretty.
He left, his job done, and he was feeling good about it.

                                                                     ***
Several months later, Josh was rummaging for something in his drawer when he touched an old sock with something in it. The pocket watch. He had forgotten about it. He pulled it out of the sock drawer. He pulled it from the sock and set and rewound it.

This time he didn’t put it back in the drawer. Instead, he dressed and slid it into the vest pocket of the suit he was wearing, fastening the chain to a buttonhole in the vest like he’d seen done in the old movies his father had liked to watch. Standing in front of the mirror, he had to admit the gold chain against the black vest looked good and matched his gold ring—time to return to the estate for the party.

The city had raised donations to return the estate to its former glory. Everyone in town knew the estate’s history. It had belonged to a land developer and speculator who had made millions in the early 1920s. The family had long ago let the land go back to the city, but the Old Letterman Estate name was how everyone knew the place. While he had the same last name, he knew he wasn’t related to the family. To him, the yard cleanup had been just another job.

Josh hadn’t told anyone about finding the watch early in the process. He’d forgotten about it until tonight. He didn’t think the watch had anything to do with former owners of the estate, but it felt right to wear it tonight for some reason.

He had been invited to the estate’s official relaunching, a black-tie gala, complete with live music and catering and the finest champagne the city could buy. While his part had been relatively small, the guest list included anyone who had worked on the project. It was an excuse for a night out, so he decided to go.
He parked his old car on the driveway in the spot where the portable dumpster sat for months. The lawn looked immaculate, well manicured, and the trees trimmed. The new shrubs and flowers had taken hold nicely and appeared as if they had always been there.

The afternoon sun that had caused him problems months before now shone over several large tents, spread over the large backyard. People milled around with champagne glasses in their hands, chatting to whomever would listen. Oohs and ahs echoed at the restoration work that brought the house to its former glory.

He caught a glimpse of the house’s interior as he worked his way around the side yard to the main tents. One housed the caterers, and the smell of food wafted from the tent, luring in the guests. A bar was set up in another tent, and a table next to the bar held an ample amount of champagne already poured into glasses ready for guests to serve themselves. A bigger tent beyond held tables for six, and many seats were filled with people talking and drinking.

He felt very much out of his element.

Wandering across the yard, Josh found himself standing next to the small sandbox, happy to see that only a cover had been added to the restoration he did before he completed his job.

“They say the kids used to play here.” A voice slightly beside and behind startled him, and he swiftly turned around.

The voice belonged to a plump, matronly lady, wearing a dress out of the 1950s, with its faded flower pattern and flowing sleeves that fluttered in the breeze. In one hand, she held a champagne glass, mostly full, and in the other, a small parasol. Not that any sun could get through the big floppy hat she wore.

“You knew them?” 

“Well, no, but my great-aunt was the housekeeper here back in the day. She told me stories about those kids of theirs, and,” she flashed a sly grin, “all the family secrets.”

Josh turned and looked her over more closely. She was older than she first appeared.

“You worked on the estate?”

He shuffled his shoes in the grass, looking down for a second. “Yeah, I was one of the original crew that cleaned up the yards.”

Her face lit up. “You did a marvelous job!” Quite gleefully, she swept her arms around the yard, nearly spilling her champagne.

“Thank you,” he responded as he ducked under her parasol, which nearly poked him in the eye as she swung it wildly.

They introduced themselves. She was Margo Petrie, but she was gulping down the champagne as he said his name and she didn’t seem to be paying attention. It turned out she was distantly related to the old family. The former owners liked to give jobs to their shirttail relatives, as she called them.

No, she never met them in response to his question, but she had once met the children who once played in the sandbox. By then, they were adults and spoiled brats, and she didn’t hide her disdain for them. Trying to be polite, he made appropriate comments and nodded accordingly. He noticed she was swaying and suspected the now empty glass of champagne in her hand was the last of several glasses.

He spotted one of his fellow workers nearby and found an opening to leave her to reminisce. Excusing himself, he started to head in that direction.

“That chain, it looks familiar,” she blurted out of nowhere just as he was about to turn to leave. He stopped short and turned back to look at her.

