 
Cold Pulp Trio

E. R. White, Jr.

Copyright © 2011 by E. R. White, Jr.

Smashwords Edition

_This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in these short stories are fictional and any resemblance to real people or incidents are purely coincidental_
Own It

Miscegenation and Other Acts of Love

Caveman

#  Own It

I leapt up from my desk and stumbled to my office bathroom. I spun the sink faucet on and grabbed for cold water to throw on my face. I was hyperventilating, dizzy. I held on to the sink for a few moments then threw water again on my face, trying not to throw up. I looked up into the mirror, cursed God, myself and then all the world in a few heartbeats. This was mine now, and I had to fix it...

******

They had shown up, unannounced, at my Charlotte office mid-morning. Husband and wife, both dressed in their Sunday best. Malcolm and Sandra Kincaid. Ages 47 and 45 respectively. To describe them is like trying to describe mediocrity. A waste of time. It was late February, 1985.

Malcolm did all the talking. Sandra sat there like a wounded mouse, head down with only the occasional glance at me sitting behind my desk.

"Mr. Dafoe, you were referred to us by our lawyer, Sanford Milton. We understand you have done business with him in the past."

I nodded my head and said, "That's correct. Sandy and I have a professional relationship. Now what a can I do for you?"

Kincaid took a deep breath, glanced at his wife and then looked at me straight in the eye. "It's about our eldest, Myra. We haven't heard from her in almost three years. We want to contact her and talk. Mr. Milton told us that you have had experience tracking down people."

I shrugged my shoulders and said, "I understand your pain of not hearing from your girl, but why now? Do you suspect foul play, was there a falling out or what?"

I saw Mrs. Kincaid take a deep breath and slowly exhale. Her husband didn't hesitate with an answer.

"We're a God-fearing family. We have tried our best to raise a family with those values. When it came time for Myra to go to college four years ago, we went out of our way to send her to a college that shares our values, Cecil Smith College. She was going to major in music. She's a wonderful pianist. We thought all was well but after her freshman year, she didn't come home. After a frantic week, we get a letter from her in the mail. It was short. She said she wanted to be free, was striking out on her own and never wanted to hear from us again. Needless to say we were devastated. We tried to track her down on our own—but no luck."

"Okay, I can see why you were upset, but after three years—well, let me be blunt, why come to me now? A private investigator would have been a lot more useful and much more likely to succeed if you had called on one from the start. I don't get it."

The couple glanced at each other. While his wife resumed her examination of my floor, Kincaid spoke.

"We've accepted the fact that we lost Myra, but we will not lose any of our other three girls. The oldest, Tammy, is in her senior year in high school and the twins, Mary and Sarah are in the sixth grade."

He paused, glanced at his wife then looked back at me. "Last week Myra showed up in Shelby, right after school was over for the day. She was waiting by Tammy's car. Myra tried to convince Tammy to run away once she was off to college. Luckily, Tammy decided to be honest and told us about it."

I just nodded my head.

"We want to find Myra and tell her to stay away from us. She's caused us enough grief, and I will not let her destroy what's left of our family. I want to know where she lives, what she does, and I want it conveyed to her, in no uncertain terms, we want no part of her, now or in the future. I would prefer to do it in person, but if she doesn't meet us, then we want you to deliver the message. She was the one who wanted nothing to do with us, so now we expect her to keep her word. It's that simple."

"Did Myra give—Tammy, that's right? Did Myra give Tammy a phone number to call or address to write to?"

Kincaid, all business, said, "She told Tammy to write a letter and send it to the Post Office on Sunset Hills Road in Reston, Virginia. She is to send it General Delivery to 'Myra Kincaid.' Myra said she would start checking for the letter once a month after Tammy is in college. Myra would come and get her. Needless to say Tammy won't be going to college till this is settled."

I thought for a moment, as if to be giving actual serious consideration to the issue, then got to my main interest in the matter.

"If I say yes to this, I want complete cooperation. Be advised I don't work cheap. I'll need money up front and payment in full upon completion. I invoice and justify every expense, so rest assured you'll get your monies worth."

"I can afford you Mr. Dafoe. I own the largest lumber and concrete business in Shelby, and business is good. Just tell me how much and what else you need to get this situation cleared up."

"Fair enough."

I buzzed for my secretary, Maisy, and asked she ready our standard contract for the Kincaid's. Afterwards, I asked for the Kincaids to send to me the latest pictures they had of Myra and write down everything they knew about their daughters abbreviated stay at Cecil Smith College. It came in the mail three days later.

******

She was a stunningly gorgeous brunette. She had her portrait done during her freshman year and despite the modest white blouse and sweater, there was no doubt, she was a beautiful woman. If she had any makeup on, I couldn't tell, and that made her beauty all the more powerful. Her eyes were deep brown, and her hair was a full-bodied halo of dark tresses to her shoulders.

Included in the package from her family was her dorm address at Cecil Smith and letters she had written to her family while there. In the letters were a few names of friends she had met while living in the dorm. It was enough to get started on.

I had my partner, Ernie Twillfigger, start the paper trail search for Myra Kincaid. The next Monday morning, I threw in the front seat a Bible I had stolen from some Vegas hotel stay and got in my car for the two-hour drive to Cecil Smith College, Greenville, S.C.

When I arrived, I locked my .38 in the trunk, grabbed my-never-been-opened Bible and took a stroll on campus. As I walked around in the cool crisp air, I took note of the young students walking around campus. I had to admit, especially after gaudy excesses of the Seventies, it was like going back in time to the fifties. All the boys had short, neat hair, wore coats, ties and slacks. All girls were wearing knee-length dresses and not one sign of any cleavage was visible anywhere. I sort of fitted in. I was wearing my standard dark suit, white shirt and thin tie. My hair was close cropped, blond and slowly receding.

My hair and my clothes were about all I had in common with these geeks. Cecil Smith College was renowned in this part of the U.S. as the epicenter of higher education for "Bible Thumpers." As I walked around the small campus, I remember thinking about what drove a normal, healthy male to attend a school that frowns on fornication, beer and whores.

I made my way to the main administration building and found my way into the student services office. I went in, signed my name on the waiting list and set down to wait for my turn. Bored, I opened the Bible I was carrying and was pleasantly surprised to find out that it had pictures. There was one of Jesus, then one of a Viking-type dude praying at a tree with his sword and a box, then pictures of Jesus with a bunch of—Aztec Indians?

I was about to figure out what the hell that picture was about when my name was called by an administrative assistant. Slamming my now-newly-opened Bible shut, I got up and made my way to lady and asked her if we could sit and talk. She smiled and told me to follow her to her desk. I did and was soon in her a chair looking at her as she took her chair. The name plate on the desk said, "Marsha Clinton."

"What can I do for you Mr.—Dafoe? Correct?"

"Yes ma'am, just like the writer. I'll try not to waste your time. I'm a Private Investigator whose practice is geared towards people of the true Christian faith. I know it sounds odd, but as you well know just because you know Jesus doesn't mean life is perfect. All part of the struggle of life the good Lord sees fit to let us live so that we might know his way and to make us better souls for that day of reckoning. I'm here to help them over some of—let's just say—the rougher spots that life throws their way."

I smiled and let her see me tuck my Bible under my arm, then showed her my P.I. identification.

She took my ID, examined it for a moment then sharply looked at me.

"Did you bring a firearm on campus?"

"Don't believe in them, ma'am. I place my faith and trust in the Lord."

"Amen to that Mr. Dafoe, so what can I do for you?"

"My clients are Malcolm and Sandra Kincaid of Shelby, North Carolina, whose daughter, Myra, spent a year at this fine school three years ago before, inexplicably, leaving it and writing her parents that she was cutting off all contact with the school, and more importantly, her parents."

She frowned at me for a moment and then got a notepad out. "The name was Myra Kincaid, correct? And her parents name again?"

"Malcolm and Sandra, hometown Shelby."

She scribbled the information down then got up.

"Give me a few minutes," and she walked out of her small office.

About five minutes passed and then she returned with a folder. She sat at her desk and opened it. She read it for a few minutes and then looked at me.

"Yes, your facts check out. I just had to make sure. She was planning on a music major and by all accounts played the piano beautifully. Concert quality, in fact. Her professors noted that she was a rare find. And, as you state, she did her full freshman year and then never came back. I understand her parent's pain, but how can we help?"

"During her freshman year, she did write regularly to her parents, and she mentioned in her letters several names of her closest friends."

I reached inside my coat and pulled out my small notepad. I flipped it open and read off a few names.

"She mentioned a Teresa Ruckel, an Elizabeth Parks and made mention that her best friend was a fellow music major, Cassandra Hyde. By my reckoning, this should be their final semester here. If I could talk to them, especially Miss Hyde, I might be able to glean some information or facts that might help bring peace to this broken, but God-fearing family. Of course, I don't want to barge in without you and the administration knowing I'm here. That would be disrespectful and not the way I do business. So I came here and am asking you and your college to be my partner in helping this family possibly save their daughter. I'd only need a few minutes of the girls' time, and we can do it in a public space of your choosing."

I put my notepad away, touched the Bible under my arm and then looked at her expectantly.

She frowned for a moment then said, "I'll need to talk to the Dean. Can you wait here for a few more minutes?"

"Of course, take your time. I want to do this the right way. That's why good Christian people come to me for help. They can count on my honesty and my faith in the Lord."

I waited in that office for about thirty minutes. Then the Clinton woman walked back in and sat in front of me.

"I talked with Ronald McAlister, the Assistant Dean. Dean Chesterfield is on medical leave for while he recoups from some major surgery, so Ron is in charge. He was here when Miss Kincaid quit and actually remembers talking to her parents when they were first trying to figure out what went wrong. He thought the matter was settled when he never heard from the parents again. Since she is twenty-two, he has no objection with you talking with Cassandra Hyde, in fact he couldn't really stop you if he wanted to. All you would have to do is wait until she is off campus. He does hope you can get enough information from her so you don't have to bother any other students. We took the liberty and called her dorm to talk to her. She has no objection to an interview, is free for the rest of the day and said she is waiting for us at the Commons room in her dorm, Winterworth Hall. I'll take you there and will discretely sit off to the side while you talk with Cassandra. I hope you are satisfied with this arrangement. It's the best and most we can do—I hope you understand."

"Ma'am, I couldn't ask for more. I thank you, and I am sure I can say on behalf of the Kincaid family, thank you. Err—God bless."

I got up and follow her outside and walked to the dormitory.

*****

The Hyde girl was actually a woman. She was tall, close to five feet nine and big boned—Some would say she was "statuesque." Blonde and blue eyed, she was sitting in a comfortable leather chair in the far corner of the large Commons room of the dorm. There were small table and empty matching chair across from her. The Clinton lady went to a sofa at the other end of the room. I walked up to the blonde and introduced myself and asked if I could sit. She smiled and nodded at the empty chair. I sat down, put my Bible on the coffee table and took out my notebook and pen. She looked at my Bible, had a strange look on her face and then looked at me with a raised eyebrow.

"Mrs. Clinton has already told you I'm trying to locate Myra Kincaid. We—and by that I mean her family—want to try to find her and see if they can reestablish a relationship with her, the good Lord willing."

I gave what I thought was a pious, earnest look and to my surprise, she started to giggle.

"Tell me Mr. Dafoe, how long have you been—saved?"

Damn! Didn't see that coming.

"I—ugh—I saw the light when I was eight and was properly baptized at Mt. Calvary Church in Cherryburg, North Carolina and why, may I ask, do you want to know?"

"Because that isn't a Bible you are carrying around, it's The Book Of Mormon. You had better not let Mrs. Clinton see it. Some people around here don't particularly care for Mormons."

"Well, ughhh—all it is a Bible with more chapters—right?"

" Hardly," She laughed. "Don't worry, your secret is safe with me."

She leaned towards me and whispered, "Some of us here are just waiting for the day we graduate, so we can enter the real world." She smiled and sat back in her chair.

She had me nailed. I looked at her, looked at my 'Bible', then grabbed it and flipped it around so the title was faced down on the table.

"I guess we understand each other—Cassandra. Now, what can you tell me about the Kincaid girl?"

"We were roommates our freshman year. She was friendly enough with me and the other girls of on the floor, but I could tell she didn't want to be here. She wanted out."

"Did she way why? Her parents are baffled."

"She was adopted. She told me she moved in with her parents as a foster child when she was five. They eventually adopted her. Same story with all her sisters—you look surprised, didn't they tell you?"

"No—no they didn't."

"Myra told me this during the latter part of our second semester. Like I said, she wasn't very happy to be here to begin with, and once she came back from Christmas break, even more so. Truth be told, I don't think there was any love lost between her and her parents. She told me that the family wasn't all that, what's the word I'm looking for—loving, yes, loving—that's it."

I nodded my head, made a note for Ernie to check on the foster child angle.

"Did she have any—boyfriends?"

She looked to floor for a moment then back at me, "Not on campus. She was..." her voice trailed off.

I looked her hard in the eyes, "You started it, now, please, finish it."

She sat up in her chair and took a deep breath, "She met Congressman Marc Graves when he came on campus our first semester. I don't need to tell you Myra was beautiful. Well, when we met the Congressman, I could tell he took notice of Myra. I know he gave her his phone number. After Christmas break, she started going off campus at night, breaking curfew. I covered for her. She was meeting him at the local Holiday Inn."  
"That could have gotten you in trouble."

"She was doing the same for me. Don't look so surprised! You would be amazed at the amount of 'sin' that is happening on this college. Parents think they can delay the inevitable by sending us here. For quite a few of us, it just makes us that more anxious to get out on our own. Myra had the guts to do it three years early. Not really caring for her folks probably made it easier."

"Did she tell you she was quitting school?"

"No. Not a word. I found out she had dropped out when she didn't show up after summer break for our sophomore year. I haven't heard a word from her, since she left school."

"This Congressman Graves, are you sure she was seeing him?"

