

### Scrambled Hard-Boiled

### By E. R. White, Jr.

_This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional and any resemblance to real people or incidents are purely coincidental_

_Copyright © 2011 by E. R. White, Jr._   
_All rights reserved worldwide._   
Smashwords Edition

For Gina, Emmett and Henry

## Chapter 1

I owe my current success to a combination of blackmail, murder and buggery, not necessarily in that order.

It was September of 1975, and I'd been out of the Navy for about six months. I hadn't been much of a success in the military...hell let's be honest. I'd been a goddamn disaster and was lucky to have gotten out without a court-martial for conduct unbecoming of an officer, endangering a vessel and a couple of other offenses—which, I assure you, was only the tip of the iceberg. After my somewhat hasty resignation of my Lieutenant's commission, I found myself with about 300 bucks in my wallet, a BA in History from Western Carolina College, and absolutely no marketable skills whatsoever.

I had wound up in Eagentown, a small town about an hour's drive from Charlotte, North Carolina, where my Uncle Lester and Aunt Sarah let me stay in a spare bedroom. I briefly considered becoming a high school history teacher, but even at the then tender young age of twenty-seven, I knew enough about human nature—mine especially—to realize that parents would object to their sixteen-year-old daughters banging their World History teacher, even if he was a distinguished veteran, albeit an amoral bastard, like myself.

The local economy was going to hell in a hand basket back then, but Uncle Lester made a few calls and got me a part-time job at the "Budge's" drive-through package store, so I could make a few bucks to live on until I sorted things out. It was a minimum wage only job, but the beer was free, and I managed to get laid a few times after work by some of the women I'd sold booze to.

The owner of the store, Wayne Budge, was a WWII vet who always wore khaki pants, black loafers and a white cotton t-shirt that stretched tightly over his ponderous beer belly. Occasionally, the front of the shirt would slip out of his pants, and the world would be treated to the sight of Budge's navel, an unimaginably deep crater that was covered with dank, sweaty, matted hair and, I swear to God, had some blue fungus growing out of it.

I knew if I stayed in town, that someday my navel would look like that.

I started reading regularly the help-wanted ads that were posted in the newspapers, but most were for either unskilled labor or sales. I figured I already had both those areas mastered working at Budge's, so I looked for something different. After a month or so of sporadic hunting through the want ads at night, my salvation came in the form of an ad seeking a "Detective Apprentice" from Twillfigger Investigations, Inc. I can remember the words almost verbatim to this day.

"WANTED: Detective Apprentice: Individual with sharp analytical mind, willing to master the exciting field of private investigations. Military experience a plus. Contact Twillfigger Investigations, Inc, Rm 309, Tyron Building, 1309 East Jackson Ave, Charlotte. No longhairs need apply."

I got a close-cropped haircut, bought a fifteen dollar suit from the local thrift shop and took off to Charlotte in Uncle Leroy's '71 Maverick the next day.

I had no idea where East Jackson Avenue was, so I stopped at a filling station on the northern outskirts of Charlotte for directions. Soon afterwards, I located the Tyron Building downtown, parked the Maverick and walked through the revolving doors into the lobby. It was around one o'clock on a September Monday afternoon.

The Tyron Building was a four-story, brick structure that had been built in the fifties and was beginning to show its age. The lobby was painted an institutional green, and the floors were composed of worn but clean, speckled gray-white tile. You could see the occasional ripple and crack in the floor, a testament to its age and use. There was a gray, metal desk to my left that I supposed acted as a reception area in better days. No one was manning it.

It was still warm in early September, and the air was muggy and stale. There was no air conditioning in the lobby. A large ceiling fan about twenty feet above me tried to make a difference in the temperature, but was failing miserably. A stairwell entry lay directly ahead of me and there was an elevator to my right.

Posted next to the elevator was a listing of office occupants on the various floors. Among denizens of this building were two chiropractors, a dentist, an insurance salesman, a smattering of lawyers and my destination, Twillfigger Investigations, Inc, located on the third floor.

I pressed the "up" button on the elevator and the elevator door immediately slid open. I stepped in, pressed three on the control panel headed for the third floor.

The elevator stopped, and I exited out. I was in a poorly lit hallway, decorated in the same motif as the lobby. The ceiling was about ten feet high, and a window with no curtains was situated on my right, down at the end of the hall. I looked to my left and saw a large door with the words _Twillfigger Investigations_ emblazoned on it. I tried the doorknob, found it to be unlocked, and entered into the office.

I walked into a rather barren visitor room. Inside was an old black leather couch, a couple of straight back, wooden chairs and a cheap, round coffee table made of soft pine that had been stained dark brown. A two-year-old copy of _Field and Stream_ , a few _Time_ magazines and some personnel forms lay stacked on it. A large metal stand ashtray, with a few butts in it, was placed next to the couch. The walls were bare of any adornment.

A young man, about my age, sat on the couch, dressed in a brown suit with white shirt and blue tie. His hair had been freshly barbered, and he had a black briefcase on his lap. He was staring at me.