“The chain?”

The smell of champagne on her breath drifted toward him as she approached, her face a study of concentration. She seemed to sober up quite quickly as she gave him the once over.
“You look vaguely familiar too.”

“I’m sorry?” 

“You’re from around here?”

“Yes, I’ve lived in town almost all my life, except when I was at college a few years back.”

“What’d you say your name was?”

“Letterman. Josh Letterman.”

She looked him square in the face. “Your father?”

“Everett Letterman, ma’am. Why are you asking?”


She said nothing, just continued to stare. Then she pointed to the chain. “The watch?”

He pulled it from his vest pocket. Its gold case and the white dial glistened in the sunlight. The fancy hands keeping excellent time.

She took it from him, and he fumbled as he unhooked the chain from the buttonhole on his vest.
“Do you know whose watch this is?”

“Eh, no. I just found it.” 

“You found it?”

“Yeah, the first day I was here. I was doing preliminary cleanup on the yards. It was in there.” Josh pointed to the sandbox. “Almost buried in the sand. I found it and took it home and forgot about it. I haven’t even looked at it too much until today when I decided to wear it with the suit.”

“Is there an inscription?”

“I didn’t see one.”

She handed him the empty champagne glass and pulled her glasses from a dress pocket. Squinting in the sunlight, she examined every inch of the watch and chain as he waited impatiently.

“May I? I need to show this to someone.” 

Josh watched her scurry toward a group of men who were talking. Her yellow flowing dress stood out in a sea of black suits. A few minutes later, she returned, followed by two men.

“Josh Letterman, this is Roger Lane and Derrick Krane. They’re in charge of the estate. They haven’t seen this watch since the children were here.”

“Josh Letterman? Your father is Everett Letterman?” He nodded yes.
“Mother?”

“Ellie Thornton.”

They exchanged glances, and Josh’s knees shook.

Lane nodded to the woman and motioned to him. “Come with us, please.”

“What’s this all to do with me and an old watch?”

Once inside, they sat down at a table. Josh clutched his hands together, fingers interlaced, nerves raw.

“Josh, Everett Letterman was related to the old family. A family secret as the old man liked the ladies. When one of his lady friends showed up with a kid, which turned out to be your father, he hushed it up. But certain things were written in old diaries. Names, dates, and places were recorded in his wife’s diary, possibly for her protection. However, the diaries were lost and not discovered until the restoration, hidden in a compartment in an antique desk—forgotten. We informed the city but had no idea where to look for the son mentioned in the diary.” Lane looked toward Krane, who nodded.

“We think you, as Letterman’s grandchild, might be the rightful heir to the estate. Of course, they’ll be blood tests and background checks and all of that, but if we’re right, this is yours.” He waved his arm to encompass the entire estate.

“What about the watch?”

Lane, who was still holding the watch, pulled a jeweler’s loop from a side pocket. He smiled. “I keep this to help read old documents.” He studied it for several minutes.

“It’s the old man’s, alright. The serial number matches what we had on file for the records.”

“How’d it get in a sandbox fifty-odd years later?” Josh swallowed hard, stunned.

Margo Petrie, who had been quiet, sputtered. “The only explanation I can come up with is that someone knew what was happening and knew you were doing the job that day and planted it for you to find. It is part of the estate and your inheritance.”

“How… why? This watch looks almost new.” Josh noted the confusion in his voice. He was confused.

Lane responded as he handed the watch back to Josh. “Yes, it does. That’s because until recently, it was presumed lost or stolen. Apparently, someone kept it safe.”
“What now?” Josh slipped the watch into his vest pocket and hooked the chain.
“Well, technically, you found it, so it’s yours. However, there is the matter of the will.”

“The will?”

“Yes.”

“The will.” Josh took a deep breath.

“As you know, Josh, when the old couple died, they left the estate to their children, who took their cash inheritance and went on their way. No one has seen or heard from them in decades. I’m not even sure they’re alive.”

“What does this have to do with the will and the watch?”

“Simply this. The watch was supposed to go to the oldest child, who would inherit the estate. As none have been seen or heard from in decades and are presumed dead, the inheritance goes to you. You have the watch, and once we do the testing, if you prove to have a bloodline to the family, then you inherit the estate.”