"Yes. She was seeing the congressman, and I was seeing a professor. We both knew the score."

Honest girl—with a nice set of breasts, I thought. She must have been a mind reader, because the way she smiled at me would have resulted in a mandatory session of self-flagellation or such if it had been seen by Mrs. Clinton or other 'Holy Roller' on the faculty.

"Did Myra mention anything about her birth parents—names, location, whether she had been in contact with them?"

"I asked her once about her biological parents and all she said was that part of her past was dead to her. I got the impression she really didn't want to talk about it, so I dropped it."

"Anything else?" I asked. She shook her head no.

I reached into my jacket, pulled out one of my cards and handed it to her.  
"If you think of anything, please feel free to call."

She looked at the card. "Charlotte—nice town. I might give you a ring if I find myself there after I graduate."

"Sure. I'd enjoy that." I stood up and started to leave.

"Mr. Dafoe—don't forget your Bible."

"Tell you what, you can have it if you can explain the picture of Jesus with the Aztecs."

She laughed. "More like Mayans, Mr. Dafoe."

"Aztecs, Mayans, what's the difference?"

"About a thousand years—Good luck in finding Myra. If you find her, tell her I hope she is doing well and found what she was looking for."

I smiled and started to walk out of the dorm. I waived Mrs. Clinton off, told her I was leaving and thanked her.

As I walked to my car, opened my trunk and got my .38, I was thinking of how big a pain in the ass it was having a congressman involved with all this. The only good thing was I didn't have to bother trying to figure out how to best approach this bastard.

I already knew there was only one way to deal with his type—bribery.

*****

I got back to Charlotte mid-afternoon. I went to my office and to backfill Ernie. He was in his early fifties then, and as always, fat and ugly. He was sitting behind his desk reading the paper when I walked into his office. Ernie dropped the paper on his desk and looked at me.

"How'd it go?"

"Let me tell ya right off the bat, she was banging a congressman right before she up and left school."

Ernie rolled his eyes. "Shit, that's all we need. You sure?"

"Positive. Guy is Marc Graves. Might want to give Sandy Milton a call. We're going to need him to play the intermediary if we go down that path."

"Yeah—anything else we can hang our hat on?"

"Her freshman roommate said that the Myra chick was originally a foster child with the Kincaids and was later adopted. She also said the same was true for all of Myra's sisters. Foster kids, then adopted."

"That's a tough nut too. The state seals all those adoption cases. Did the Kincaid girl say anything about her biological parents, names, hometown?"

"Nope. I asked that to the roommate, and apparently the Kincaid girl didn't want to talk about it."

"Damn. I know Social Services. They won't cough up anything about her or her sisters' background. That shit is locked up tight as a nun's ass. The only way they'll open the books is with a court order and there ain't a court in the country that will touch it just because one of the kids beat it once they were of legal age. Unless the Kincaids can shed any light on it, that leaves the congressman as our only real lead. That means Kincaid is going to have to cough up some dough. You want to call Sandy or do ya want me to?"

"You do it. I'll call Kincaid up and tell him if he wants to keep this alive, it's gonna cost him. I'll tell him it could get expensive. I'll also ping on him about his daughter's life before they took her in."

"Ok—How much do we ask Kincaid to put up front if we take on the politician?"

"Ask for 25 and settle for 20 large. That should do it."

Ernie nodded, hit the intercom switch and asked Maisy, our secretary, to call Milton's office and arrange a call.

I left, got a soda from the office fridge, went to my desk and looked up Malcolm Kincaid's office number and called it. After a few minutes, I was talking to him.

"Mr. Kincaid, I found out your daughter is adopted. I know it's painful to ask about, but I'll be honest, you should have told us when we first talked."

I heard him take a quick breath and then slowly inhale.

"Myra was put up for adoption when she was four by her birth mother, who we gathered was unmarried and had some serious alcohol issues. That's as much as the state would let us know. The mother asked for anonymity, as is her right, and the state has to respect that demand. If you are wondering about her biological family, there isn't anything we can do to help you on this. All of our girls are adopted. Sandra and I—well just say adoption was our only way to have and raise a family."

I told him I understood. I then broke the news about his daughter and the congressman. At first, he wanted to confront the representative directly, so I had to set him straight on that issue.

I made it painfully clear that if he wanted results, he was going to have to cough up some serious campaign cash on the sly for Marc Graves, because money is the only thing that will get a U.S. congressman to talk about an issue like this. He agreed to spot us the entire 25 grand as up-front money. No questions asked.

*****

Despite what you have read in mystery magazines or books, no one, I repeat no one, can just waltz into a congressman's office and get to see him, unless said congressman wants to see them. Try it and you will have the cops on top of you in a matter of minutes. Not even mafia bosses have as many layers of protection as the average backbencher representative. From campaign managers, staff and lawyers, to actual congressional staff and lawyers, you don't get to visit a congressman without checking off all the flunky checkboxes.

The quickest way to cut through all of this is money. You give the congressman so much cash for his time, he will see you. However, if you just waltz in there after giving him thousands of dollars (which he will insist on upfront) and blind side him by asking about his banging a nineteen-year-old college freshman in a local motel, you will immediately be shown the door and have nothing to show for your money but a threat that if you come close to the Congressman again, you'll be arrested.

That's why we have Sandy Milton as our lawyer. He is smooth, connected and as crooked as they come. Ernie and I knew that all we wanted from Graves was what he knew about the Kincaid girl. Had he seen her in the last three years, did he know where she went, did he hold any clues as to why she up and left college? We were not trying to embarrass him, expose him or soften him up for the next election. So we called Sandy up and had him propose a fair trade; money for info, and it didn't even have to come directly from the boss. One of his lawyers or staff members would do. Everything was done on the phone or in person and nothing in writing.

Once it was all said and done, it cost us (or rather it cost Kincaid) a pretty penny in cold hard cash to arrange a meeting between myself and Congressman Marc Graves's top campaign advisor. Sandy had gone directly to the advisor, told him the situation, what we were looking for and a promise not to bother the Representative Graves ever again, all for an agreed-upon sum of money. After a couple of days, the advisor called back, said the price was five grand, and that he would be the one we talked to. The guy's name was Kevin Sinclair, and he would meet me at a small steakhouse in Greenville for lunch in two days. I was to bring the money with me.

*****

I walked into the restaurant at around half past noon and said I was to meet Sinclair for lunch. The hostess took me to a small private dining room where Sinclair was already waiting for me. A waitress followed me in. Sinclair and I shook hands, and I sat down.

"Would you like a drink, Mr. Dafoe?"

"No thanks, water with a twist of lemon will do."

"I'll have the same, and just bring me the Club sandwich with fries. Mr. Dafoe?"

Christ, he was in a hurry. I hadn't even looked at the menu.

"Same for me." I said. The waitress left the room.

Sinclair looked the part of a behind-the-scenes guy. Mid-forties, glass, bald with a fringe of brown-gray hair. He wore a white shirt, red tie, blue blazer and grey slacks. Average sized. He looked at me and quickly got down to the most important issue.

"Got the money?"

Damn. What an asshole. At least, use some spit before you fuck me.

I reached inside my jacket, pulled out a fat white envelope and threw it on the table. He reached out with his left hand to grab it, and I slammed my right paw on top of his hand.

"First, there's one ground rule, and it's non-negotiable. If you pick up this envelope, then don't tell me squat, I'll kick the living shit out of you. I figure I can make bail with this cash since you'll tell the cops it wasn't yours. However, you'll be talking through a wired jaw when they take your statement. So think before you grab this. On the plus side, if you tell me something I think really worthwhile, I'll throw you, personally, another grand."

I opened my jacket with my left hand and let him see I had another envelope in my inside pocket. "It's your call." I closed my jacket.

I gotta give him credit. He didn't flinch, didn't get pissed. He just smiled and said, "Deal."

I let go of his hand, and he took the envelope and pocketed it.

Just then, the waitress came in with our water and sandwiches. I stared at Sinclair as she put our food in front of us and asked her if we needed anything else. I shook my head "no" and Sinclair told her we were fine. She left.

As soon as the waitress was out of earshot I asked, "So, what can you tell me about Myra Kincaid?"

He picked up his water, took a sip and sat it back down.

"She was a—volunteer for Marc's Greenville office a little over three years ago. Marc, indeed, the whole staff took an immediate liking to her."

"Uh-huh. Did the congressman know she dropped out of school?"

"Yes, we were quite surprised when she showed up at our D.C. Office in the fall of '82. It turns out Marc saw a lot of potential in her and arranged for her to be a staffer with Congressman Sam Eckard. He's a congressman from Florida. Sam and Marc are good friends and this type of mentoring often occurs between colleagues."

"Mentoring ? " I snorted.

"Don't push it Dafoe. Mentoring is as far as I'll go."

"Okay—mentoring it is. Tell me something useful. Does she still work for this Eckard?"

"No. She quit after a month or two. So did her relationship with our staff and Eckard's."

"Do you know where she lived? Did she have any friends?"

"She lived in Reston, Virginia. In a single-room apartment. Quail Creek was the name of the apartment complex. However, she left there as soon as she cut off contact with the Congressman."

In other words, the Congressman quit paying the rent as soon as she quit screwin' him.

"Okay, time to start earning your money. Did he break it off or did she?"

"She did. Empathically."

"Has anyone seen her since she left?"

Sinclair smiled and looked at me.

"Throw in a second thousand, and I'll tell you how to contact her."

I sat back for to absorb his last words. After a moment I said, "Done—but I got to hear it first."

He looked at me for what seemed an eternity, then shrugged his shoulders. He took out of his jacket a small notepad and pen. He flipped it open and began to write on it. After a writing a number down, he ripped the page out of the notepad folded it and handed it to me.

"Go to D.C., check into a four-star hotel and call this number. Now listen to this and get it down exactly. Tell them that you are in town for some agriculture business, that 'Robert Lee' recommended you call this number and ask for Steffi with an i. Got it? Agriculture, Robert Lee and Steffi with an 'i'. They ask where she is to go and you tell them your hotel and room number. You're talking a cool grand just for the 'date', understand?."

"How the hell do you know this?"

"Let's just say she had a run-in with a friend of mine. Washington can be a small town when it comes to vices for the highly-connected. That's as much as you are going to get out of me, now pay up."

I chuckled, reached into my jacket and pulled out the envelope. I opened it, reached in, counted out two thousand bucks in hundreds and threw it on the table. I saw the look of disappointment when he saw I had brought more than enough spare cash. He should have asked for more.

In my calmest voice, I said, "I know all of this money is for you. I bet your boss doesn't even know we're having this little talk. Fine. But I swear to God, if this tip turns cold, I will physically hurt you sometime in the future. I know your name. That's all I need to find you. You'll never be able to prove it was me."

Bastard just picked up his sandwich and took a bite. He knew bullshit when he heard it.

I got up and left.

I didn't offer to pay for lunch.

*****

I heard the knock on my hotel door at around 9:30 pm. I yelled "One minute!" then picked up the phone and dialed the room across the hall from mine. The phone rang about three times then was picked up.

"Got her?" I asked.

"Yeah, got her."

I hung up, went to my room door and opened it.

She had cut her hair since she left college. It was now a short, spiky-gelled power cut. It was blue-black in color, and it emphasized her slender, white, flawless neck.

She was dressed in a woman's business suit. The only things that hinted that she was a working girl was her blouse was open enough to show just a hint of her cleavage and the three-inch spike heels she wore. Her makeup was picture perfect, and the whole ensemble projected an aura of subdued sexuality.

I smiled at her and said, "You must be Steffi. I'm Gary. Please come in."

"Thank you, Gary." She smiled extended her hand, and I took it, half shaking it, half leading her into my room.

She quickly looked around the room and then said, "If you don't mind, I need to make a quick call. It's local. May, I?" She pointed at the phone.

"By all means, take your time." I went to the table where I had a pitcher of ice water and a cold carafe of white wine. I poured myself a water and filled a wine glass half full. I listened to her as she quickly checked in with her agency. She was all business on the phone. She said she was at her appointment at the Mayflower Hotel, room 315. She listened for a second or two then hung up the phone. She turned to me and I picked up the wine glass to offer it to her. She smiled, nodded thanks and took it. She took a sip.

She started to speak, and I just smiled and raised my hand. "I know, I know. Business first."

I reached into my slacks front pocket and took out a money clip. I counted out twelve one-hundred-dollar bills.

"Here's your fee plus a little extra. If things work out, there's another three hundred in it for you."

I saw a look of relief in her eyes. She was a pro and appreciated a customer who knew that and didn't try to pretend otherwise. I found out a long time ago that if you treat a hooker as a professional, things go a lot more smoothly.

"Thank you—Gary." She took the money, slipped it into her pocketbook. She walked to the table with the water and wine on it, set down her glass.

"Why don't you make yourself comfortable while I use your bathroom. Turn down the lights if you want. I won't be long."

I smiled, bowed slightly and waved her towards the bathroom. She walked by me, went into the bathroom and shut the door. She left the scent of strawberries hanging in the air.

I heard the water in the sink come on. I removed my tie, unbuttoned the top button of my shirt and took off my shoes. I turned off all the lights except for a small lamp in the room corner. I then went to the table, splashed a bit more water in my glass and took a long pull of it. I looked outside the room window and watched the light traffic on Connecticut Avenue. After ten minutes, I heard water being turned off in the bathroom. About thirty seconds later I watched the bathroom door open.

She stood in the bathroom doorway for a few seconds, framed by the light. She was in her heels, wearing only a garter, suspenders, nylons and a half bra. She wasn't fat, but was softly rounded. Her breasts were perfect for her size. I smiled, thinking if only she knew that her old man was paying me to screw her.

She walked towards me, took the glass out of my hand and sat it down. She started to finish unbuttoning my shirt. I knew the best way to enjoy this was to let her run the show.

She was good. She knew where and how to touch a man. She didn't hurry me, but she was coolly efficient in getting my clothes off and getting both us into the bed. I just let her entertain me.