I looked to my left and saw a closed door. Directly ahead of me was another door, but it had a piece of yellow legal paper taped to it. There was a note on the paper. I stepped forward to read it.

"Out—be back around 1:30. If job seeker, fill out forms on table." The day's date was scrawled across the bottom of it.

I sighed, sat down on one of the wooden chairs, grabbed a form and filled it out. The guy on the couch continued to stare at me for a moment, then stuck out his hand and introduced himself as Larson Gallagher. He was a bit more slender and a few inches shorter than me.

I shook his hand, said my name was Jay Dafoe, sat back and continued to write.

"I guess you're here for the job?," he queried.

"Yeah."

"So am I—I have been here since eleven, waiting for him."

I merely nodded and continued to fill out the form. I didn't want to be rude to the guy, but let's face it, I didn't know him from Adam, and we were competitors for the same job.

"I did a stint in the Coast Guard," he blurted out after a few more minutes, "and then I got out and got a degree, in Criminal Justice. I wanted to join the Highway Patrol, took the test and everything, but—I guess they aren't hiring right now."

He looked at me expectantly, but I just looked at him and then shifted my gaze back to the form. After a while, he reached over and took a magazine from the table and began to leaf through it, every now and then, peering over the top of it to sneak a look at me. I finished filling out the form and counted the minutes till 1:30.

At about 1:35, the elevator outside the waiting room came to life and opened up on our floor. A pair of heavy steps made its way to the entrance door. The door opened and in limped Mr. Ernie Twillfigger, master detective.

The first thing that hit me about Ernie was the aura of rancid sweat about him. His face was slick with it, and you could see that his shirt was soaked with perspiration. In the years that followed, I would see Ernie in a number of situations, and unless we were in an air-conditioned room, Ernie was sweating, even in the dead of winter. Mind you, he never really stunk unless he'd indulged in a heavy bout of Italian food the previous day. Then he'd have the faint smell of garlic oozing out of him for the next twenty-four hours or so. The smell was no worse than sitting near a pizza parlor bathroom if the truth be told.

He was about five feet, four inches tall and weighed between 220 to 250 pounds. He would never tell me his actual weight, the only vanity I was ever able to attribute to the man. He walked with a limp, because as I found out later, he had an artificial leg below the left knee. It had been amputated some twenty-five years earlier.

After I'd gotten to know Ernie a bit better, I asked him what had happened. He mumbled something about "losing it in Korea while in the Army," and left me with the impression that he'd lost it in the war. It was later, around 1985 I think, that I ran into someone who had served with Ernie in the Army, and he told me the truth. Ernie had lost it right after he'd gotten out of boot camp in 1950. He was in an off-limits whorehouse in Fayetteville, NC when the MPs raided it. Ernie had gotten away from the MPs by jumping out a window and running away. Unfortunately, he didn't look where he was going and got hit by a pick-up truck as he ran across a street. His leg was crushed, and infection set in while he was in the base hospital. He lost the leg, got a medical discharge and disability checks for life. A good deal according to Ernie.

"Better than getting your dick blown off," he'd always say.

He was wearing a light-blue linen suit with a white and blue striped shirt and red, ultra-wide tie that day. It was the 70's remember. You could see the sweaty outline of his tank-top t-shirt underneath the shirt. His hair at the temples was dirty blonde, going gray, and he had a left-to-right comb over the top of his head. I guess he might have had some hair on top, but the comb-over hid it. A cigarette was dangling out of his mouth, and when he moved, you could tell he had a handgun slung under his armpit.

Ernie was an ugly bastard. Imagine how W. C. Fields would look like after a two-week binge in a Guatemala whorehouse, subsisting on nothing but pasta, vodka and crack cocaine, and you can get some idea about Ernie. He had a bulbous nose, with red and blue veins crisscrossing it. Rosacea had ravaged his cheeks and forehead, and for as long as I knew him, he always had a massive, pus-laden eruption occurring somewhere on his face.

His teeth were yellow from smoking over the years, and his lips were thick, veal colored pieces of meat, slapped against a wide mouth. His eyes were gray, and the whites were watery. His breath stank, especially after a meal, but Ernie knew this and always had breath mints with him.

He'd always pop a few in his mouth before meeting a client, saying that "shitty" breath would turn off a prospective customer faster than anything, even if you were dressed like Cary Grant. Ernie never mentioned anything about the effect that running, facial sores had on clients.

Before Ernie could say anything, young Larson jumped up, introduced himself and said he was there for the job interview. Ernie just sort of looked at him, and then motioned for him to enter his office. Larson opened the door and strode in. I could have sworn there was a smirk on his face. I guess Gallagher felt he'd gotten the upper hand on me by getting in to see Ernie first. Ernie followed him in, ripping down the paper sign he had taped to his door, and then slamming the door shut behind him.

I sat there for about five minutes and tried to listen to anything that occurred in the office. I heard sounds of conversation for a bit, nothing distinct, then I heard a great snarling laugh that immediately was followed by Larson swinging the door wide open, and with a sort of panicked look on his face (or was it disgust?) he rapidly strode out the waiting room, briefcase in hand, shutting the door behind him.