“I don’t know anything about the estate or family. It was just a job. A week’s job of clearing and cleaning.”

Roger shook his head. “You have the family watch, so you inherit the estate if all else is in place.”

“How about I just donate the watch to the estate and let it go at that?”

Derrick reached into his jacket and pulled out a large envelope. Opening it, he laid the will out on the table between them. He pointed to a passage in the document. “The will expressly states that the watch is to go to the rightful heir.”

“So there you have it. Once we get all the legal issues out of the way, the estate is yours. You may choose to allow the city to maintain the use of the estate. That is certainly your choice.”

Josh shook his head. “I still don’t understand how the watch got in the sandbox the day I was there.”

He noticed Margo shift in her seat. She gave him a knowing smile and raised a glass of champagne in a toast.
​ “That, my dear relative, is something we will never know.”

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Strangers In The Night

6/30/2020

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                                                                                                                         Saturday Morning
Picture

Footsteps echoed around me. My footsteps.

It crossed my mind someone might have followed me, but it couldn’t have been. My dark-colored sedan blended in with the rest of the cars on the road. And in the dark, it could look like either a dark blue or black or if the light hit it exactly right, even a purple of some sort. 

I tucked my badge safely away in the glove box of the car. If once cared to read the ID that went with it, it would say, Lew Ayres, Detective First Class, the shield was gold. 

She came down the tunnel from the opposite direction that I came in. I knew she’d taken the same pains I had to throw off a tail. 

“You good?”

“Yeah, they don’t suspect a thing.” Detective Linda Malone reported.

“They think you’re an eccentric art collector from out west somewhere and looking to buy a rare painting and don’t much care where you get it.”

“They have it?”

“Yes. and they’re prepared to sell it to you for a million dollars cash.”

“You’re sure it’s real?”

“Yes, they say it is. I can’t question it too much, or they’ll get suspicious. But from what I’ve seen of it, it’s real, or an excellent fake.”

“Good. Set up the meeting.”

“They want to meet you at the Westberry Park south side. They’ll be contacting you tomorrow. Here.” She handed me a paper with the name and address of the park on it.
“OK. I’ll get over there early and check it out.”

“Just don’t get spotted.”

“I know.”

 She turned, headed back where she came from and disappeared.

 I watched her leave, then retraced my steps carefully to stay in the shadows once I was on the street again.
 
My experience last month with the prevention of the theft of several million dollars’ worth of bearer bonds and the potential hostile takeover of a small company gave me some creds and got me selected for this case.

The mission this time was to retrieve a stolen painting and return it to the museum. The thieves didn’t expect anyone would discover the painting missing until they set up the exhibit opening . However, alert security spotted it was missing from storage. The artwork needed to be back at the museum in less than a week for the opening. 

​

48 Hours Earlier

 
The museum had two security systems. The public one that everyone saw and heard. And the covert system that no one saw or heard. It was that system that alerted them to the theft of the painting.

The thieves disabled the primary system quickly and gained entry and exit through a secure back entrance. With the ongoing renovation in that part of the building, some cameras were out of service. Perfect set up to get in and out without detection. Almost.

Routine review of the covert security back up system revealed the theft, and the police notified. Art dealers and traders received emails alerting them to the robbery. However, 

Certain other parties found out about the theft. Those that dealt in art that was of questionable provenance. These people didn’t ask questions and rarely got their hands dirty. But in this case, the notoriety of the piece would make it extremely hard to sell, and anyone remotely connected to its sale or theft in any way would have catastrophic consequences to the dealer. At the least, they would end up in prison or, at the worst, dead. Risk versus reward mattered. However, the prize was often too great to pass up.

Detective Linda Malone was the star of the art recovery squad and had spent many months undercover in the “gray market” of art. Her knowledge of art and its players had helped her make several high-profile busts in recent years. When she got word of the theft, she put the word out that she had a buyer for it. 

It didn’t take long for the thieves to contact her. 

We met at the station to coordinate my cover story as a buyer and made sure the details would stand up if they checked me out.