Within twenty minutes, I was on top of her, banging my heart out as she moaned and talked to me, coaxing me to come. Near the end, I opened my eyes looked into hers. From experience, I had expected to see professional boredom there. Instead, I was shocked to see her looking straight though me, eyes glazed, lifeless. She was talking and moaning as I came, but her eyes were lost in some other, dead place. I finished and quickly rolled off her. I warily looked at her as she slowly got off the bed, murmuring she would be right back as she went into the bathroom and closed the door.

Still a bit shaken up, I picked up the phone and dialed the pager number I had earlier memorized. It was a heads-up signal for the retired D.C. cop that Ernie had arranged to be in the room across the hall from mine. He was now downstairs waiting to tail her as she, hopefully, went straight home. I hung up after the page was sent, got up, put on my boxers and grabbed my pants. I took out the money clip, peeled off another three hundred and waited by the window, sipping on my water.

In a few minutes, she came out of the bathroom, fully dressed. She smiled at me a fake smile and asked if I had a good time. I returned the fake smile and handed her the three hundred bucks and said, "Thank you, Steffi. Don't be surprised if we meet again."

She smiled, took the money, quickly slipped it into her purse, and before I could move, made for the door, opened it and left.

It was 10:12 pm. Like I said, she was a pro.

I took a shower and then packed up my clothes. I called the operator and left a five o'clock wake-up call. If all went according to plan, when I woke up, there would be slipped under my room door a short hand-written report and a map spelling out where the Myra Kincaid now made her home. If the ex-cop lost her, he was to call me as soon as he could get to a phone. Then it would mean I would have to try this all over again next week.

I drank some more water, poured out the wine and went to bed.

*****

I shot up in bed, disoriented. The phone was ringing. I glanced at the clock on the bedside table and saw it read 5:00 am. I picked up the phone, muttered thanks to the operator and hung up. I got up and went to the hotel room door. A map and an envelope had been thrust under the door. I smiled to myself and grabbed the map and ripped open the envelope.

She lived in townhouse, 1229 English Drive, Bethesda. She had taken the Metro to Grosvenor Station, which was a ten-minute walk from her pad. The ex-cop wrote that the area was home to a lot of government types and congressional staffers, very middle class and very white. Her place was circled in red on the map.

I quickly washed, put on jeans, polo shirt and a jacket. I grabbed an envelope from the desk in the room, scribbled "Thanks" on the front and stuffed a couple hundred in it. I gathered up my gear, left the room, slipped the envelope under the cop's door and took the elevator down to the hotel lobby. As the bellhop got my car from parking, I settled my bill, and before it was six o'clock I was leaving the city, heading north to Bethesda.

Even though it was a Thursday, traffic wasn't a problem as most was heading towards D.C., and I was heading out. I stopped at a convenience store for coffee, doughnuts and the morning paper. By seven, I was parked on English Drive, about 50 yards from Myra Kincaid's brick town home. I sipped my coffee, ate my doughnuts and waited.

About a quarter past eight, I saw her garage door open. A small, silver Toyota backed out into the street and headed towards the main drag. I started my car and followed. The Toyota made its way to the northbound Rockville Pike and after a few minutes driving it turned right into a large mall parking lot. I parked a couple of rows away from the Toyota and watched Myra Kincaid get out of it and walk towards the main entrance to the mall. I shoved on a ball cap and sunglasses, grabbed the paper I had bought and discretely followed her in. Once she entered the mall, she took off the light coat she was wearing, revealing a powder blue dress and heels. I watched her go in the employees' entrance of Bloomingdales. Walking back to the entrance of the store, I saw that it opened at nine o'clock. It was 8:35. I sighed, went and found a coffee stand, got a cup and waited.

A little past nine, I made my way back to Bloomingdales. Keeping my sunglasses and ball cap on, I slowly made my way through the store. I constantly kept a look out in front of me, trying to make sure I didn't stumble in her path without me first seeing her. The powder blue dress she was wearing gave me all the heads-up I needed.

She was standing in front of a makeup sales counter, waiting for business. I kept my distance from her for about fifteen minutes. A lady walked up to her, and she got busy helping her pick out some eye shadow. I slid by her stand. Her makeup was heavier than it was last night. Made sense. She was as much an advertisement as salesperson. She had a name tag with "Myra" printed on it. She was still showing her customer various products as I walked by.

It was enough. I left the store and made my way back to the parking lot. I took down the tag number of her car, went back in the mall and found a payphone. I called my office in Charlotte, got Ernie on the line and gave him the tag number. He was going to try to get hold of the retired cop we hired and see if he can come up with a name and address for the owner. I was to call back at two and see if he had any info.

I left the mall, drove around for a while, found a large bookstore, went in, found a book to read and settled in a chair for the wait. A little past two, I went to another payphone and called Ernie, as planned.

Maisy put me through to him.

"Any luck?" I asked.

"Home run, kid. Car is registered to one Myra Winston. Address 1229 English Drive, Bethesda Maryland."

"Yeah. That pretty much seals it. I'll do what I gotta do, then take off this afternoon for Charlotte. I might spend the night on the road or drive straight through. Either way, I'll be I the office tomorrow afternoon. We'll wrap this one up Monday or Tuesday next week."

"Sounds good Jay, be careful driving home."

I hung up the phone and walked to my car. I got in and drove back to English Drive and waited. It was around half past three when she drove up. She pulled her car into the garage. I gave it fifteen minutes. I took off my cap and sunglasses, got out of my car, walked to her front door and rang the doorbell.

In a few seconds, I heard noise behind the door. I could feel her looking at me through the door's peep hole. I waited a minute for her to open the door. When she didn't, I rang the doorbell a couple more times and waited another minute. Still no answer.

I shrugged my shoulders and began to bang on the door and loudly yell.

"Myra Kincaid, Myra Kincaid! Open up, I got a message from your Mom and Dad. Open the door. Open it up, I know you're there."

I beat on the door for about five seconds, and then it opened as far as the chain lock would let it. I placed my foot in the doorway, so she couldn't shut it.

All I could see was the left side of her face with a single eye glaring at me. She was trembling.

"Thanks for opening the door. You recognize me, right?"

She just stood there, left eye staring at me.

"Listen, we'll make this quick. I'm a private detective who has been hired by your family to find you. Don't kid yourself. It was easy, Miss Winston."

She flinched and tried to shut the door. My foot stopped her. I kept talking, my tone brutal. I was here to keep her away from the Kincaids. This is why they hired me. I'm the best asshole money can buy.

"Your kid sister ratted you out. As you can see, I know where you live. I also know the make, model and license number of your car, that you sell cosmetics at White Flint Mall and finally, that you're a thousand-dollar-a-night whore. Mom and Dad's message to you is this—stay out of their and their daughters' lives. You are dead to them. It'll be a waste of time disappearing a second time then trying to reconnect with your sisters. I'll just find you again. You want to live your life in peace? Then just keep on peddling your ass for cash and forget about your former family. Remember, you're the one that skipped out, not them."

She was really pressing hard to shut the door now. I could see her breathing rapidly, the sweat popping out on her forehead.

I reached into my back pocket, took out my wallet and grabbed a couple of my business cards. I flipped them inside her home.

"There's my card. If you still want to talk to your folks to hear this message from them personally, then they want you to go through me. My name, number and address is on the card. Call me and I'll set it up. My advice is not to waste your time. Bottom line is this—if you ever come close to your sisters again, I'll fuck up your life. Remember, hooking isn't the safest of lifestyles."

I took my foot away from the door, and it slammed shut. Message delivered. I walked to my car and started my drive back to Charlotte.

*****

It was Wednesday before Ernie and I had our bill ready for the Kincaids review. With our hourly wages, hotel room bills and bribe money, we had plenty of leeway to pad the hell out of it. Since congressmen don't give out receipts for bribes, we boosted the amount we paid by five grand. We also tripled on paper the fee for the services of the ex-cop in D.C. and generally added more hours at the beginning and end of our usual workday. All said we were shooting for around nine grand in profit for a week's worth of work. We've had much bigger hauls, but these smaller jobs were what kept the food on the table. Big fee cases were still few and far between for Ernie and me back then.

We arranged a Friday meeting for ten o'clock at Kincaid's Shelby office. Ernie and I both felt that the news about their eldest needed to be given in person and, more importantly, I would be there to present the bill and to be able immediately answer any questions about costs. For us, it was all about getting paid.

I arrived at the office a few minutes before ten. It was co-located in his lumber warehouse. I walked inside the steel frame building and went to the first counter I saw. An elderly man was manning the post, and I asked him where the boss's office was. He just pointed to the back of the large warehouse and told me that it was in the rear to the left. Couldn't miss it. I thanked him and headed to the back. I found the office door and knocked.

I heard a gruff, "Come in."

I opened the door, walked in.

It was a large, but sparsely filled office. There was a massive metal desk in the back, with three folding chairs in front of it. There was a small book case with books and ledgers on the left wall. The floor was just like the warehouse floor, concrete slab. Malcolm Kincaid was sitting in a leather office chair behind his desk, casually dressed in a plaid shirt and khaki pants. He was a working boss. His wife, Sandra, was standing in front of the desk. She was wearing a simple dark-green pants suit and flats.

"Sit down, Mr. Dafoe." Kincaid pointed to one of the folding chairs. Sandra Kincaid grabbed another chair, parked it behind the desk next to her husband and sat. down. I planted myself in a chair opposite them. I opened my briefcase, pulled out a folder and dropped it on the desk. Kincaid just glanced at it and then looked straight back at me.

"Just give it to us straight, Mr. Dafoe. Did you find Myra?"

I nodded yes and launched into my prepared spiel summarizing what I had found out. I was just telling them about finding out that they had managed to raise a high-class call girl, when I heard the office door open followed by a slight gasp from Sandra Kincaid. Malcolm's eyes got big and he blurted out, "Myra!"

What happened next took about 30 seconds, tops.

I turned and saw Myra Kincaid walking towards the office desk. She was wearing no makeup and was dressed like her college photo. White blouse buttoned up to the neck with a dark-blue sweater, matching pleated skirt that was cut below her knees and sensible black shoes, no heels. She had a large handbag hanging on her right shoulder with her hand inside the bag.

Her eyes said crazy.

In a smooth motion, she pulled her hand out of the bag and in it was a goddamn Model 1911 Colt .45 caliber automatic. I remember thinking it was "too much gun" for her small hand as I dove to the side to get out of her way. I was right.

She aimed the gun at her Dad and pulled the trigger. The massive kick of the gun caused her to accidentally "double tap". The double boom of the gun reverberated off the concrete floor and two holes, feet apart, appeared in the metal wall to the right of Malcolm Kincaid. Sharon Kincaid screamed and dove behind the desk. Malcolm was right behind her. I had fallen backwards against the wall to Myra's left and was clawing for my .38. She threw her hand bag to the floor, and was now holding the Colt with both hands. She took a step forward with her right leg and was aiming at her parents behind the desk when I shot my revolver. My hollow points blew away her inner thigh. She crumpled like a rag doll, her .45 cracking off another shot, this time hitting the roof.

I scrambled to my feet and jumped towards her, making sure she couldn't shoot again. I saw that the automatic had fallen behind her head. I kicked it away and got on my knees next to her. It was then that I realized that the concrete floor was slick with blood. I had destroyed her femoral artery. For some damn reason, I tried to stop the blood with my hands, but it was no use. I leaned over her pasty white face. Her eyes were wide open. Suddenly, she focused on my face and her brows knitted together. She recognized me.

"You..."

That was all she could get out. Her eyes fluttered and then rolled backwards into her head. She was dead a second later.

The floor around her body was awash with blood. She must have bled out three, maybe four quarts before she died. My hands were caked, and my trousers were drenched with blood. I didn't try to get up off my knees. I stayed knelt beside her, dazed.

Sandra Kincaid's scream jerked me back to reality. I looked up and saw she and her husband had stood up behind the desk. They were shaking like leaves. I lost it.

"Just don't fucking stand there, call the fucking cops, NOW!" I screamed.

That jerked Malcolm back to the real world. He grabbed his wife and dragged her out of the office.

I got up and sat in one of the folding chairs. I waited for the police to come. By the time I heard the sirens, my blood-soaked pants had dried and were stiff as cardboard.

The county sheriff called it "justifiable homicide" within two hours of my gunning her down. Saving the life of one of county's leading citizens and that of his wife probably explained the quick decision. Truth be told, there weren't many doubts that bitch was crazy. If I hadn't shot her, she would have murdered her parents and more importantly, might have killed me.

Ernie had rushed to Shelby as soon as I called him and got there around two that afternoon. He took charge and within a couple of hours, he had settled all business with the Kincaids and ensured a profit of almost ten grand for "Twillfigger and Dafoe, Inc." Ernie knew Malcolm Kincaid was in no frame of mind to bargain and pounced on it. We left Shelby around six, and I was home in Charlotte by nine.

I threw away my suit and showered until the hot water was all used up. I was asleep within minutes of my head hitting the pillow.

Saturday and Sunday were uneventful. While my shooting of Myra Kincaid was the talk of Shelby, it didn't even get a mention in the Charlotte paper. The Kincaids quietly buried Myra that Sunday afternoon in a local cemetery plot they got for cheap due to the fact it was next to the section of plots reserved for blacks.

I was back in the office on Monday, but only stayed there for a few hours. Ernie treated me to a late lunch, and we celebrated our latest paycheck by getting drunk. Ernie must have had a dozen beers and while I drank only five, I was in worse shape. I'm not much of a drinker.

I had a splitting headache when I got up Tuesday. I went to a diner, had a big breakfast and coffee and showed up at my office at nine. Maisy was already there. She told me Ernie had called in and said he would be in late. I didn't have much to do, so I read the paper and actually fell asleep at my desk. Around eleven, Maisy brought in the mail. On top of the pile was a large manila envelope addressed to me.