I never saw him again.

Puzzled, I turned back to wait for my turn. After about ten minutes, I heard the sound of a commode flushing and soon thereafter, Ernie walked out of his office. I could tell by looking at the wet splotch on his left pant leg that he'd had a slight mishap in the bathroom, but Ernie didn't seem to mind or care. He merely pointed at me, jerked his thumb towards his office and turned around and went back in. I followed.

Ernie's office was bare as the waiting room. A large oak desk and high back chair sat in front of a large window with Venetian blinds. Mounted in the window, not covered by the blinds was an air conditioner, humming at full blast. To my left was the door to a washroom and to my right a bank of metal file cabinets, with books on top. A couple of cheap padded chairs with armrests sat in front of the desk. The desk itself had a couple of phones, an ink blotter, ashtray full of cigarette butts and a few papers scattered about its top. Ernie had taken a seat in the chair behind the desk.

He snapped his fingers and pointed to the form I held in my hand. I gave it to him, and after a second, took a seat in one of the chairs. Ernie just stared at the form and grunted a few times as he read it. No words had been spoken.

After a minute, he tossed the form aside, reached in his pocket and got his cigarettes and his gunmetal Zippo lighter. He lit a fag and tossed the lighter on the desk. He put his shoes up on his desk and eyed me for a few seconds.

He took a drag off his smoke, eyed the red glowing tip for a moment and then asked me, just as casual as you please, his first question.

"Son, have you ever fucked a _nigger_ woman?"

My indoctrination into the Twillfigger School of Scientific Detection had begun.

## Chapter 2

I know what you're thinking, " _Oh my God_ , he said the _N_ word."

Yeah, Ernie said "nigger" sometimes.

He was also known to say wop, kike, hebe, spic, spade, cunt, bitch, asshole, son-of-a-bitch, prick, gook, chink, cocksucker, dipshit, dickwipe—I never quite figured out what that one meant—and any of the preceding in combination with the adjectives motherfucking, shitty or goddamn.

Hey, welcome to the real world of big time private eyes, folks.

I know in today's world of political correctness, if you get caught publicly saying nigger, or some other term meant to degrade one's ethnicity, you'll be condemned and avoided in public by your peers, period. Never mind that you were eating lunch with those same individuals just the past week, and everyone was complaining about the kike lawyers taking 'em for a ride, Korean grocers ripping off the neighborhood or that if wasn't for those damn black bastards covering for Clinton, we could have gotten the white-trash asshole thrown out of office. You're screwed and there's only one way to save your stupid ass.

It's what I call the "Evangelical" method of public rehabilitation.

First, you confess your sin for all to hear. A news conference is the best method, just make sure it is before four o'clock, so it can make the evening news. Admit you always been a prejudiced bastard (i.e., sinner), but now see the light. Denounce your own words as heresy and apostasy, then condemn all who still use them now and in the future.

Second, get a few of the offended party to sternly forgive you in public, maybe even slip'em a few bucks on the side and then quietly retire away, monk-like, for a few months. Eventually, you'll gradually get on with your life as before, with the sure knowledge all is forgiven. As long as you condemn the next poor bastard who makes the same mistake as you did, all is well. Just don't get confused and bring up Jesus or the Bible in any of this, or all bets are off. Unless of course, alcohol is involved, then Jesus is okay to talk about.

You see political correctness is just like any other religion. It's based on faith, impervious to logic, always looking for converts and its true believers are pains in the ass.

Most important, however, is that even if you don't believe in it, you can still join the congregation. As long as you drink the wine and eat the cracker, no one will be the wiser. Then you can go back to calling people niggers, gooks, hebes, honkeys etc. Just make sure you do it with your own kind.

So, I wasn't upset to hear Ernie say nigger, and I wasn't upset to be asked if I had known any in the biblical sense. I'm a southern male for Christ's sake. I was calling blacks niggers by the time I was five and thinking about screwing'em since I was fourteen. It's just the way things are.

All white southerners call blacks niggers at one time or another, just as blacks call us white folk names. The only difference between 1911 and 2011 is that most of us no longer call'em niggers to their face because you're likely to have your ass beat and there're a lot fewer opportunities to get away with having carnal relations with the women. Black women are much more picky about screwing white guys nowadays, damn it.

Am I proud of this? To be honest, I really don't give a damn. Most people that I run into in my line of business aren't to be trusted anyway, whether they're white, black, brown, yellow, rich or poor. They're all looking out for number one, and so am I.

Have I ever called a black man a nigger to his face?

Yes, I have. However, I got some strict rules as to when and how I do it.

First, I only use it as a method of intimidation in the line of duty. Second, I'm always armed at the time, preferably actually having my gun in hand. Third, I'm one hundred percent sure the gentleman or lady I'm addressing is _not_ armed.

It's a good set of rules to keep in mind while you're in the field. You can substitute any racial slur for the word "nigger" and the rules still hold.

What's that I hear you say? That's disgusting? Abusing your fellow man that way!?.

Well, as Ernie said, " _Fuck_ Raymond Chandler, being a private dick means taking advantage of people. That's your bread and butter."