All of this had happened quickly with the museum exhibit scheduled to open the next week and the painting its main attraction and draw. If it weren’t there, it would be an embarrassment to the museum. But more importantly, a theft would ruin the museum’s credibility, and the insurance payout would be astronomical. The recovery of the painting quickly was essential. 

It seemed the thieves were in a hurry to get rid of the painting. Once Linda contacted them, she made the deal.

​
Sunday Morning

The early morning sun was just breaking over the trees when I arrived the next morning—staying in the shadows. I waited. They had picked a good place as there was no cover to provide proper protection. Linda and I would be in the middle of the park in the open.

The phone call an hour ago told me to be at Westberry Park on the south side just beyond the public restrooms and to bring the money in a large leather messenger bag. It was a heavy bag—a million dollars in small bills. 

I was already there when my cell phone rang, having gotten the location from Linda the night before. The calling number was unlisted, and probably from a burner phone, tracing it was useless. I went through the motions of claiming I had to get the money ready, but I was already near the meeting spot. 

I had cover, but he was too far away to do much good if it went south. I wore two bugs. One they could find and hopefully find and one they wouldn’t. I also carried two guns, hoping for the same find one, not the other. I hoped not to have to use them.

A couple came from the far side of the clearing. The woman was pushing a baby carriage, one of the old ones with the big wheels and a full basket for the wee little one to ride in safety. Also perfect for carrying a million-dollar painting and a million dollars in cash.

 I recognized Linda. The man with her, I didn’t know. I glanced at my watch just before I stepped into the clearing. They were right on time. Always a good sign. I like my criminals' punctual.

Carrying my bag, I strolled into the clearing. I was wearing one of my best suits, and the Panama hat I wore was of the highest quality. I had to look the part of a wealthy art collector.

“Malone?” I asked as we met.

“Yeah, I’m Malone.”

“You have a painting?”

“You have the cash?”

 I held up the bag. “Right here a million dollars. That painting better be real.”

“Oh, it is, I assure you.”

Glancing around, he flipped the blanket back on the carriage. Lying flat in the bottom of the carriage was the painting. 

“How do I know you are telling me the truth that it's real?”

“It's real, all right. I just got it from the museum.”  He reached under the painting and pulled out a duffle bag all folded up. Snapping it open. “Put the money in here.” 

  I heaved the messenger bag up on the side of the carriage. Opening it, I pulled stacks of bills from inside and tossed into the duffle bag.

 “Now, the painting.” I reached for it.

“No, not yet.”

“The deal was I give you money. You give me the painting.”

“You’ll get it when I’m sure the money’s not traceable. Malone will call you. Where to pick up the painting.”

“Hold it. That’s not our deal. I want the picture now!”

“You’ll get when I’m ready.”

 I pulled my gun. At this range, his head would end up all over the nice green grass. I leveled my pistol at him. “You're ready now.” 

“I don’t think so. See that man over there?” He pointed off to the side. 

“If I don’t walk out of here with the money and the picture, he’ll kill her.”

Off to the side was a man holding a gun on a woman. He stood behind her, using her as a shield. One arm pressed across her chest, the other holding a gun barrel against the side of her head. 

“Look, all I want is my painting. I don’t want anyone hurt.”

“Drop the gun, and I walk out, and you’ll get it.”

 I had no choice. I had to lower my gun. Linda and the man backed slowly out of the clearing. I glanced back, and the man was gone. The woman sat in a puddle in the middle of the glade between the trees.

 “Shit! Shit!!” I said more to myself than the man on the other end of the bug.

Officers who were backing me up swamped the park. Two officers attended to the hostage and called an ambulance. She was all right but shaken up badly. She’d been out for her morning walk when he appeared from nowhere and forced her to the clearing. As quickly as he’d appeared, he disappeared. They found no traces of him. We’d all seen him, but it was too late when we did.

I spent the rest of the morning at the station talking to brass and explaining how we not only didn’t have the picture but a million of the taxpayer’s dollars. I kept wishing my phone would ring with Linda on the other end, telling me where to pick up the picture.

The phone never rang.