I opened the envelope and out spilled a small, flat key with the number "3012" stamped on it. I shook the envelope some more and out came a smaller manila envelope and handwritten letter on notebook paper.

I picked up the letter and started to read it. The salutation was "You Bastard" and it went downhill from there.

The handwriting was cramped and hurried. The letter itself was a series of disjointed thoughts and accusations. I quickly realized that Myra Kincaid had written this note. I checked the postmark and it was stamped last Friday, in Shelby. She must have mailed it right before she went to her father's office.

I first got that cold stab to the gut when she accused me of making her kill her parents. The smaller envelope, she wrote, was to be the proof that would have saved her siblings without killing. The key was to a safe-deposit box located in a bank in Reston Virginia. She had kept the envelope locked up safely there since she left college. She called it the "Christmas Gift From Hell."

She rambled on for a few more sentences, often failing to stay in between the lines on the notebook paper. She was all over the place with her thoughts, every now and then focusing on me to call me a cocksucking motherfucker, asshole or bastard. She finally ended the letter telling me she was on her way to stop this terror, and that I owned this now. It was on my head. The ending was abrupt as the start.

I picked up the sealed envelope. Carefully, I opened it and removed its contents. It was single, 5x7 inch black and white photograph. I knew enough about photography to tell it was an amateur job, done in a home darkroom. The borders were not even, the development a little patchy.

I studied the photo. A prepubescent Myra Kincaid was sprawled nude on a cot, her legs splayed wide open. She had a carrot sticking out of her vagina. The heavy makeup on her face had been smeared, but it didn't hide the fact that Myra couldn't have been older than eight, maybe nine, when this photo was taken.

Behind her, holding her arms down was a woman wearing a "Merry Widow" lingerie getup, with dark, satin gloves that came up over her elbows. She had on a mask that was adorned with elaborate feathers and lace; her face was twisted with a wicked grin.

Then I looked at Myra's eyes. They were the eyes of a child who knew that monsters were real and were having their way with her. Her only defense left was to hide inside herself. A cold, blank, dead stare looked at me from that twelve-year old photo. The same stare that I had seen just a week ago in my hotel room.

That's when I stumbled to my bathroom in horror—of myself.

After I got my shit together, I sat back down my desk. It was time to work.

I looked at letter and photo that Myra Kincaid had sent me and realized it was worthless. This wasn't enough to save me by damning the Kincaids. I needed more. My eyes alighted on the safe-deposit box key. I gently picked it up. This was the only cold, hard fact that in my possession. Myra Kincaid had rented this safe-deposit box. I could prove that. It would have to do.

*****

I told Ernie my plan. He told me I was crazy, but would help. It took me five weeks to put it together before I was ready to meet the Kincaids.

My "mise-en-scène" was constructed at Humboldt Fish Camp, halfway between Charlotte and Shelby. The menu there consisted of fried flounder, fried perch, fried hushpuppies, french fries and coleslaw in any frigg'n combination you wanted, but that was fucking it. Water, tartar sauce and ketchup were free; all the sweet tea or coke you could drink was fifty cents.

Humboldt's itself was a massive dining hall, with a large kitchen comprised mostly of huge deep-fat fryers and refrigerators full of frozen fish and coleslaw. Sturdy, high-backed pews made of pinewood were constructed along the walls of the restaurant, with solid, pine tables placed in front of them. Wooden benches were on the opposite side of the tables. The interior of the hall was set up with at least fifty picnic tables and attached benches. In all, Humboldt's could seat over 500 people at a time.

My meeting with the Kincaids at the fish camp was scheduled for a Tuesday afternoon around three o'clock, when the place was usually empty. I used Sandy Milton as our go-between. They would trust the lawyer.

I had Sandy tell them that I was having serious guilt issues with how I had handled their daughter's case, that I felt responsible for her going off the deep end and trying to kill them. Sandy told them I wanted to apologize in person and as an aside, return their fee. Sandy told me later that Malcolm Kincaid jumped at the opportunity as soon as he heard that I was going to return his money.

Greed is the most reliable of sins.

Sandy drove them to the fish camp, and I was waiting at a table near the back of the hall. I stood up as they entered and waved them over. As soon as Sandy got them to the table, his beeper went off, as scheduled. He looked at it and with a look of disgust, shook his head.

"Folks, if you don't mind, I need to step out and return this call. It's from a judge and I really have to call him now. I'll be back as soon as I'm done."

"No problem, Sandy, this is really just between me and the Kincaids," I said.

Sandy spun on his heel and left.

I looked at the Kincaids. They were dressed much the same as when I had last seen them in their office. Working casual. I pointed to the large pew along the wall and asked them to sit down. I sat on the bench across from them.

To put them at ease, I had plates, forks and huge basket of hushpuppies waiting for them on the table. I offered them some, in case they were hungry. Malcolm helped himself to a couple. Sandra politely declined. My briefcase was lying on the floor. I reached down to get it. As I did, I quietly slipped out of my coat pocket a small, ancient .32 caliber revolver loaded with thirty-year-old bullets and placed it under the table. I was careful to use my handkerchief when handling it.

I brought up the leather briefcase and plopped it on the table. I opened it and took out a large, manila envelope. They didn't expect this, and I saw them both tense up. I knew that this could blow up in my face in an instant, so I hit them hard and fast.

"First, everything you are about to see is a copy. The originals are safely locked up."

I pulled out a neat, typed written letter and waved it at them.

"I got this five weeks ago in the mail. It is a letter Myra sent to me before she tried to kill you two. She also sent a key to a safe-deposit box in Virginia. I have a sworn affidavit from the bank that Myra Kincaid was the person who rented that box. In this letter, she lays out some seriously sick charges against y'all. To back it up, she sent pictures that she had been storing in the safe-deposit box. She claims in the letter she took them from your private darkroom and playpen that you have above your garage."

I pulled out four pictures from the envelope and tossed them on the table.

"I'm positive that this is a picture of you some years ago, Mrs. Kincaid, with Myra and a carrot, and—correct me if I'm wrong—this is a picture of your daughter Tammy getting fucked by you, Mr. Kincaid. Here are pics of both of y'all with the twins. I bet when they showed up at your door you two bastards had felt you had hit the Trifecta."

They were too stunned to talk. I slammed it home.

"Sandra, you tart up quite nice in these pictures but Malcolm, I got to be honest, wearing nothing but a porkpie hat, Lone Ranger mask and five-inch hard-on is not a good look for you."

That last remark hit hard. Malcolm Kincaid turned beet red and stammered, "You blackmailing son-of-a-bitch, you stole this from us. There is no way Myra sent you this—"

"Let me be clear Kincaid, are you accusing me of black bagging your house, finding your secret room where you and the wife play with the kids, stealing from your private photo collection, just so I can blackmail you?"

"Damn right I am, you—"

"Malcolm, shut up damnit! This ain't about blackmail!" hissed Sandra Kincaid.

She was the smarter of the two. She had figured it out.

I glanced at her. She didn't look so mousy now. Her eyes were flame hot.

I looked at a flustered Malcolm Kincaid. My pulse was pounding. I knew it was now or never.

I said clearly and distinctly, just to make sure the microphones that were wired around the table picked it up, "Put—down—that—gun."

A heartbeat later, I launched myself at Sandra Kincaid, grabbed her head by her ears and with every bit of strength I had, slammed her face as hard as I could onto the edge of the table. She was a little over five feet tall, a tad bit over a hundred pounds. I was six foot one, close to two hundred.

That's a fair fight by my rules.

I threw her head back up against the wooden back of the pew. Her upper front teeth were caved in backwards. Blood was streaming from her mouth and nose, and her eyes were going in two different directions. She was out cold.

It was now time to take care of "Daddy."

He was already starting to get up when I flicked out my left fist and broke his nose. He fell back, stunned. I grabbed a fork with my right hand and pushed the table aside. In a vicious overhand arc, I plunged the fork into his crotch.

There were no goddamn plastic "sporks" in this eatery. Humboldt's had been using the same cutlery since they opened up in 1952. It was made of Cold War grade stainless steel, meant to survive a direct nuclear blast. The doctors said later I had buried the fork, tines and all, three inches above the bastard's dick.

Kincaid threw his head back and screamed. I put him in a head lock with my left arm and with my right hand grabbed a handful of hushpuppies. I crammed them down his throat.

His eyes flew open in panic when he realized he couldn't breathe. I grabbed another handful and forced them also down his throat.

He started thrashing about, pounding on me, but I was on an adrenalin high and nothing was going to break my grip on him. I was on my fourth handful of hushpuppies when he stopped moving, went limp and into full-blown cardiac arrest. At the same time, an arm reached out behind me and went around my neck. I was jerked back and thrown to the floor. I wouldn't let go of Kincaid and dragged him down with me.

The N.C. State Bureau of Investigation agents had finally shown up from their listening van outside.

At least five men had entered the hall. It took two of them to get me to let go of Kincaid. By the time they had me pinned to the floor, I saw Ernie running towards me. He was wearing his favorite lime-green leisure suit. Sandy Milton was right behind them. Both stopped in their tracks to survey the carnage.

Sandra Kincaid was slumped over where she sat, blood streaming from her shattered face and onto her clothes. Malcolm Kincaid lay on the floor, sporting a fork erection; the crotch of his khaki pants stained crimson with blood. One agent was trying to get the mashed cornmeal out of his mouth. Another was pounding on his chest.

A third agent, kneeling next to the body, looked up, saw Ernie and screamed, "Get your crazy bastard partner out of here!"

He then pointed at the cops holding me down and yelled, "Get on the radio and get ambulances here ASAP, move!"

Ernie ran to me, got me on my feet and led me to the parking lot outside. He took me over to his caddie and sat me down in the passenger side of the car.

"I'm going back in kid, to make sure they find the gun," Ernie whispered. He turned and saw Sandy Milton standing by his car, looking lost.

"Milton, come over here and stay with Jay, You're on the clock as of now," Ernie hollered. He then headed back into the restaurant.

Sandy walked over me and asked, "What in the hell happened? You were just supposed to get them on tape talking about the photos and then let the SBI handle it."

I looked at him and said, "The bitch had a gun. Small one. Self defense. When she went down, Kincaid went after the piece. I had to defend myself."

Sandy raised his right eyebrow at this, looked at me for a few seconds.

"That's your story?"

"Absolutely. It was them or me."

He shrugged and leaned up against the caddie and waited.

A couple of ambulances arrived. The EMT guys went in, and about thirty minutes later they were wheeling Malcolm Kincaid out. He was hooked to an IV and had an oxygen mask on. They threw him in the back and shot out of the gravel parking lot, siren wailing. About ten minutes later, they wheeled out a semi-conscious Sandra Kincaid, put her in the second ambulance and left.

Seconds later, the agent who had told Ernie to get me the hell away from the scene came storming out of the restaurant with Ernie in his wake. He was Inspector Alan Fitzsimons, the agent who was put in charge of this when I approached the SBI ten days ago. He came right at me.

"The bastard's barely alive. They had to use the paddles twice on him. You lied to me, you did break into their house. You're going down for this, Dafoe, and if he dies, it will be for murder," he snarled.

Sandy stepped in, "Inspector, my client told me the couple was armed and tried to kill him. It's self-defense, and you know it."

"Bullshit, I know a dropped piece when I see it. The goddamn bullets are covered with rust."

I had him. I got out of the car. Fitzsimons was less than an arm's length from me.

"Fact. Myra Kincaid had a safety deposit box rented in her name for three years to hold those pictures. I'll swear on a stack of bibles she sent them to me in the mail. How she got them, I don't know. Try to prove otherwise."

Fitzsimons scowled at me. I kept on.

"In addition, a hundred bucks says you find the box of cartridges that those bullets came from somewhere in their home. I suggest you look on the top shelf of the closet in their room above the garage. Finally, another hundred also says you find a ledger there with over thirty pages of cash entries with various P.O. box addresses listed after each line item. I bet they were selling their pictures. They made quite a bit of money. I'd say if you played your cards right you can claim credit to busting up a huge child pornography ring. No need to thank me for handing it to you on a silver platter."

Fitzsimons froze. He looked down at the ground for a minute. Then he slowly raised his head, looked me in the eye and said, "One day, you son-of-a-bitch, I'm gonna fucking nail your ass to the wall."

He suckered punched me in the stomach with a left jab and followed it up with a right cross to my jaw.

I went down.

Fitzsimons turned around and went back into the restaurant.

Ernie rushed to help me. I waved him off and struggled to my feet, spit out some blood and laughed. I had done it, free and clear.

I finally knew what salvation felt like.

I didn't own it anymore.

The End

If you enjoyed this, you will love my novel.

Scrambled Hard-Boiled

<http://www.amazon.com/dp/B006QCMG30>

#  Miscegenation and Other Acts of Love

He was worsted-wool perfection. His suit was conservative dark blue with faint pinstripes. Shirt, a perfect white with a wine-red tie. The hair was grey, razor cut, elegant. His skin was smooth and what wrinkles there were reminded you that this was a serious man. His eyes were his only flaw. They were not quite right. Other than that, he looked like his job; that of a quiet, highly paid, professional lawyer. No grandstanding or bullshit with this man.

He was on the phone, talking. He saw me and motioned for me to sit in one of the leather chairs in front of his desk.

I sat down and listened.

He was leaning back in his chair with the receiver stuck next to his ear. He was listening to the voice on the other line. After a few moments, he spoke.

"Janet, try to get some rest and remember if anyone from the press approaches you, don't say anything. I got a gentleman here in my office who is going to help me get Kevin out of this jam."

He paused for a second, listened, then spoke again.

"That's right. It's the detective from Charlotte I was telling Kevin about. Now you take care of those kids of yours and try to get some rest. Kevin needs you to be strong right now—," he paused and listened. "Fine, fine. Goodbye Janet, I'll call you again later to make sure everything is Ok."

He hung up the phone and turned to look at me.