It was the first rule Ernie taught me and has stood me in good stead this last thirty years—and made me rich to boot!

So what was Ernie trying to prove? What he wanted to know, right off the bat, was could I stand being around him, that's all.

Of all the people I have met in life's journey, Ernie is the one who understood best his own soul. Ernie knew what his core beliefs were; Money, sex, and food. He was totally at peace with the reality that he was, both physically and spiritually, one warped SOB. He never shied from what he was, never tried to hide it. In fact, if everyone were as honest and open about himself as Ernie was, we wouldn't need private eyes in this world.

So Ernie knew what he was, but what he wanted to know, in one easy question, what was I made of? Could I handle him? Was there any innate sense of honor or decency that might interfere with getting the job done?

My future employment rode on this one, simple question, and I had only one chance to get it right.

So, there I was, sitting in Ernie's inner sanctum, with him looking at me, ready to judge me if I was worthy of his time.

I was ready.

I thought for a second, crossed my legs and said, in my most nonchalant voice, "Well, let's see. I once banged this Egyptian whore in the red-light district in Amsterdam. Technically, she was from Africa, so does that make her a nigger?"

Ernie thought for a second, took another drag from his cigarette, looked at me, faintly smiled, shrugged his shoulders and said, "Good question."

Larson Gallagher, with his naïve core of inner decency, had failed this test. I had not.

Like Plato was to Socrates, I was to become protégé to Ernie's mentor. I guess in the great scheme of things, Plato and I got what we deserved.

Just remember, it was Plato who wrote the book.

* * * * *

Ernie hired me that day for the princely amount of 600 bucks a month and agreed to pick up all registration/license fees. He also said he'd pay for any formal training courses, but since my training consisted of listening to and following Ernie around, he never had to fork over any cash in that area. In addition, I almost always was the one who wound up buying the beer. To give the devil his due, Ernie did advance me a cool grand to help me get settled in Charlotte.

I agreed to be his apprentice for at least two years, and he promised to teach me the ropes. If I liked working with him and vice versa, he'd help me earn my private detective license.

Ernie explained that his back had been bothering him lately, and he needed an assistant. He said he'd plenty of business and needed a young pair of legs to do the donkeywork.

Lawyers needing divorce and personal investigation work done were his main meal tickets at the time, coupled with the odd insurance agency check. He also had the occasional walk-in, but they weren't a large part of his income. I eventually changed all that, becoming, as US magazine dubbed me "Shamus to the Stars"...but that's another story.

Ernie was also something of a mini slumlord, having a few properties that he'd inherited from his late wife scattered around Charlotte. One of the places was a small one-bedroom frame house on the northern outskirts of town that had been built in the early twenties for mill workers. He let me live there rent-free as part of our deal. He said that I soon as I got my PI license, we would renegotiate my salary, so I could eventually afford a better place to live.

The place was a mess, but it was free, so I really couldn't bitch too much. I remember once sitting in the minuscule living room watching the TV news and seeing a small field mouse sitting on top of the TV, as if he was daring me to do something. I started setting out traps and every night for about a week, I'd be awoken with the sound of them going off.

I complained to Ernie about the rodent problem, but he said no one who had rented the place ever complained about the mice before, but then again, no one who had ever rented that house from him had successfully gotten past the third grade either.

I had to think about that one for a while, but I think eventually understood his point.

I bought a second-hand car, a '72 green Buick Skylark, and within a week I was situated and ready to go to work. First thing Ernie did was have me fill out all the paperwork for my North Carolina PI apprentice license. I also applied for a permit to carry a concealed weapon. That took a day or two. Then Ernie and I started my firearm training.

The only gun experience I'd had was with a WWII vintage .45 caliber automatic pistol in the Navy. My ship had pulled into Subic Bay in the Philippines, and the Gunnery Chief had taken all the new crew members out to the rifle range to get .45 qualified so we could stand in-port watch. As an Ensign, I was expected to get Officer-of-the-Deck-In-Port qualified and part of that qualification was knowing how to shoot a pistol.

It was pouring rain, and I was hung over as hell after being introduced to San Miguel beer and bar girls the night before. I shot two clips of ammo, managed to wing the target a few times and was declared .45 caliber pistol qualified in the eyes of the U.S. Navy. That meant I could wear an unloaded gun while standing watch.

Note to the world: _never_ give a loaded gun to a sailor. They won't know how to fire it and will only try to figure out a way to use it to get drunk and/or laid. I know—I was a sailor.

I never shot a gun again during my time in the military.

So when Ernie asked me what experience I had with guns in the Navy, I could only say that I knew what they looked like, and that they were dangerous.

"That's okay," said Ernie, "you won't have any bad habits to break and lessons to unlearn. I'm going to teach what you _really_ need to know about guns in the private dick business."

I was expecting a lecture on the inherent dangers of guns, how you never draw one unless you mean to fire it, always shoot to kill and other such rot.

Not from Ernie.

"The first rule about carrying a gun around is to buy a real big shiny gun," Ernie told me. "I've been in this business over twenty years, and shiny guns get the best results when dealing with clients or questioning folks."