​
Sunday Afternoon

I kept my phone plugged in for fear of the battery going down and my not getting the call. About one p.m., the phone rang. It was Linda. 

“Strong. The picture in a locker at the bus station.”

She’d used my cover name, and she sounded stressed, too stressed. She was a pro, and she didn’t faze easily. She was in trouble. 

“What’s the locker number?”

“478. North side of the building.”

“Where's the key?”

“You’ll find it.” She hung up.

 I called my boss over. Telling him what she'd just told me. He grabbed his phone. “I’ll send someone over to get it.”

“No, I’m going. If they’re watching the locker and don’t see me, who knows what they’ll do.” He agreed. I'd have a tail on me just in case. I wasn’t crazy about the tail, but it made sense and was cover for me.

It didn't take me long to get over to the bus station, but I didn’t go right in. I stayed in the car for a few minutes watching the interior as best I could through the glass doors. The second gunman had been too far away for me to identify again. But I wasn’t taking any chances. I loosened the gun in the shoulder holster before I got out of the car. Glancing around, I spotted the tail. He was sitting across the parking lot from me. I made no indication that I saw him. I usually button the top button on my suit coat, but now I left it open as it would make it that much easier to get my gun out if needed. Standing just inside the lobby, I looked around. 

Everyone seemed to belong there. There were several people at the counters buying tickets and even more waiting near one of the doors leading to the buses. I was looking for anyone who was trying to look like they were supposed to be here. Working too hard at it, that is. 

There were two alcoves with lockers on either side of the main lobby. I resisted the impulse to hurry to lockers. I didn't even have a key for 478. So instead, I sat down on a bench near the north set of lockers. 

Linda had said I’d find the key. But where? The only place to hide a key would be the restrooms. So, I went in. After doing what one does in a public restroom, I stalled at the sink while the other guy that was there left. It took me a few minutes, but I found the key to 478, shoved down behind a toilet. I barely got it without having to get on my knees. The floor here wasn’t something I wanted to see that close.

 Outside the men’s room, I took my time and looked around again. No one seemed to be paying attention to me. I noticed the backup sitting on a bench reading a paper not far from the locker. He was too close to suit me. But I couldn’t do anything to attract attention to either of us.


478 was a top row locker. I opened the locker and found a note inside. I pulled my handkerchief from my pocket and pretended to blow my nose in case someone was watching. With the handkerchief in my hand, I carefully picked it up. I resisted the temptation to look at it now. I folded it into the material of the handkerchief and walked out the door.

This was not a good sign. They were playing games with us now. 

Back in the car, I started breathing again. I hadn’t realized how tense I was until I was outside. I remembered feeling like everyone was looking at me. A few seconds later, my backup came out the same door. He didn't even look at me, going straight to his car.

Back at the office, I opened the handkerchief with my bosses and other top brass watching. The note said, “So Long Sucker.” Finding Jamie Roundhouse’s prints on the note were enough to give us a place to start. We spent the rest of the afternoon tracking him down. He had disappeared from his usual haunts, and no one had seen him in several days.

​
Sunday Evening
 I also set up another meeting in the subway tunnel with Linda. 

Again, the eerie feeling of being watched followed me into the subway tunnel. 
In the daytime, it looked just as forgotten and forlorn as it had in the early morning hours. As this was a little-used branch of the system, it was relatively safe to meet here.

“What happened this morning?”

“I don’t know. I didn't know anything about the guy with the gun. Never saw him before.”

“Roundhouse. Where is he?”

“He disappeared as soon as we got out of the park. I was afraid he’d shoot me as soon as we got clear. He didn't.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“I know.”

“I’d have shot you. You’re a liability. You know who he is.”

“This is great. We lost a 2-million-dollar painting and another million in cash in the space of 12 hours.”

“I know. Here.”

 I took the paper.

‘It’s a list of the fences I contacted about the painting. Maybe he’ll call one of them.”

 I glanced at the list. Recognizing a few of the names from the list we’d gotten in from the museum. 