"Pleased to meet you Mr. Dafoe. I'm Everett Buchanan. Sorry for not getting up to greet you. That was the wife of my client, Kevin Watkins, who's currently sitting in the Davie county jail charged with murder. He owns a couple of car dealerships here in town."

I played it cool and just raised an eyebrow.

Buchanan went on.

"He's accused of shooting one Miss Samantha Wilson. A week ago she was found dead, lying in a ditch, outside of town here." He grabbed a folder on his desk and tossed it in front of me. "There's the police and coroner's report. Read it and then we'll talk."

He sat back, lit a cigarette and smoked it as I opened and read the contents of the folder.

Victim: Samantha Joan Wilson. Age: twenty-five. Five and a half feet tall, 125 pounds. Found dead a little over a week ago in a roadside ditch on a small road just east of Stanville. Coroner said cause of death was a single .32 caliber shot, straight through the top of her head. Powder burns on the entrance wound. Bullet was found lodged in her chin and removed. It was fairly intact and should be easy to match to the murder weapon if ever found. Incidental bruising around the torso. No sign of sexual assault.

I looked at the crime scene photos. She had been nude when she was dumped by the road. The body was sprawled face down in the grass with one arm outstretched and the other tucked under the body.

The photos taken in the coroner's lab showed her face, distorted and swollen. Like a lot of people who met a violent end, death had made her ugly. Her matted hair was dark and looked to be shoulder length or so. The body was soft and sagging with large breasts splayed out to the sides.

One note by the coroner caught my eye as I shut the folder. She had been three months pregnant. A boy.

I looked up at Buchanan.

"Was he banging her?"

"Yeah and before you ask the blood tests on the child indicate he could have been the father. From what I can gather, he probably was. He's been covering the rent on her apartment for almost a year."

This was back in 1979, in the days before DNA. Blood tests were all we had to go on.

"Alibi?"

"None. His wife took the kids the week before to visit her parents in Georgia. He claims he was home alone that night."

"Anything to link him to the killing—other than getting her pregnant? Was he seen with her that night, blood in his car or what?"

"No."

"Damn, then why is he in jail? Other than a shaky motive I don't see what the law has on him."

"She was black."

I flipped opened the folder, looked at the coroner's photo's again. She wasn't Snow White, but I had seen Italians darker than this gal. I looked back up at Buchanan, questioningly.

"I know, I know. Here—look at these photos while I explain."

He handed me another folder. They were color photos of her. Some were taken at the lake standing next to a big guy who had a mullet hair cut.

"I had copies from the original negatives made. That's her with our client," said Buchanan, "he was stupid enough to pose for photographs with his mistress."

Well, it looks like I have a dumb ass for a client, I thought to myself.

I continued to sort through the pictures. Others were taken inside an apartment. Some were of her nude in a bed with the sheets sprawled around her. She was laughing at the camera.

She was a good-looking woman in her prime. Full figured, luscious, dusky, with a pair of bedroom eyes. I could see why Watkins was sleeping with her. Even in these still photos, she oozed moist, sexy heat.

The last picture showed her with a black woman, a light-skinned one, but definitely black. She appeared to be in her late forties, sort of stout, but when you saw the two standing side-by-side, you could tell you were looking at mother and daughter.

I held the picture up to the lawyer.

"Yep," he said, "that's her mother, Alice Wilson. That was taken a year or two ago. Alice died around last Thanksgiving, cancer. She and Samantha used to clean houses of folks around here for a living. At least they did until Alice took ill."

"Is there a Mr. Wilson?"

He frowned and shook his head no.

"Alice was a fine-looking lady in her day. Rumor has it, she caught the eye of wealthy man from Winston-Salem, and the result was Samantha. The girl grew up in these parts, even graduated from the local high school here. In any other town, she could have passed for white but not here. Here she was still a...well...let's just say bastard and leave it at that."

"Why didn't she leave when she got old enough?"

He just shrugged his shoulders, turned and looked out the window. "Hell, I don't know." He paused and seemed to gather his thoughts, "Maybe she was planning on it, and her plans got interrupted."

"I still don't understand why Watkins is in jail," I said.

He whirled around in his chair to look at me.

"The colored population of this county is around thirty percent. They work the fields, load the trucks, clean the buildings. They go to church. And since 1965, they've been voting...Democratic. Democrats have run this county since reconstruction but in the last election Sheriff Thompson got well less than sixty percent of the vote. That has never happened here before. The Republican Party is growing and if Democrats want to stay in power they have to listen to, and more importantly, respond to the black folk, or else they won't show up at the polls."

He lit another cigarette and took a deep drag.

"Alice Wilson was a religious woman, and her church got very upset about what happened to her daughter. The anger quickly spread to other black churches. Someone called the NAACP, and they got into the picture—"

I interrupted, "—and the good Sheriff, to help cool things down and maybe score some points during the next election needed to nail someone for the killing."

"I was told you're quick on the uptake. Right. He had to get someone in jail, fast. He didn't care if the DA couldn't convict him; he just had to at least show he was trying. Lucky for Sheriff Thompson he had a perfect fall guy in Kevin. They found those and other pictures in her apartment, did a little checking on her living arrangements and bam, instant suspect."

He paused to stub out his cigarette in an ashtray and went on.

"No one likes car salesmen, especially ones that sell goddamn lousy cars while providing crappy service at the same time—you know, the poor bastard has sold cars to some of the local Klansman and now even they want to see him strung up for killing a black woman. It's crazy."

"Is he guilty?" I asked.

"I'm his lawyer, so I'll stick with his 'No'. Damn, I would too with what little evidence they got. But there's always a chance they might come up with something else to help their case. Plus there's no telling what may happen if this goes to jury. So we have to be prepared."

He stared at me for a moment.

"Dig up dirt on the dead girlfriend?"

He smiled slightly and nodded his head. "Look around, see if we can spread the blame around if you catch my drift. Now let's go see our client; you can ride with me to the jail."

I rode in his Cadillac to the county jail. I checked my .38 at the door and we were escorted to a small windowless conference room. A few minutes later, Kevin Watkins, handcuffed and in prison denim, was escorted in.

Unshaven with his hair greasy and ruffled, Watkins appeared not to be adjusting too well to jail life.

Buchanan introduced me, and we pulled up chairs around the small table located in the middle of the room.

"Any news on getting me the hell out of here?" he blurted.

"Now Kevin, I told you that we had to wait for the next hearing before we broach again the subject of bail," said the lawyer, "and even then chances of you getting out are slim and none. Get used to the idea."

Watkins hung his head for a second or two, shrugged and looked up.

"Ok...Ok, where do we go from here?"

"Mr. Dafoe is going to be looking into the circumstances of Samantha's death. I want you to tell him about your relationship with her. Hold nothing back—understand?"

He nodded and looked at me. "Where do you want me to start?"

"Just start telling me about you and the girl. I'll listen and ask questions as appropriate." I got my notepad and pen out.

He bummed a cigarette from Buchanan, lit up and started talking.

They had met a little over a year ago, at a local bar. Sex the first night. For a couple of months, they rendezvoused once or twice a week at local motels but soon the relationship deepened. She evidentially was a hell of a lay.

"What about the apartment, when did you start paying for that?" I asked.

"Nine—ten months ago. I own the apartment complex. There are twelve rental units at the property, and I let her stay in one of them for free. At first, it was to be only for a couple of weeks, but it got to be really convenient. Less hassles that way."

"Did you give her money outright?"

"I slipped her a hundred every now and then; it covered all her utilities at the apartment. Samantha made a few bucks on the side cleaning houses. She'd been doing that with her mother for a few years and kept working for a few folks after her mom died."

"Names?"

The lawyer quickly interrupted, "I got a list of her customers. I'll give it to you after we leave here."

Watkins continued his story. The affair continued. Other than the occasional weekend getaway, most of their meetings were confined to the apartment.

His wife never suspected; he wasn't seeing any other women.

"What about the day of the murder. Mr. Buchanan says you were at home. Seems to me with the wife and kids gone you would have spent the time with her."

He shook his head, bummed and lit another cigarette.

"I started calling her that afternoon and kept on calling her till it was past ten. There was no answer at the apartment. I finally gave up and went to bed. I called again early in the morning before I went to the office but there was still no answer. I was more jealous than worried. I thought she might have been with another man."

"You think she was seeing someone else?"

"Naw. Not really. I...I...hell, you know how it is when a bitch gets inside your head...not that I was going to marry her or anything."

No, I guess not. Leaving your wife for a colored woman, even a high yellow one, wouldn't be good for business, I thought.

I turned to the lawyer and said, "I think I got enough for now. We can always come back." I looked back at Watkins, "You got anything else that might help us figure out what happened?"

"No. Not really. But I swear I didn't kill her."

That ended the interview. We signaled the guard. He escorted Watkins back to his cell.

No questions about the wife, no worries about the kids. My kind of guy.

Our next stop was at Samantha's apartment. We crossed the police yellow tape and went in.

It was a simple one-bedroom affair with bath and kitchen. A 12-inch color TV with rabbit ears was on a cinder block and plywood shelf. The bed was a queen sized and was unmade. I recognized it as the bed in the photographs. Her closet was half-filled with clothes, mostly jeans and blouses.

Buchanan was going through her jewelry box and made a small exclamation of surprise. I walked over and noted he was holding an old-fashioned cameo. It was made of ivory, and it showed two women, dressed in robes, pouring wine into a cup.

"Sort of out of place among all this costume stuff wouldn't you say?"

Not wanting to show that I had no idea how much a cameo like that was worth, I grunted in assent.

He put it back and shrugged his shoulders. "Wonder where a maid got the money to buy that? Ones like this are quite expensive. My late wife had a few."

We finished going through the apartment and found nothing more of interest. We got back in the lawyer's car and went back to his office.

Once there, Buchanan gave me a list with some names and addresses.

"These are the names of the folks who employed the Wilson girl to clean house. I suggest you start with Sarah Laumer. She's Alex Laumer's widow and still runs a local jewelry store that Alex started. Hell, for all I know the Wilson girl may have stolen that cameo from her. It looks like something Sarah would have."

*****

I made my way to the home of the Widow Laumer. She lived in one of the more well-to-do neighborhoods of this sleepy southern town. The street was lined with dogwood and elm trees. Many of the homes were at least forty or fifty years old and most were small mansions on very generous parcels of land. Lawns were manicured and lush.

I stopped my car in front of 1437 Huffington Lane. I sat back and admired the quiet elegance of Mrs. Laumer's home.

I was in the Piedmont part of North Carolina. Gentle, rolling hills were the rule rather than the exception. My car was parked on the curb directly in front of the Laumer's home, a large two-story house on top of a small hill. Concrete steps led up the hill from the sidewalk, then on to a stone paved path to the front the house. The first floor was raised above the ground, and inlaid stone steps led up to a wrap around veranda that had a roof to keep the elements away. A large bay window was to my left and suspended near it was a swinging bench. The house was made of brick and was whitewashed. The veranda was floored with slate stone.

This was a well-made dwelling; built in the twenties and built to last.

Across the street, I saw a man in his sixties puttering in the yard. He gave me the once over. I waved and continued to approach the Laumer home.

I walked up to screen door in front of the elaborately carved front oak door, opened it and started to use the brass door knocker when I spied the doorbell to my right. I pushed it and heard the chimes sound off inside the house.

I waited a minute and during that time, I heard a rustling noise inside. Someone was home. Impatient and bored, I rang the doorbell again and then gave the door knocker a couple of sharp raps.

I heard the movement behind the door. The click of opening a deadbolt was heard and then the door silently opened.

She'd been drinking. I could smell the booze on her breath. Her amber eyes were bloodshot. She had a head of thick black hair, cut short, with the occasional shot of gray. She was of average height, wore sandal flats, had on a blue blouse and red capri pants. Her figure was a very firm hourglass. Her jaw was strong and most would call her handsome, not beautiful. She was a little north of forty but carried it well.

She was one of those rare women whose looks improved with middle age.

I introduced myself, told her I was a private investigator and was looking into the Wilson murder. I wondered if she could spare me a few moments. She stared at me for a few seconds, then shrugged her shoulders, turned around and waved me in as she walked away. I followed her. She took a left into what was evidentially her study. I noted it was the room that had the bay window facing the porch.

Along the wall opposite the study entrance was a very expensive cherry wood desk with a cut-glass top, blotter and papers scattered around it. There was also a leaded crystal decanter, a third full with what looked like scotch or bourbon. A tumbler containing a half-inch of liquor was next to it. To the right and behind the desk was a large floor-to-ceiling aquarium; judging by the nature of the fish, it was a saltwater one. The walls were lined with built-in book shelves, filled to capacity; a small coal fireplace and mantle were opposite the desk. On the mantle were various brass and crystal knick-knacks.

The room spoke of understated wealth.

She walked behind the desk, picked up the tumbler and made a half-hearted motion as if to ask if I wanted to join her. I shook my head no. Her answer was to drink the rest of the booze in the glass and then gently set it on the desk.

I started into why I was asking about Samantha Wilson; that I was told Samantha and her mother had cleaned her house for years; that Samantha continued to clean it after her mother passed.

She looked at me and just said, "So?"

I asked her if she had any problems with the Wilson girl or did she ever talk about her private life. As I spoke, Laumer reached for the decanter and threw a splash of whiskey into the tumbler. She grabbed the glass and just rubbed it against her cheek, looking at the bay window vacantly.

I prattled on. I leaned against the coal fireplace, appeared to inspect the trinkets on the mantle and then offhandedly asked if she had ever noticed anything missing after Samantha cleaned the house.

"We found what is apparently a very old and expensive ivory cameo in her apartment. Two Greek women with a jar of wine. It didn't happen to be yours?"

I heard a sharp intake of breath and looked at her.

She was shaking, and all the color had drained out of her face.

"He told you, didn't he?" she whispered.

"Excuse me?"

She shouted, "I said he fucking told you!"

"Lady, I don't what you are talking about."

She jerked open a drawer in her desk and pulled out a .32 automatic and pointed it at me.