Shiny gun?

I asked him what he meant by shiny gun and Ernie just sighed, opened up his desk drawer and pulled out his gun. It was a big .44 caliber, nickel-plated Smith & Wesson revolver that had been lovingly polished and buffed until it seemed to have an inner glow of its own.

"Always wear something like this slung under your arm when meeting a customer. Leave your coat unbuttoned and make sure that he gets a glimpse of it. It will impress the hell out of them, and they won't bitch as much at you when you later give'em the bill. I found out that the shiny ones are easier to see than the ones painted blue."

Painted blue?!

This last statement should have sent alarm bells going off in my head, but I was in hock to the guy for a thousand bucks, and he'd been making his living at this for a long time, so I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. After all, he did have a license to carry one of these things.

God, I was naïve back then.

We then discussed the finer points of pistol whipping an individual; make sure they're unarmed and keep your finger off the trigger when smacking a guy. People are reluctant to give information after you have accidentally shot them in the head. I asked Ernie if it was better to use the barrel or butt of the gun when hitting a subject, and he laughed.

"Just hit the son-of-the-bitch with the gun," he said, "and remember to polish it after you're done. Some of the shit people put on their hair these days will ruin the polish job on your gun, especially the crap niggers and whores put on their heads."

With that last fashion commentary, Ernie and I went out to buy me a gun.

We hopped into Ernie's caddy and went to a local gun store. I first started looking at some automatics, but Ernie put a stop to that.

"Get a revolver, they're easier to load and shoot, even if you have been drinking and a lot less likely to go off when you hit someone with it. They're also easier to keep clean and polished."

I finally settled on a Ruger nickel-plated double-action, short-barreled .38 caliber revolver. The owner said it was the least likely of guns to go accidentally off—a big selling point with me, I assure you—and Ernie said it met his shiny criteria. He did have some reservations about its size, but I mentioned that Dick Tracy had a gun something like this. Ernie nodded his head and said, "Good point, customers will like that."

I also purchased a top-of-the-line shoulder holster and a bunch of bullets to practice shooting with. Ernie advised me to buy cheap bullets for target shooting, but to load the gun with soft-lead hollow points in the field, just like he does.

"No matter where you hit the bastard, these babies will do enough damage to stop him," opined Ernie.

After I bought the gun, we got back in the car. Like a kid with a new toy, I couldn't keep my hands off the .38. There's something seductive about guns, even to the most ardent pacifist. The weight and density of the gun, the way your hand can mold itself to the butt, and the sheer capacity for destruction made handling a pistol like holding a wanton whore in your arms. They're both sexy, dangerous and hold the promise of forbidden fantasies that can ruin your life.

And it helps if they're shiny, too.

Ernie just drove along, looking at me through the corner of his eyes, and finally shook his head and said, "Looks like we're going to have to get you used to the gun, quick. So let's go shoot the damn thing till you're sick of holding it. That's the only way to get a guy to over the fascination of a new gun."

I asked him where the shooting range was located that he practiced at. Ernie just looked at me like I was crazy.

"Goddamn boy, why do we need to pay money to go to a range, when we can just go outside of the city to the country, park along any damn dirt road and shoot?"

"What about targets?" I asked. "How do you tell if you're hitting what you aim at, and if you're improving?"

" _Christ_ , haven't you been listening to me? That gun is for client relations and interrogation purposes only. I don't expect you to shoot at anyone. Shit, that only happens in the movies. Do you realize the fuckin' trouble you would get in if you shot someone, much less killed them? The cops won't understand, 'cause they think— _and with some justification_ —that they and they alone have a monopoly on deadly force. If they start letting civilians horn-in on the shooting business, then there goes their ability to protect, serve and extort money from the populace. Cops are notoriously stupid, but they realize that their ace-in-the-hole is their undisputed right to blow people away. Threaten that right and you open yourself up to trouble. So don't worry about targets, just learn how to operate the damn thing."

"But what if I do have to use it," I said, "there's always that possibility, you know."

"The first rule is to avoid that situation," Ernie stated.

He thought for a bit, lit a cigarette, shook his head and looked at me.

"Well, I guess I'd be amiss if I didn't give some advice. I was gonna wait for a few months, till I could get the true measure of ya, but, what the hell, in for a penny, in for a pound."

He drove down the road for a few moments and then launched into the lesson.

"If the person is alone, try to be not more than a few feet from him when you fire and make sure you kill him. After he's dead, make sure he was armed and put the rod or knife in his hand, to make it look like it was a fair fight. If it turns out he was unarmed, and you shot him, place a knife in his hand to make it looked like he was armed. I got a few knives that I can give you for this type of emergency."

I was still new enough to the game to be a bit taken aback with this, but I was smart enough to say, "Shouldn't you plant a gun on him instead of a knife?"

"Nah, knives are cheaper and the result is the same. It looks like the guy was threatening to kill you. Either way, it will take some explaining to the cops and a good lawyer to get you off without going to the can."