​
Epilogue 

What I neglected to tell Linda or any of the officers involved with the handoff of the money was that it was fake. Counterfeit. Particularly good counterfeit, but counterfeit, nevertheless. Only a couple of the top brass knew about the switch. No one below me knew. As far as they knew, it was real.

So now it was a waiting game. Eventually, it would show up in circulation. 
Not only was the money counterfeit but marked counterfeit. It was a waiting game. It would show up somewhere.

 A month later, it did.

A convenience store security video showed the man I’d met in the park passing the bogus money, and it didn't take long to Id him. Within a week, we arrested him and his gun-toting partner on the hill and recovered the painting.

I met Linda in the tunnel one last time.

“Why didn't you tell me the money was fake and marked?”

“I figured you figured it was marked. As for the fake money, I had to have everyone believe it was real. If they thought it was fake, they’d be less diligent. Besides, fooling everyone was half the fun.”

​
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The Plan

6/17/2020

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Picture
It was usual to see a red park bench. Much less under some trees next to a stream. 
But there it was.
The park appeared deserted. This was where they said to meet. I pulled the note from my pocket and glanced at it again, then shoved it back in my pocket.
Glancing around, I wandered near the grove of trees, sitting on the bench to wait. The heat from the sun was less intense in the shade covering the bench, and it made it more natural for me to sit here, pretending to read the newspaper.
I realized in my nervousness that I’d almost opened the paper upside down. I would have looked suspicious, not to mention stupid, if anyone had seen me. A glance at my watch told me it was time. I snuck a glance over the top of the paper every few seconds. I felt stupid, why not look the part?
 I spotted her right on time, coming from the other side of the clearing. She sat on the far end of the bench. She didn’t look at me. “You bring the money?”
“Yes... But...?”
“Show me.” 
I reached inside my jacket and pulled a large envelope stuffed full of money from the inside pocket. I held it up where she could see it. 
“Good.” 
“What am I buying for all of this cash?”
“Your freedom.”
“My freedom?”
She pulled a small DVD player from her purse, sliding it on the bench between us. “Play the video.”
I hadn’t seen one of these cheap DVD players in a long time. I hit the play button, and the seven-inch screen came to life.
On the screen was me. From the angle, I could tell the camera was up in the upper right corner of the room. There was a bookshelf on that wall. It would have been easy to hide a small camera in the books. I had disabled the security cameras when I opened the safe. But they were smart and had a second line of cameras as a failsafe. It worked. They now had me dead to rights. 
“Why not show it to the police?”
“We thought about it. But we have another job we want you to do instead.”
“What about the money?”
“That was just to get you here. Keep It. You have something more valuable than that.”
“Yeah, like what?” I turned and looked at her directly. If they dropped that video on the police, they’d have me in jail in no time flat. They had me pretty good. 
“Okay, what is it you want me to do?” 
She squirmed around to face me, taking the DVD player back and sliding it into her purse.
“There's another safe we need you to get into.”
“I’ll bite, what's so important?”
“Bearer Bonds. Worth a fortune.”
“Fortune to who, you or me?”
“To whoever can produce them in a week at the board meeting.”
And you want to produce them?”
“Yes. Will you do It?”
“I don’t see as I have any choice, do I?”
“No not really.” She handed me a large, plain brown envelope. It was letter size and stuffed as full as it could get. “The details are in here. We meet back here tomorrow at noon after you studied the plans and read the information here.”
 I took the envelope and shoved it into my jacket next to the money I didn't need.   Half an hour later I was in my office. Carefully opening the envelope, I kept it intact and carefully removed its contents. I then dusted the envelope for prints. As expected, mine was there along with hers. I was able to isolate the prints from the girl in the park. Scanning them into the computer, I ran them.