"That nigger was mine! She was mine, I tell you!"

I went numb with shock. I stammered for a second and finally said, "Jesus Fucking Christ, lady, easy with that gun..."

"Shut up!" she screamed, pointing the gun right at me. "Shut up, damnit!"

I just raised my hands and started thinking how to get the hell out of this mess.

"I told her I'd take care of her, I told her we could get an abortion, but she wanted the child. She wanted to move and start over. He was going to help her. I pleaded with her, but she wouldn't change her mind. That bitch was mine. I—I loved her."

Slowly, it dawned on my dumb ass that Samantha Wilson had been more than a maid to this dyke, and this dyke had probably been drinking since she put a bullet in the girl's head. And unless I did something fast, this dyke was now about to shoot me with the same gun she killed the Wilson dame.

"She begged me, tried to get me to understand. She got on her knees and begged me to let her go..."

Her eyes got that vacant look again, and I did one of the smartest things I ever did, followed by one of the dumbest.

I slapped one of the objects on the mantle (I think it was a brass pig) and launched it towards the aquarium. It slammed into the glass; the aquarium didn't shatter, but I could see and hear the tinkling of spider web-like cracks spread across the glass.

Laumer saw it, let loose a cry of despair and dropped the gun by her side.

I was home free. All I had to do was bolt out the room, run out the door and keep running. But yours truly decided—and for the life of me, I can't explain why—to jump through the bay window.

I don't know what I was thinking. I guess I assumed I would just blast through it, land on my feet on the veranda and keep going. What I failed to remember was this house was built like a fortress, and the window frames in the bay window were made of solid hickory and not cheap pine wood.

I slammed into the bay window and while it gave way some, I was still stuck inside the room. Full panic and adrenalin kicked in now, and I kept putting as much pressure I could against the window, using my legs like pistons. The window finally gave way in slow motion.

I slid out the window, and I could feel the sharp, clean sting of glass slicing through my suit into my arm and shoulder. I fell onto the veranda, got up and tripped over the porch swing and slammed my head against the porch railing.

Everything went sideways.

When I finally got my wits about me, I heard the guy across the street screaming to his wife to call the police. I looked up and there was Sarah Laumer standing at the shattered bay window, her face frozen and white, pointing that .32 right at my head.

My gut went cold. I could feel by balls tighten in fear. Then, slowly, she lowered the gun and her face became one of utter despair. A tear went down her left cheek. She turned and just walked away.

I laid there, stunned, for a second or two, then survival mode kicked in. I scrambled to my feet, ran off the porch and started to run towards my car. I saw the old man from across the street come out of his house carrying a double-barreled 12 gauge.

Old geezers and shotguns are a damn dangerous combination, so I ignored my car and just kept running like hell down the road. I was about three houses down the block when the local cops came screaming up, lights flashing, slamming to a stop when they saw me.

I didn't even try to reason with them; I fell to my knees, hands straight up. Complete and utter submission. Both cops in the car came out, revolvers drawn and screaming at me to kiss the pavement. I did. They were handcuffing me when the sharp crack of a pistol was heard coming from the Laumer house.

*****

They took me to the local hospital, put ten stitches to close the cut on my arm, bandaged it up, then took me to the police department and locked me in a windowless room. I told my story to the Police Chief, and he got up and left. I sat in there for a couple of hours and thought about what had happened. I 'd just figured it out when the door opened and in walked Everett Buchanan with the Chief.

The cop spoke. "Mr. Dafoe, you're free to go. We found blood stains in the late Mrs. Laumer's bedroom and in the backseat of her Lincoln. We also found a bloody blanket in her car trunk. You can pick up your things, including your sidearm, at the front desk. Leave an address and number where we can contact you if we need to."

I mumbled a "thanks" the Chief then stared at Buchanan a second. He just gave me a weary smile and said, "I'll take you to my office. We can settle there. I took the liberty and had your car parked there so you can go home as soon as we finish business."

We rode together in his car, neither one of us saying a word. He pulled into the parking lot, walked to his building and made his way to his private office. I followed him in and sat down into one of his office leather chairs.

Buchanan opened a cabinet door, pulled out some scotch and offered me a drink. I took it. He poured one for himself and settled in the chair next to mine.

I asked him point blank, "Why didn't you go to the police and tell them Sarah Laumer killed the Wilson girl. You knew it all along."

He just stared into his drink.

"You steered me perfectly. You made sure I noticed the jewelry piece; noted how expensive it was; made it a point that Samantha Wilson did a lot of work for Laumer. All just so I would go in and maybe push a button on the Laumer bitch to make her crack."

He looked up at me and just arched an eyebrow. He looked tired, and his eyes were jaundiced looking.

"Sarah Laumer told me before she killed herself that 'a man' sent me to see her. She said this man was going to help Samantha. She was talking about you. I think I know why. I just need to hear it from you."

He took a sip of his scotch, seemed to slump into the chair, looked up at the ceiling then asked me, "Are you an ambitious man, Mr. Dafoe?"

I was silent for a few seconds and decided to play it straight down the line.

"If you mean do I want to get rich, then the answer is yes."

He quietly laughed to himself and said, "I was the same way once. When Alice Wilson told me she was pregnant, I saw it all slipping away."

He looked at me for a moment, and I just sat there and waited him out. He looked back at his drink and continued.

"It was 1954. I was sole heir to the family fortune and determined to make my mark on the world. My wife and I had always maintained an uneasy co-existence after the first few years of our marriage. Divorce wasn't a real option back then. Alice was there, was pretty and, well, I was a man who took what he wanted. So I took Alice."

He took a sip of his scotch.

"When Alice came to me with the news she was pregnant, I demanded she get an abortion. Last thing I needed—or wanted, was a colored daughter. It would have ruined me. But Alice went to church and wasn't about to kill her baby. I screamed, I threatened. She got scared but held her ground. Finally, she agreed to let me send her away while she had the child. I made her swear on the life of her child, on the Bible, that she would never tell anyone I was the father. In turn, as long as she kept silent, every year she would get money to help her and the child out."

I said, "I take it Alice kept her end of the bargain."

I saw a look of pain on his face.

"She did, at least until she was dying. Before she passed, she told Samantha the truth. A week after she was buried, Samantha showed up at my door—no big deal, I've lived alone since my wife died eight years ago, we had no children..."

He seemed to drift off, then shook his head and continued talking.

"Anyway, Samantha told me she knew about me and her mother and demanded money for her silence. I took the easy way out just to keep the peace."

He stopped, lit a cigarette, took another sip of scotch.

"Three weeks ago, she came to me, told me she was pregnant and who the father was. I told her that I would make sure she and the child were well taken care of if she moved to another state. I wanted my grandchild to have a chance to grow up white."

He paused to gulp down the rest of his scotch. He put out his cigarette, took a deep breath.

"Last time I spoke to her, she said she was going to do as I asked, but first she had to say goodbye to Sarah Laumer. I asked her why and she told me Sarah was her closest friend—everyone in town knew Sarah leaned 'lavender', so I immediately understood the nature of the relationship. I told Samantha to call me when she was ready to leave—I was already making arrangements for her and the child to start a new life in Seattle. They found her body in a ditch two days later. I was furious. When I went to the station to volunteer to be Watkins' lawyer, I was just fishing to see if he was guilty. I knew he wasn't the killer after talking to him for fifteen minutes. That's when I went to see Sarah. She was drunk when she opened the door. She looked at me, and I saw the guilt in her eyes. She slammed the door shut. That's when I sent for you."

"You bastard," I hissed. "You could have gotten me killed."

"Oh, I doubt it Mr. Dafoe. Over the years, I've come to the conclusion that people generally kill over one of three reasons. They kill because they are greedy, because they hate, or because they love too hard. Money wasn't an issue and Sarah Laumer neither hated nor loved you. I knew in my gut, she wouldn't kill a stranger. Me, maybe, but never you. Deep down, Sarah Laumer was a decent person who let her...her love for my daughter overwhelm her."

He looked at me for few seconds then pulled an envelope from his inner suit pocket.

"This will make it more than worth your while and assure your silence." He handed me the envelope.

I took it and pulled out the check and read how much it was made out for.

I shook my head and softly laughed, "Yeah. You read me right. That's for sure. Deal."

I put the envelope in my pocket.

"You're the only man who knows about this, so tell me, do you think God will forgive me?"

The question startled me. I wasn't expecting it.

I looked at him sharply. I peered into his weary, yellowish eyes and realized why they didn't match the rest of him.

"You're dying."

He nodded. "Got the news five weeks ago. That's why I was so upset over Samantha's death. I felt God had given me a chance to make things right before I go, only to have it stolen from me."

He stared at me—as if I could bestow absolution. I couldn't offer him anything. I just got up and left.

I read his obituary in the paper four months later. He left no survivors.

The End

If you enjoyed this, you will love my novel.

Scrambled Hard-Boiled

<http://www.amazon.com/dp/B006QCMG30>

#  Caveman

I woke up with my skin exploding.

I shot up out of my bed and as soon as my feet hit the floor, the burning itch ceased.

The alarm had already switched back to a simple audio beep instead of telling my in-link to spam my skin nerves. Thinking the time, I realized I had overslept fifteen minutes. No wonder my implants zapped me.

Too much vodka last night. Stumbling to the bathroom to take a piss, I tasted my tongue and got nauseous from its rough texture. Leaning over the sink and slapping out a shot of water into a paper cup, I drank it and did it again...and again.

Too much, too fast. I leaned over the crapper and gave it all back to the moon.

Shaking from the effort, with my throat aflame with stomach bile, I got some more water and drank it...this time slowly.

My head throbbed. Thrusting my hand into the med-slot next to the sink, I felt the prick of the needles on my palm, rapidly followed by the cool spray of heal-skin over the area where my blood had been sampled. The light went green above the slot, and I took out my hand. A few seconds later, a fix-it pad was spat out. I slapped it on my thigh and looked at myself in the mirror.

It wasn't pretty.

Bloodshot eyes with bags, pasty skin, thinning mousy brown hair, cut short. A few centimeters shy of two meters in height and a body that had been missing regular workouts lately. Going soft.

Like I said, it wasn't pretty, but it was pretty much normal.

I got in the shower cube, spread-eagled and thought it on. The cleanjuice hit me and as soon as it started it was over, and I was blown-dry.

After slipping on my coveralls, I went into my kitchen nook, heated up a cup of tea and grabbed a food bar. In five minutes, I was done, and it was time to go to work.

By the door hung my gun and holster. I strapped it on and started to open the door, but paused.

The fix-it pad had helped me feel human, but something still wasn't right. I looked over at my kitchen nook, gave in and went over and opened a drawer, took out the vodka container, flipped open the top and took a couple of swigs.

Man had been abusing alcohol since the dawn of time, and he still hadn't found a cure for a hangover. Time was the only remedy and the best you could do was to put it off until you had the time to deal with the uncomfortable healing process. Hair of the dog.

That's what I told myself...for about the fourth day in a row.

I took the tube to work. Inside the cramped car was a mixture of all types. Some were obvious techies, miners, electricians and the like. A few were junior engineers or lower management, while the rest were non-descript worker bees. A smattering of kids was thrown in for good measure. All—men, women and children—wore coveralls. Most of the adults wore blue, green or regolith gray. Some of the kids had some stripes or colors woven into their jumpers.

As the tube sped on, I hung onto a strap and just looked at my feet. Some of the kids were openly staring at my gun hanging underneath my armpit; others noticed the neon orange stripes that were on my sleeves. All left me alone.

Caveman.

The tube came to my stop, and I got out, went up the escalator and exited the station into Company Square.

The Vegas sky had already taken on a bright blue, giving the illusion (or so we've been told) of a sunny day on Earth. A large pillar shot up from the center of the square, and pedestrians were walking or rolling to and fro. Buildings, reaching up near the roof of the cave, encircled the pillar.

I walked into the one that had Lunar Mines chiseled above the entrance, took the lift up to the eighth floor and went into the office marked Cavern Security. I had only taken a few steps into the room when a voice called out to me.

"Andropov! You're late."

I looked over at the source of the voice, Captain Ling.

"Shut up, Harvey. This isn't my best morning, Ok?"

He gave me the once over with eyes and shrugged his shoulders. He was my boss, but also a friend. I had known him for years. He was already a Sergeant when I joined the Cavemen.

Cavemen...Cavern Security.

When the first lunar colonies finally were established in the late 21st Century, it soon became apparent that domes on the surface weren't viable. While cheap, domes were too damn fragile. The famous collapse of 2098 was triggered by a small cluster of micrometeorites that riddled one of the main European Union's colonies. Two-thirds of settlement (over a thousand people) perished before integrity was re-established.

The Yanks didn't wait for this to happen to them and took action. They moved their colony underground. The Europeans and the Chinese quickly followed suit.

Then, as industry expanded, so did the tunneling. Mindful of the necessity to enforce safety standards in order not to suffer another catastrophic blowout like in '98, all three major lunar powers started up their own tunnel inspection teams.

After the Plague War of 2319, most of humanity was wiped out on Earth. It took the ruthless isolation and extermination of any infected (or possibly exposed) settlers to enable the three colonies able to avoid Earth's fate.

It's been two hundred years since the war, and we are still waiting for the cure to the bio-plagues on Earth. Management says they're working on it. I personally don't give a damn—but in all honesty—I feel that way about most things.

Humbled by the travesty that occurred on the mother world, the three colonies put aside most differences and administratively united in 2322. The three tunnel inspection teams merged, and Cavern Security was born. With a couple of years, it had evolved into the general public security system, and Cavern Security was now the de-facto police, for better or worse. The Americans started calling members of Cavern Security "Cavemen", and the name stuck.

I'd joined the team at nineteen. I wasn't all that hot academically, certainly not engineer material, much less management or scientist. It was going to be worker bee status for me. I had an ego back then, and couldn't bear being a face in the crowd. Being young, strong and mean, I applied for and was accepted as an apprentice Caveman. My family was ashamed of me, my friends (the few I had, anyway) deserted me, but I didn't care and within a year I had earned my first stripe, was wired with implants and armed.