Ernie went on, "If you're in a hostile crowd, and it looks like they're going to do you some damage, you gotta take charge. Pull the gun and get their attention. However, if you got to shoot someone try just to wound them."

"Bullshit, I know enough that if you pull the trigger, you shoot to kill. Hell, I've taken the FBI tour in D.C. That's gospel if you ask them."

Ernie rolled his eyes skyward and said, "The FBI are the cops, remember? They can get away with killing a man. On the other hand, if you shoot the poor bastard dead in front of all his friends, only two things can happen. The first is that you get away and then the friends testify against you in court, and you go to the slammer for a long fucking time, at the very least. The second is that the guy's pals kill you, so while you might die with the knowledge you took a few of them with you, you're still dead. Bottom line is it's easier to get off just wounding the guy in a crowd vice killing him. Don't worry, if you use the hollow points, chances are he will go down and stay down, at least long enough for you to get the hell out of there, but my advice is to avoid crowds. Now let's go get us some supplies to go shooting with."

I thought he wanted to get some more ammo, but we when pulled into the parking lot in front of a supermarket, I got real confused.

"Go inside and get a case of cold beer, some peanuts and a bag of ice. I got a cooler in the trunk. Oh yeah, get me a couple packs of Winston's, in the hard-box, not the soft-pack."

Like the good apprentice I was, I didn't question my master's judgment and went in and got the "shooting supplies." In ten minutes, we were heading out of town, drinking beer and eating peanuts. Both of us had our guns slung under our arms, and over thousand rounds of ammunition were in the back seat.

About two beers later, Ernie had found a dirt road he liked, and we tooled down it for about ten minutes until we were in the middle of nowhere. Ernie and I got out, stretched our legs and got rid of some of the beer we had drunk.

I got the gun out and loaded it. Ernie stood off to the side and watched me. I asked him if I loaded the gun properly.

"As long as you got the same amount of toes as when you started, you loaded it—okay?" he said.

This advice was from a one-legged man, mind you.

Once the .38 was loaded, I asked him what to do next, and he just laughed, opened a beer, gestured towards the trees and said, "Fire away kiddo, and have fun."

So, I began to shoot into the woods.

The first time that revolver went off, it shook me from head to toe and made my ears ring, but after about ten rounds, I was used to the recoil and noise. I wasn't really aiming at anything; I was just squeezing off the rounds into various trees. I stopped every now and then for a beer or to reload.

After a while, Ernie began to throw his empty beer cans into woods in front of us, and I tried to hit them with my shots. I think that after 60-70 rounds, I managed to hit a can twice.

I drank more beer and was starting to feel like Wyatt Earp. Ernie was drinking three beers to my every one, shoveling peanuts into his gut, and soon we were laughing and hollering like teenagers, while I continued to blaze away at the local fauna with my now trusty .38. Ernie even pulled out his gun and shot at a can or two.

Two hours later, I'd shot over a hundred rounds, had drunk close to nine beers and my right arm was numb and sore from shooting the damn gun.

The novelty had finally worn off.

Ernie had over 12 beers and most of the peanuts in him. Sunset was coming, and after all that gun slinging, both Ernie and I just sat there in the woods for a while, enjoying the return of peace and quiet. We sipped on our beers...at least I did, Ernie was still chugging his. We just leaned on Ernie's caddy with our revolvers in one hand, cans of beer in the other.

We didn't say a word to each other for about twenty minutes as we soaked up the quiet beauty of the Carolina woods.

Finally, Ernie mumbled something about having to piss like a racehorse, took a step from the caddy and proceeded to relieve himself.

I was a little disappointed that the spell had been broken, but I turned my head to look away (real men don't look at other men urinate), and stared up into the nearest tree, an oak, if memory serves me.

There was a large squirrel clinging to the side of that tree. He had gotten the courage up to come out after the gunfire had finally ceased. I stood there and studied him, and it studied me. I was in the middle of admiring the way the squirrel could adhere, upside down, on a tree trunk, when suddenly a bomb went off beside my head and the squirrel fucking _exploded._

Have you ever been in the middle of a car wreck or some other emergency and time slowed down? You're aware of every little thing that occurs. Every movement and sound take on a crispness, a clarity that is so intense, so _clear_ , that you can remember every detail in the years to come.

That's what happened to me.

I remember the crashing noise to my right, then a stone-cold silence as my eardrums were stunned to insensitivity. In slow motion, the animal came apart, with the middle third of it instantaneously going from the state of "squirrel" to a fine cloud of red mist that expanded geometrically. The hindquarters remained clinging to the tree, but the front part of the creature launched itself directly towards me.

To this day, I can still remember that damn squirrel coming at me with its bright, black eyes, staring at me, accusatory, then the light of life going out of them, mid-flight, literally turning dull and cloudish as it approached me.

Dumb-founded, I stared as the squirrel head, still attached to a squirming torso of streaming bloody and gray intestines, smacked me in the forehead and spun me around. I fell to the ground on my knees, gun in hand. I then looked up into the slack jawed and unbelieving face of Ernie Twillfigger as he held his still smoking .44 magnum in his right hand.