Sure enough, she had a record a yard long. From everything from extortion, blackmail, and even a few sex-related offenses. She was a real prize. In fact, when I checked, there were half a dozen felony warrants out for her. 
I made a phone call. “It worked. They bit,” I told the man on the other end.
I studied the plans and paperwork she gave me. It was a good plan, and the information was all right and up to date. Which told us she had an inside man somewhere. 
I did as she asked me to do and worked up a plan to steal the bonds from the safe. It would not be easy, and in fact, it was dangerous. They could kill me, never mind land in jail. I made a few more phone calls to finalize plans. 
The next day I showed up in the grove of trees with the red bench, again pretending to read the paper. She appeared out of nowhere and sat next to me. We didn't bother to pretend that we didn't know each other.
“Well?” Her first words when she sat down. 
She was wearing the same jacket, and I suspected there was a gun under it. I decided not to find out yet.
“Still working on it. A job like this takes time.”
“You don’t have the luxury of time. It needs to be done tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes, they moved the board meeting up to tomorrow.”
I didn’t tell her I had them move it up.
 “Shit... Okay, I can do it, barely.”
She pulled the gun I was certain she had. “You stay with me until tonight.”
We walked together out of the park, pretending we were a couple, her gun hidden when we ran into people. A couple all right, a couple of thieves.
She led me to her car and pushed me into the back seat; she slid in after me. A man was driving, and he started the car the second she closed her door. No one said anything for the entire drive. Since they didn't bother to blindfold me or do anything to keep me from seeing where they were going, I figured it meant they didn't intend for me to come back again. The building we stopped at wasn’t far from the target.
At eight in the evening, along with the girl and her two henchmen companions, I put the plans I’d made into action. After one of her guys bypassed the security system, I jimmied the rear service door. We were in—but not all the way.
The next part was the dangerous part. We had to crawl through the ventilation shafts to the elevator access doors and make our way into the main vault, where the company stored the money and other important papers, and the bearer bonds.
Once we got past the hallway security systems without tripping anything, I still had to get into the vault itself. It took me an hour to get the vault open. Once inside, she went straight for the bonds. Not touching anything else, and there was a lot to touch. Currency was stacked like cordwood, while heavy-duty locks secured the cabinets in the file room of the vault. 
In less than ten minutes, we were out of the vault.
I heard a noise and knew what it was. Waiting until I got to the intersection of two corridors, I held up my hand for us to stop. And we waited. 
Within seconds, bright lights went on, and the doors in the halls opened as an armed swat team appeared out of nowhere. We all froze. Within minutes, officers took the girl and her gang into custody. 
Later in the interrogation room, I sat across from her. My badge hung from its chain around my neck. All she could do was swear and ask how. 
I told them the entire thing had been a setup. The owner of the company came to the police with information that someone was trying to take over his business. He just didn’t know who, but they had discovered the hidden camera. I broke into the office safe, aware of the hidden camera in the bookcase. We were waiting for someone to approach me about the theft in the office. 
I told her I had arranged for the board meeting to be moved ahead, thus forcing her hand. She played right into our plans. We captured her gang along with the money man, an insider who wanted the bonds for a buyout/takeover of the company.
As officers led her away, I thought about that peaceful red bench. It was an excellent place to meet a snitch.
 