I never looked back. That had been seventeen years ago.

******

I stopped by the water dispenser, swiped my pass card, got a packet of water and then made my way to my desk. I sat in my chair and shut my eyes and logged into my mail. Scanning and sorting to memory the messages, I was grateful most were just general announcements and requiring no effort on my part. I was looking forward to an easy morning, for time to clear my head, when Ling messaged me to come into his office. With a groan, I got up walked into his cube.

Harvey eyed me for a second then got to business. That's what I liked about Harvey; he kept his nose out of your off-hours life.

"Ben, we've got a body in a flat in the Idaho Cave complex. Residential Unit Charlie, flat 1598. Female. You're next on the roster. Two foots are keeping the scene intact till you get there. Go clean it up."

I just nodded, spun around on my heel and left. By the time I got to the lift, I had already linked into Comms, got a case frequency and contacted dispatch to tell the two rookies guarding the crime scene what it was and to join me on it. I also confirmed that lab services were en-route the crime scene.

I left the building and commandeered a cab and told the driver where to go. He didn't like losing work time to cart me around, but he had no choice in the matter. Within ten minutes of me getting in the cab, the two patrolmen on guard at the flat had checked in and had given me a quick rundown. I wrote the info to memory.

The victim was female, age twenty-two. Name: Jean McSwain. Status: Worker. Currently, on the dole. The building manager had found the body in her flat.

I arrived shortly at the residential unit and went in. Exiting out of the lift at the fifteenth floor, the smell hit me. Sweet, rotten. This must have been what tipped the building manager to go in the apartment. The two patrolmen were in front of the dead girl's apartment. Their names were Chang and Wurst.

"Lab team here yet?"

"No, sir," snapped Chang.

"Ok, I'll go on in and look, send in the lab squad when they get here." I didn't wait for a reply, but palmed open the door and went in the flat.

She had been dead quite a few days. She lay crumpled, face up on the floor. Her belly was bloated with the gas of her guts rotting, and her face was mottled and swollen. She was wearing only a robe that mercifully covered most of her body. A brownish, tarry substance leaked out from underneath her. The bladder and bowels had let loose when death came.

The smell must have been terrible, but I had blocked my olfactory nerves just before I opened the door.

A rookie I'm not.

I began to toss the room. Typical single worker flat. Windowless, small room with sanitary cube and food nook in the rear. Folding bed/table/drawers by the wall. A couple of chairs and government issued info center. She had some items on a few shelves; pictures of her with what appears to be friends and family, entertainment cubes and other mundane stuff.

I started to go through her drawers. Underwear, overalls, hygiene supplies. I found a debit card and put it aside for later investigation. Near the bottom of one drawer, I pushed aside some t-shirts and found three joy holes.

Joy holes. Vaginal sheaths. Thin, polymer skins that have millions of nanocircuits coated on it. Women can insert them and become instant courtesans, able to send spasms of pleasure to their lover and themselves. Most couples have them (even if they don't admit it).

I examined one of the sheaths for a few minutes. Just as I suspected. It was a one-way street, only the male side was coated for play. The female side was dead-zoned. Any woman who used this would feel nothing but pressure from the act itself. That made our victim a pro, a hooker.

I took the debit card to the info center and gave it a scan. Over 2000 credits. Way too much for an unemployed worker to have lying around. Yeah, she was a working girl all right. Management frowned on freelancers, but it wasn't a high priority for us. Sooner or later Management would have stepped in and taken their cut of her funds.

The door to the apartment slid open, Wurst stuck his head in.

"Sergeant, the lab team is here, do you want them to come in yet?"

I nodded and a few seconds later the lab rats entered the room. I recognized the lead lad tech, Doris Pascal, a frumpy blond who was already well past her authorized breeding years.

"I wanna know what killed her and a complete DNA sweep—start with the body and work your way around the room. She was a hooker, and I want to ID her customers. There are a few joy holes in her drawer—swab those closely."

Doris gave me a quick nod and went to work.

I stepped out into the passageway and told Chang and Wurst to keep the curious away and to bag, tag and seal the room after the lab team was done. I made my way back to the office.

While awaiting the lab results, I sat at my desk and accessed Central Data and looked into the life of the late Jean McSwain. There wasn't much. Born: 2504, Beijing Cavern Hospital. A result of an in-vitro match by the Eugenics Board. Father: Richard Woo, lab tech third class, Mother: Brenda McSwain, tube sanitation worker. Never met her dad. Mother died two years ago—suicide. Jean made it through tenth level academics, where she placed in the lower thirty-percentile—worker bee all the way. First and only job was as a food prep tech for Idaho Caverns administration and according to Central Data records, wasn't too good at it. Was relieved of duties two years ago and went on the dole. No arrest record. She hadn't applied to do her mandatory breeding, but she was young and had until she was thirty-five.

From the way she was living her life, about her only positive contribution to society would've been her genes. Now even that was lost.

I sat around the office for a while; sorted through a few more files and messages and then went to the cafeteria for a bite. Halfway through lunch, a notification alert came into my comm link and said the lab results were ready. I wolfed down the rest of a food wedge and went back to my desk to access Central Data.

She had been dead a little over eight days. Cause of death was a single puncture through the heart by a slender, stiletto type object. Entry was from front to back, clean and sharp.

No surprise there. Almost all murderers use knives, blunt objects or fists. The occasional poison crops up every now and then. With the draconian penalties on possession of firearms by non-security personnel, most killings are done with whatever's handy. This one was just neater than usual.

DNA results gave us ten names, nine male and one female. The female was a neighbor. I linked into Wurst to see if he was still on the scene. He was. I told him about the neighbor and told him to bring her in for examination and let me know the results. That left nine guys to bring in and examine.

I flashed up the nine names and breathed a sigh of relief when I confirmed none were engineers or higher. Fewer hassles that way. Should be able to go out and just grab'em, drag'em and plug'em into the machine and figure out if any of them was the guilty party. There was a chance none of them was our man, but I doubted it. This one had "John" written all over it.

I got up and walked into the Captain's cube. He was inside there, sitting behind his desk with his eyes closed. I could tell by his jaw twitching that he was sorting through some admin stuff, so I just sat in the extra chair and waited for him to finish. After a minute or two he opened his eyes and looked at me.

"Well?"

"I got the initial results from the Lab on the dead broad at Idaho. Looks like she was a hooker. Stabbed to death. Lab says we got DNA from ten citizens in the room, one female who was a neighbor and nine males. All workers or low level techs."

I saw the look of relief cross Ling's brow with the mention of that last fact.

"Let me guess, you want some bodies to help you go out and escort the citizens in for examination, right?"

"Yeah. The two foots who secured the scene are bringing in the woman neighbor for exam, but I wouldn't hold my breath for it to be her. I'm banking on one of her customers or a boyfriend. We'll know more when we get'em in. It should be fairly cut and dried."

Ling shrugged and shut his eyes. I waited. After a few moments, he opened them and said, "Espinoza is yours for two days, that should be enough."

"How about also letting me keep the two rookies from the scene. It'd be good for them."

"You're getting to be a lazy bastard, Ben"

Harvey shut his eyes again, this time for a shorter period. He looked at me when he was done.

"Sorry, Patrol says no. Luke Espinoza is it."

I sighed in resignation, got up and left.

By the time I had reached my cube, Espinoza had already linked in and said that he'd be free in about an hour. I gave him the case comm freq and permission to view the case file. I took four of the names and gave him the other five. First one to score a winner had to buy the other a beer.

With the ground rules established I scanned down my four names and picked the one that lived and worked closest to the office. No need to exert myself, and maybe I'd get lucky the first time.

The citizen's name was Amos Mallory, a maintenance mechanic for the Idaho Cavern's Infrastructure Bureau. I made my way to his guild's hub office and was disappointed to find out from the duty section foreman that Mallory had gone off-shift a little less than an hour before.

"Does he usually go straight home after work?"

The foreman, a short, small man with a mane of wild frizzy hair, shook his head.

"Nah...he and his wife split up years ago. He lives alone. I'd bet he stopped off for a few before he drifts back to his flat."

"Does he have a favorite pub?"

"Lot of us hang out at the Marlybone near the Oxford tube stop a few blocks down. You might try there."

I thanked him and left.

You can find pubs and bars dotted across the Cavern landscapes, especially near transit stop points, so they can catch your average worker bee coming from (and often going to) his daily grind. The Marlybone was typical of the breed. There was the flat, glowing sign above the double-panel doors that opened into a simple room with a bar against the far wall. Cheap chairs and tables of compressed dirt and polymers were arranged haphazardly in the space. Music droned in from a speaker behind the bar. Old Earth jazz mixed well with cheap beer and liquor.

A large window light was attached to the far right wall. The window was currently showing a tropical island sunset, waves gently lapping at a sandy shore, gold-red light suffusing the bar.

A view of a world lost.

The window itself was a bit worse for wear, its corners worn and curling up and a large gash in the upper-right quadrant exposing the gray wall behind it. I figured that after a few belts, the mind would ignore the flaws.

The customers quit talking when I entered. My orange stripes and handgun announced to all what I was. I slowly made my way to the bar, looked around a second or two, then asked for a large shot of gin. The bartender gave it to me and didn't even ask for my debit card. He knew better.

I slowly drank my gin, savoring the taste of cheap pine on my tongue. I sat my glass down and turned to face the citizens in the bar.

"I want to talk to Mechanic Third Class Amos Mallory. Citizen number 098-967-U1003."

He was sitting near the window. I had already recognized him from the picture in his file that I'd scanned into memory at the office. I had him nailed within seconds of opening the door to come in. But I wanted that drink first.

He knew his place. He slowly stood up and raised his hand.

"Right here, officer."

"Alright citizen, come with me. We need to have a talk about Jean McSwain."

A look that was part embarrassment and confusion crossed his face for a moment, but he just shrugged his shoulders and grabbed his coat from the chair. I stood up from the bar and started to walk towards the door, when someone spoke.

"Goddamn bastard Caveman."

I spun towards the voice. A group of four people, three men and an old woman were sitting at a table.

I don't know if it was the gin or my hangover, but I was in no mood for crap, so I decided to play my expected part.

"Next asshole who says a word to me is going to regret it."

I figured that was enough to shut everyone up...it usually is. However, this time I was wrong.

"Fuck you." It was the old broad talking.

She was thin with skin like yellow, wrinkled leather. Her hair was pulled back into a gray bun. Her coveralls were stained and greasy, and I could tell from her eyes she was deep in her cups.

"Fuck you, Caveman. You sold your kind out for implants and nice apartment. Screw you."

Everyone in the room was stunned. No one talked to security like that and got away with it. She'd called my bluff and left me no options.

I pulled out my gun and shot the old bitch in the throat.

I had no choice, really.

She was out before she hit the ground. The class-D neurotoxin in the darts they issue us takes less than a second to stun a full-grown man, so she never had a chance.

I immediately linked out and summoned an emergency response squad, just in case any others decided to follow the old woman's lead, but they just sat there like good little sheep until the foot patrol and emergency squad arrived. I told the squad sergeant to gather up the woman and put her in the emergency van. I then grabbed Mallory by the arm and hustled him outside. By now, a crowd was gathering outside the pub to see the show. I motioned to a patrolman standing nearby, and he snapped to.

"Take Citizen Mallory back to Company Square and throw him in holding until I get things cleaned up here and get back in the office."

I shoved Mallory towards the officer and turned back and walk back to the front door of the bar. I was met by the squad sergeant exiting the pub.

"Take that old dame to med-hold" I snapped, "And when she comes to, fine her a 100 credits and tell she's lucky she ain't spending a year in detention."

"No need, Sergeant, she's gone."

"Gone? What the hell you mean gone?"

"Looks like she had a bad ticker or something. Neurotoxin killed her. It happens to the old ones sometime. Want an autopsy or do we just send her to the morgue for recycling?"

I stared at him for a second, taking in what he said.

Gone. Dead.

"Sergeant, you Ok?"

I shook my head and muttered, "Fine, fine...cycle her. I got more important things to do."

I turned and stalked off.

Security had made a pact with management a long time ago. We do what management tells us, but management doesn't care how we do it. While "Human Resources" branch of Cavern Security who monitors "political issues" inflicts most of the casualties, we in the "Civil Branch" of Cavern Security have our accidents too. It happens. But no questions are asked, and no investigations are made when it goes down. In turn, management gets what it wants. It's a system that's kept the peace for almost 200 years with very few complaints...from management at least.

I linked into headquarters and gave the examination team a heads-up on Mallory. I told them to scan him and forward Espinoza and me the results. If they were negative, they were to let him go.

Mallory would either be home or have a date with the recycle bins by midnight.

It was getting late and I really didn't feel like working anymore, so I signaled to Ling that I was calling it a day and went home. Five drinks later I was asleep.

******

I got up the next morning, feeling ragged and edgy. As I made my way out of my apartment, a quick link into HQ told me that Mallory had been let go a few hours ago. He was clean. I contacted Espinoza and found out he had already cleared two of his suspects and was out gathering up the third.

I reviewed the last three suspects on my list and decided to go after a farmhand assigned to the Normandy Agricultural Caverns. The other two suspects were located in nearer caverns, but I really didn't feel like dealing with people right then and a nice, monotonous tram trip where citizens would leave me alone appealed to me.

Like most of the agricultural caverns on the moon, Normandy Caverns were located at the end of a tube line. Personnel traffic was minimal and produce was shipped on a separate line that supported only containerized cargo.

I accessed the tube schedule and saw that the next run to Normandy was in twenty minutes. There wouldn't be any more after that for another two hours. I made my way to the tube station and waited for the tram to arrive. It was on time and I boarded it, found a seat and settled in for the two-hour trip.