After a stunned moment (or minute, I'm not sure, I lost track of time), the world wrenched, crazy like, back into real-time.

Something red and hazy was obscuring my vision, and I stood up to face Ernie. He was still staring at me, and then with a lurch, he bent over and began to projectile vomit onto the ground. At the same time, I became aware of a weight on my head, and reached up to remove it. I slowly pulled it off and looked at it, dully.

It was the front half of the squirrel and the "something red and hazy" that had been blocking my vision was the shattered remains of the guts of the squirrel. I began to scream and flung it into the woods. Then, like Ernie, I started to throw-up.

So there we were, two drunk guys in cheap suits, standing on a dirt road littered with beer cans, shell casings and squirrel, puking their guts up, while holding on to their big, shiny guns.

After about ten minutes we had recovered somewhat, and I hollered at Ernie.

"You bastard! What in hell were you trying to do, you could have killed me!"

"Kid...kid, calm down, I didn't mean anything. I—I just saw the squirrel there and decided, on a whim to take a pot shot at it. I really wasn't trying to hit it, and I guess, well...shit, it was an accident. I'm sorry, damn I'm sorry. I'll pay to get your clothes clean...huh?"

I continued to scream for a while but after a bit, calmed down some. Ernie continued to apologize profusely, and I soon realized that, hey, we both were drunk and Ernie was not really trying to kill me. It's amazing the capability of the mind to rationalize away stuff, especially when alcohol is involved.

We drove back to Charlotte, and a chastised Ernie dropped me off to get my car. I went home, took a long shower and went to bed.

I had nightmares about beer-drinking woodland creatures armed with machetes for a while, but after a week or two, I was back to normal.

The result of this lesson in gunplay was that I always kept my gun polished and clean (I still carry a .38), rarely practice with it (why bother) and keep it loaded with hollow point bullets (believe me, they work.)

Moreover, I didn't know it at that time, but this little misadventure was to help save my life one day.

## Chapter 3

The next year and a half weren't quite as traumatic as my initiation to firearms. Ernie was good to his word. He took me "under his wing" so to speak, and started teaching me the ropes with regards to the private eye business. I wish I could tell you that I learned the black art of surveillance, how to bug phones, the in and outs of locating a missing person or how to subdue a man (or woman, for that matter) twice your size, but, in all honesty, I can't.

The bulk of our business came from divorce work, usually contracted through a lawyer representing the "aggrieved" party. The usual routine would be Ernie would get a call from a lawyer, asking him to drop into his or her office at a certain time. Ernie at first went alone and came back to brief me on what we (meaning I) were to do, who the client was, details needed to start the surveillance, etc. Eventually, he let me tag along to the lawyer's office, where he would introduce me as his "associate" and I could meet the client and get the information first hand.

Eventually, both Ernie and I noticed that the lawyers, and most importantly, the clients, seemed much more at ease with me than Ernie.

I got to admit, I really looked the part of a detective. I was a strapping six feet two, 190 pounds, and my dirty-blond hair was close cropped. That, coupled with my no-nonsense dark suit attire and the way I could casually let the lawyer or the client catch a fleeting glimpse of my shiny pistol slung under my arm, really added up to an impressive package that almost sold itself to our customers. So, after a few months, I became the "public" face of Twillfigger Investigations, Inc.

Ernie, much to his credit, realized that his grooming habits were not the best in the world, and knew that some people (hell, let's be honest, most people) found him to be a repulsive worm. His back was also giving him more trouble, and he was content to sit in the office, give me directions and let me do the work.

He called it the "Detective training by total immersion."

Yeah...right.

I don't want to make it sound like Ernie didn't teach me much. Quite the contrary, he showed me the ropes about how to serve warrants (do it in public, less chance of trouble), how to search for deeds, birth certificates and other paperwork, and how to trail a mark (just hang back and don't get caught). I also mastered the art of surveillance photography (always use fast black-and-white film, telephoto lenses for long distance, wide angle for close in work and never use cheap film or cameras).

While my professional life as a private detective began to blossom, my personal life was in the pits. Disco was in the last years of its gaudy, extravagant life, and yours truly had about as much in common with the disco lifestyle as Ernie had with the Queen of England (I had two left feet and couldn't carry a tune).

I tried going to a few discos in hope of some quick, gratuitous sex, but with a few exceptions, I always managed to go home alone, and usually around ten o'clock. I eventually gave up going to these places, and began to confine my after-hours entertainment to a few local pubs and bars that had a jukebox for music, no dance floor, and only sports on the TV. As far as the women who haunted these places, they were invariably older than me and twice as dirty-minded.

I'll say this for these babes. Yeah, they were worn around the edges and their bodies sagged here and there, but they damn sure knew how to please a man, and they taught me things that I treasure to this day.

While babes in their teens and twenties might be at their peak of physical perfection, it's the old broads in their mid thirties to forties that know what they want and how to go about getting and giving it. I think it has something to do with having mastered the art of contraception and realizing that you ain't getting any younger that was the key to these ladies' skills.

Another benefit was, for some damn reason, they always insisted on going to a motel or their own place, so they never found out where I lived.