​


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Sins of the Youth

10/4/2019

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Picture
It had been decades since he’d been back to the old town. Catching up with old friends and seeing the folks he knew as a kid had been fun. But he was really here for another reason. 
He had to go back to the cabin. Part of him hoped it was still standing. And a bigger part of him hoped it had long ago collapsed on itself, burying their secrets with it. A bunch of kids, they were what they were, at the time had found the old cabin and used it as a clubhouse of sorts for years. Keeping their secrets from the world. And their parents. 
It was the third night in town when he had a chance to sneak away unnoticed. Leaving his car by the road he took his flashlight and found the old stone path that had led to the cabin. At one time he was sure it had been a really nice place, but even back then it had been a wreck. The years had been as kind as they could be to a dilapidated house. It was still standing. In the moonlight, he made out the shape of the old building. Closing his eyes he could hear his friends calling him, and in his mind, he replayed the last summer. The games they played and towards the late summer, before they went to high school, they had discovered girls. They had all taken turns bringing girls up here. But things got out of hand. And stuff happened. And Becky, Becky Lane her name was, disappeared the next day.
Of course, he knew what had happened, and had sworn to secrecy under penalty of death. The look on her face as she fell and hit her head, and rolled to the floor still haunted him every night when he went to sleep.
They had panicked and hid her in the floor of the cabin and never returned.
That fall into winter all everyone talked about was the disappearance of Becky. 
But they never said a word. No one searched the cabin, in fact, they never even searched the woods where the cabin was. Which surprised him. It was a well-known spot for the local kids to play. But for some reason it was assumed that she’d never go there, it just wasn’t “like her” to go into the woods, she was too much of a homebody and “Goody Two Shoes” to actually go outside and play in the woods. While no one said it specifically, that was what they all thought. He, of course, knew better.
Pushing his way through the brush that had overgrown the path, he found the door. The moon was shining just like it had that night. Breathing hard, he closed his eyes as he touched the old door. He felt his heart racing and the lump in his stomach was almost enough to make him throw up. Swallowing hard, he took a few deep breaths. 
He pushed the door open. It almost fell off the hinges as it opened inward. The stale musty air hit him but he blocked out the smell and stood in the doorway. Shining his flashlight around the room, he thought how much smaller it was than he remembered it being. The posters once on the wall were either lying on the floor or hanging by a thread. In the far corner was “The Stash” as they called it. The stack of dirty magazines that was almost two feet tall. Now a pile of wet and soggy glossy pictures whose colors and pictures had long ago run into each other and become unreadable. He spotted the table leaning against the wall, its legs broken. Broken that night when Becky fell against it. She hit the wall so hard it knocked the old rifle that had hung on the wall since long before they had started using it as a clubhouse. The barrel had landed squarely on her head, and that coupled with the fall had been enough to render her unconscious. They felt for her pulse as best they knew how, and there was none. She was dead. 
They panicked. No one wanted to admit to bringing her up there. Then the whole thing would come out, all the girls they’d brought up, and the books and pictures and other stuff they had up there.
So they buried her under the floorboards of the shed. And they left. 
And never came back.
Until now. He had to know if she was still there. For his own peace of mind, to know she was still buried in the shed. 
It took a few minutes in the dark to remember exactly where they had buried her.
But he found it. Pawing through the dirt with an old loose board, he found nothing. No bones, no clothes. Nothing. 
“Looking for me?”
He literally peed his pants at the sound of the voice behind him. Standing up, he turned back to the door.
The voice had been quiet and steady. But he recognized it.
Becky stood in the doorway holding a shotgun. The shotgun. 
“I thought...”
She interrupted. “Thought I was dead?” 
“Yeah, we all did.”
“I know. You didn't notice that you didn’t see Frank around town when you got here?”
“Yeah, I wondered about that but just thought since he was older and on his own, he left town so no one would ask. I wasn’t sure he was still around.”
“He is, he is under the floor over there. He came back that night looking for me after you ran. I think he realized that I wasn’t dead or wanted to make certain I was. By then I had decided what I wanted to do and he could ruin it for me.” She moved the barrel of the shotgun ever so slightly to indicate the far corner of the room. He glanced at it, and then back to her.
“You killed him?”
“Yes. He egged you into trying it on with me that night. You could have said no, it wasn’t right, but you let him push you. And when I fell, I hit hard and the old gun fell down. It damned near did kill me, but I woke up after you left. Dug my way out of the floor just before he showed up. I killed him, buried him, and disappeared. Yeah, let the whole damned city think I was dead. While I hid out and watched everyone chasing in circles trying to find me. I saw my parents. I spied on them. Even snuck into the house, and heard them when no one was around. They were glad I was gone. Oh, they put on the front and made out how they missed me and wanted me back. But I knew better. So I stayed gone.
I changed my name and went to a new town, invented some kind of bullshit story, and they believed it. And the next thing I knew I was adopted and living on the good side of town. It has been great all these years. So I guess I should thank you for almost killing me while trying to get into my pants.” 
“How did you know I was here?”
“I’ve been watching you since you got into town. I hoped you would come out here to make sure my body’s still here. Saves me having to move you afterward.”
“Look, I’m really sorry, we didn't mean nothing by anything we did, we were just kids.”
“That might have worked then, but not now. It’s too late, far too late for me. I’ve already gone down this road, and I’m going to finish it.”
With that, the shotgun flashed. He never heard it go off.


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