As always, people kept their distance from me. I sat back, shut my eyes and told my 'plant to beep me when Normandy Caverns was a five minutes away. Then I concentrated on the hum of the tram as it moved, punctuated by the squeal of braking and swoosh of acceleration after the various stops along the line. It felt good, it felt calm...I just wished I had a drink to go with it.

Eventually, my implant told me I was near Normandy, and I opened my eyes and looked around me. The tram coach was almost empty. A young couple in the rear and myself were the only occupants. I got off at the stop and made my way topside to the main Cavern.

There was no sky, only suspended lights. You could see the rough-hewn cavern ceiling between the lights. I made my way to the admin building to talk to the on-duty cavern security supervisor.

The supervisor was older than me and obviously nervous that a Cavern Security Sergeant had come to his quiet little empire to root out a possible murderer. I didn't do anything to put him at ease...not my style. The farmhand I was searching for was named Kyle Schmidt, citizen number 932-198-Z1029. A quick status check told us that Schmidt was currently on duty at the pig caves. The supervisor asked me if I wanted him brought in, but I waved off the request. I figured I'd go to the pig cave and pick him up myself. It had been years since I had seen a live creature other than people or the occasional roach.

Animals are a rarity on the moon. Only the most elite had pets, and they never go out in public with them. There are a few public Zoos, but they're always crowded, and I hate going to them. All animals are clones from genetic banks of animals kept by management. Most of the higher-order mammals died alongside humanity in the plague war, but luckily, the Americans managed to create a genetic bank of a large cross-section of animals and send it to the Moon prior to the collapse. Management says that when man returns to Earth, so will all the rest of the mammals but w one notable exception—the pig. Or at least what passes for a pig on the Moon.

Prior to the war, the colonies had managed to become self-sufficient in farming except for meat products, which were shipped in from earth. With the collapse of the planet, that source of protein went away. While soy products were sufficient to keep folks alive and healthy, it didn't cut it with the general populace. In the only mass demonstration in Lunar history, (led, oddly enough, by the usually docile Chinese), the people rose up and demanded their god-given right to eat fleshy, fat-filled meat. Management responded and within ten months, the Lunar Pig was created.

The Pig is a masterpiece of genetic engineering. Neutered clones, the beast is a deaf, blind, legless, nearly brainless flesh producing monstrosity that weighs one kilo when decanted and then manages to pack on an additional 750 kilos by the time it is slaughtered six months later.

Once it's taken from the decanting tank, the beast is placed in its own regolith-polymer cubicle. Equipped with a flexible snout and a genetically induced insatiable hunger, it immediately begins to shovel in its mouth the moist bio-garbage pellets from the trough before it. The only other orifice it has is an elongated, tube-like rectum that extends from its ass. The rectum is sutured (by hand!) to a plastic tube that sends the waste to the recycle vats, along with all the other bio-waste that the moon produces. It lives its life out in that cube, eating, crapping and growing. A lot like your average worker bee, except tastier.

******

I made my way to the pig cave. It was long, bathed in twilight and cool. A low rumble of grunts and snorts provided background noise. About twenty rows of cubicles, triple stacked, lay before me. I couldn't make out the end of the rows. The light was too poor. I accessed my implants and found out the cave held approximately 10,000 pigs at any one time. The smell...well I guess it's farming smell. Not bad, but different from the city.

The complex foreman rushed out of his office to greet me. I saw the look of dread and worry on his face when he realized who I was. He was a big, heavyset guy, with gunmetal gray hair cropped close to his head.

"Yes sir? I'm Farmtech First Class Harrison. I'm currently responsible for the complex here. How can I assist?"

He was twitchy and eager to help. Most techs always are. They're just a demotion or two away from worker bee status and know it.

"Harrison, I'm Detective Sergeant Ben Andropov, Cavern Security. I'm looking for Farmhand Kyle Schmidt. I need to escort him to HQ for questioning. If everything checks out, he should be back at work tomorrow. Where is he?"

Harrison pulled out his pad and tapped in a few times.

"He's working Row C, Section three. The pigs there are ready to harvest, and he's been tasked to detach the waste tubes. You want me to call him in?"

I shook my head. "No. Not necessary. I'll go get him. Just point me in the right direction."

I could have had Schmidt report to me, but damn it, I wanted to see the animals.

I looked at the foreman and saw he was getting nervous.

"Is there a problem?" I asked.

"No! No...no...but sometimes the occasional pig can start thrashing around. Not a big deal, as long as it stays in its cube. But if it doesn't...well you might get hurt. Also, it can upset the other pigs, and then we have a bit of a mess on our hands. We try to keep things calm around here. They ain't smart, but they can tell if something is wrong. We figure it's the vibrations or something."

"I'll try not to disturb the little beasties."

"Yes sir, I'm sure you won't, but—" he reached into a side pocket on his coveralls and pulled out a black stick about half a meter long and offered it to me.

"I'd feel better if you carried this, it's a tranquilizer wand. Everyone who works here carries one. If a pig begins to act up it can spread like wildfire and cause a lot of damage. We use the wand as a last resort. Press this end against him and then flip the safety cap and push the red button on the other end. CO2 activated. It'll flood the pig with Class A neurotoxin and kills it. It makes the pig useless for eating, but it's better to waste one than to have a major incident. Here, take it...I just charged mine with a full dose."

I warily looked at the stick. Class A neurotoxin was strong stuff and a drop was enough to kill ten men. I patted my gun.

"No thanks, I'll stick to the devil I know. Anyway, I'm hunting man, not pig. This won't take long. Now where is Row C?"

He shrugged, put the stick back in his pocket and pointed to a nearby row.

"There, Row C is to your left. Schmidt should be less than a half a klick down that way." I thanked him and took off down the row.

As I strolled down the row to get Schmidt, I looked at the pigs. They were triple stacked on either side of the ten-meter wide walkway. To my right, the pigs were facing me; their eyeless, small skulls with too large, mobile snouts constantly reaching in and shoveling in food from the trough just below their nose. To my left, massive rounded haunches that quickly tapered to fleshy, pink tubes about two centimeters in diameter. Plastic tubes ran up from the drainage tanks below. You could see the black stitches that joined them. Both tubes, flesh and plastic, were slowly quivering as the creatures' waste was expelled from their bodies.

I was surrounded by mountains of twitching, snorting flesh, and I was wishing I had just told the foreman to send Schmidt to me instead of going to get him myself.

After a few minutes walking, I noticed that the pigs to my left had the plastic tube disconnected. I swallowed and gave it a closer inspection. It looked like the plastic tube had been cut and melted shut a centimeter short of where the pig's flesh ended. I assumed they had quit feeding the animal before they did this, because from what I had just seen, it wouldn't take long for the pig to explode if they hadn't.

I guessed was getting near Schmidt.

Sure enough, soon I could make out in the hazy twilight of the cave, a hundred meters or so down, the figure of a man working on the rear end of a pig.

I'm sure management could have automated this process, but it was a conscious decision on their part to keep as many tasks manpower intensive as possible in order to give the masses something to do. When the mission of a society is to develop and expand the gene pool as much as possible in anticipation of the eventual resettling of the home world, too much automation leads to a bored and dangerously restive populace. Hence, the street sweepers, cab drivers or food prep techs. Anything to make idle hands useful, including connecting and disconnecting the rectums of pigs from sewer lines.

And my family wondered why I opted to be a Caveman.

I was about ten meters away from Schmidt when he noticed me. He saw the stripes. He saw the gun. He knew what I was immediately. I looked him over. I had his record in memory. A twenty-one year old single farmhand. He was ten centimeters shorter than me and rail thin. His hair was black and short.

I did the formalities.

"Are you Kyle Schmidt, citizen number 932-198-Z1029?", I asked, knowing damn well that he was.

He stared at my shoulder holster.

"I'll ask again, are you Kyle Schmidt?"

He jerked up his eyes to meet mine. He was sweating.

"Yeah. I'm Kyle Schmidt."

"You need to come with me. We have some questions we want to ask you about Jean McSwain. I believe you know her?"

He gulped once and nodded his head.

"Can I finish these last two hogs? That's all I got left of this batch. It will only take a minute."

I shrugged my shoulders and said it was alright. I felt sort of sorry for the poor dumb bastard.

A mistake on my part.

The kid went up the pig on the lower berth. He was holding a tool in his right hand. It looked like a pair of pliers. He reached for the pig's waste tube grabbed it and then clamped down on the plastic tube just below where the pig was connected. I heard a sizzle, saw a wisp of smoke and the punk let go of the tube. The plastic tube was melted in two, with only a small section still attached to the pig.

I was wondering how it was done. The pliers must have a power-pack that cut and melted the plastic tubes.

I was filing away that bit of useless information when Schmidt reached up to disconnect the beast in the upper berth. I idly noticed his hands were shaking as he reached up to clamp off the tube.

I heard a sizzle and immediately that great beast let loose a god-awful screech of agony. Schmidt had accidentally clamped and burned the pig, not the plastic.

He and I were stunned as that huge hog began to writhe and thrash about, sending great booming shocks and vibrations along the floor. Immediately, the other pigs sensed something was wrong. I was instantly aware of the increased movement and twitching of the pink walls of flesh around me. We were going to have a goddamn porcine riot, and if they got loose, there was a damn good chance I'd get crushed. I pulled my gun and turned to shoot the injured pig.

The farmhand was way ahead of me. He pulled his black tranquilizer wand out and in one motion had jammed it up against the wounded pig. I heard a muffled "pop" as the CO2 cartridge let go.

The pig immediately slammed down into his cube. The great body quivered a few milliseconds and then was still. Schmidt and I just sat there a half a minute or so, as the other beasts slowly began to calm down. My heart was pounding.

Schmidt looked up at me and then back at the now dead animal. His right hand still was holding on to the wand. He gripped it and slowly pulled it away from the pig. As he pulled it out, I saw how the wand worked. A long, slender needle-like steel tube had been ejected from the stick, the yellow fluid of neurotoxin still dripping from its end. The CO2 charge obviously slammed the needle into the massive muscle of the pig and then forced a liberal amount of neurotoxin into the animal. Simple and efficient.

And as I looked at the almost ten centimeter long needle, I realized I knew what had killed Jean McSwain.

I looked at Schmidt. He knew it was all over. His eyes said it all. The hurt, the anger and finally, the fact that he wasn't going down without a fight.

I don't know what he saw in my eyes.

Probably not much.

I had the gun already in my hand and began to swing it up to shoot. It shouldn't have been a fair fight. I had the reflex enhancing implants and the gun...but I guess the booze takes its toll.

Before I could get my gun into play, Schmidt stabbed at me with the stick. Instinctively, I used my hand to ward off the blow, and the needle went completely through my left palm.

Immediately, my implants went into emergency mode. As I began spraying darts from my gun in the general direction of the kid, my left bicep, in a desperate attempt to stop the flow of deadly neurotoxin, cramped so hard into a tourniquet that I heard my arm break. As I felt my mind detach from my body, I was aware my 'plants were screaming on all frequencies that an officer was down and my location. As I fell to the ground, my body convulsed a couple of times as my implants fought to keep my heart beating. My last thought right before I shut down was that for first time in a while, I didn't feel like I needed a drink.

******

When I came to, I was in a hospital bed located on a shaded porch, overlooking the Grand Canyon at sunrise. The 3-D view was gorgeous, and I felt good.

I looked at hands and arms. My skin was clear, soft and slightly tanned. I breathed deep. My nose tingled as I smelled the lightly scented air. My energy level was up, and as I moved around, I felt loose and limber. Finally, it dawned on me that I had spent some time in the Re-Generative tanks.

I checked in with my implants to see how long I had been out. Over two months had elapsed since I had my run-in with Schmidt. I was also surprised to find out I had a whole new set of the latest implants wired into me.

I signaled the staff. A few seconds later, a doctor and nurse came in and began to look me over.

"You're a lucky man Mr. Andropov," the doc said to me after checking me out. "Most men die after a run-in with Class A toxin. You almost did, but the medics got to you in time."

All I wanted was to get out, and I told the doc so.

"Patience officer, we just woke you up out of your healing coma, and we have a few more tests to run now that you're up. You should be home in a day or two, Ok?"

No arguing with the medics and after they finished running a few more tests and getting a sample of blood, they left me alone. About an hour later, Harvey Ling came in to visit.

We chatted a few minutes on nothing, in particular. Finally, I asked about Schmidt.

"Oldest story in the book, as you probably realize, Ben. Boy meets Hooker; Boy falls in love with Hooker; Hooker's laughs at Boy and Boy gets even. Schmidt told us about how he used the empty tranquilizer wand on the girl. A quick, clean nasty piece of work."

"Yeah, I had just figured that out when he nailed me."

"Lucky for you, you got him just as he was getting you. Local security and the medics found you both unconscious at the scene—you were in bad shape, Ben. We almost lost you."

"I take it the kid—"

"Was 'cycled within five hours of the incident. You're wearing his liver and kidneys."

I sort of sat there and took it in. Harvey went on.

"The Re-Gen tanks can do a lot, but the toxin had all but destroyed your liver and kidneys—and by the way, your liver wasn't in too good a shape anyway—so the docs used the first set handy. SOP."

"And what about the upgraded implants? A reward for almost letting a young punk kill me?"

Harvey chuckled and shook his head.

"Nope. I might as well tell you. Human Resources liked the way you handled that scene at the bar. That's the kind of ballsy crap they look for in an operative. You've been promoted, and that means after you get out of here and have a couple of weeks leave, you report to Berlin Cave Complex Security, Human Resources. Lucky they had their eye on you. Not everyone gets to be rebuilt in the Re-Gen tanks, only those management really want to keep around—" he saw the look in my eyes, "Ben, relax and accept it—better than being killed on a pig farm—right?"

He patted my arm, got up and left the room. I turned to look at the Grand Canyon in all its glory. I turned it off and stared at the blank walls.

I wanted a drink.

The End

If you enjoyed this, you will love my novel.

Scrambled Hard-Boiled

<http://www.amazon.com/dp/B006QCMG30>