What I do know is that more than a few of these broads turned me into a pile of blubbering jelly on numerous occasions and did shit to me that I knew was illegal or against nature. I'll always be grateful to them for what they taught me and, every now and then, I regret having never told any of them my real name.

So this was my life for a year and a half. Finally, Ernie felt that I was ready to pass my private license test, and after fudging the amount of experience I had to tell the state board, I passed the test in May of 1977. Ernie gave me a 300 dollar a month raise and decided to celebrate my success by leaving me in-charge while he took a two-week vacation in Vegas.

What he and I didn't know at that time was that within the next six months I was to become the most famous private eye in the Carolinas, and even more importantly, be lucky to be alive.

The first step on this path began two days after Ernie left for vacation, when a Dr. Elmo D. Randall, MD walked into my office in a foul mood.

* * * * *

It was a Tuesday morning, and the weather was perfect, sunny, cool and not a cloud in the sky. I'd come into work at my usual time and checked the answering machine messages. There weren't any, so I hung up my coat, made some coffee, sat at my desk and started to read the morning paper I'd brought with me.

I was just finishing the paper when the bell sounded on the wall, indicating someone had opened the door to our office. I got up, put on my coat and walked into the waiting room. Standing there was a man in his mid-to-late thirties with thinning, brown hair, wearing an expensive gray suit with white shirt, maroon tie and black horn rim glasses.

I introduced myself and asked him if I could be assistance. He said his name was Dr. Elmo Randall (with an emphasis on 'Doctor') and said he needed assistance of a private investigator.

I told him that I was the junior partner and that Mr. Twillfigger was on a well-deserved sabbatical (i.e., banging whores at the Mustang Ranch in Nevada, as Ernie was to tell me later).

He grunted, and I invited him into my private office. He brushed by me and walked into my room, sitting down at the chair in front of my desk.

I offered him a cup of coffee, which he curtly refused.

Already, I was sizing the man up as a major-league dork, but dorks pay just as well as anyone, so what did I care. I then asked him of what assistance could I be and after a few seconds of silence, he began.

"I'm an Internal Medicine physician, Mr. Dafoe," he started, "and have been in private, and if I may say so, very successful practice for the past twelve years. I'll have been married to my wife, Gloria, for eight years come this August. We have no children. As with all marriages, we have had our ups and downs, and I admit I have strayed a few times, but it was always a short-term physical thing, and it never meant anything. I've been faithful these last three years, and I thought we were happy."

Uh-oh, I thought, here it comes. In my short time as a private dick, I have found out that while the man can rationalize his indiscretions as a "physical" thing that means nothing, he can't do the same for his wife. For some reason, men have bought the line published by all these damn women's magazines that when a woman has an affair, it always involves a great deal of emotional commitment (dare I say _love_?) from the woman and is therefore, a greater threat and affront to the marriage.

It's pure bullshit, because if women were wanting more emotional commitment in their lives, than so many of them wouldn't be banging the golf or tennis pro at the club. They get horny just like us men, but somehow have cloaked it in the guise of romance and love. And we men buy into this crap.

Sure enough, Dr. Randall played true-to-form.

"I... guess I was wrong. I think my wife is seeing another man. I have tried to be a good husband, but the demands of my profession, I fear, have placed a strain on our marriage and obviously, Gloria has maybe sought out companionship elsewhere."

"Are you sure she's seeing someone else or is it still a suspicion?"

"Well, it's still only a suspicion, but she has been away from home a great deal during the day. She's taking golf lessons at our club and claims to be on the links a lot during the week."

I had a pad of paper out and was taking notes.

"Which country club is that?"

"Fairfield Oaks. We've been members for the past three years."

"What else makes you think there's another man involved?"

As Ernie taught me, try to keep the sexual imagery out of the conversation with a client. Never say, "Are you sure she's banging the bejeezus out of the milkman?" or words to that effect. Try to keep it as neutral as possible.

"I really can't put my finger on it," he said, "it's just a feeling I get when we're together, which is getting rarer and rarer, if you get my drift."

I merely nodded, as if in sympathy.

"Does she have any other hobbies or habits that I might need to be aware of?"

"Well, she does some charity work with the Red Cross and sings in the choir at church, but golf and tennis seem to have taken up the bulk of her time."

"How about coming home at odd hours, stuff like that?"

Dr. Randall looked out the window for a moment, and then began to speak.

"My partner and I have a contract with Ridgeway Hospital to work in the emergency room ten nights a month and every third weekend. Usually, we split up the time in half and alternate our weekends. On normal workdays, when I got home from work, Gloria has always been there, unless a late round of golf delayed her. However, when I've worked nights at the emergency room and tried to call home, she's been out—on numerous occasions. More than once I've called late, one or two in the morning, and she hasn't answered the phone."

"How did she explain that?"

"She says she took a pill to sleep and must have slept through the phone ringing or was out with a girl friend. And before you ask, I've never gone home early and tried to catch her in a lie...not that I haven't wanted to, but I'm afraid of what I might do if I succeeded."

He paused for a moment, then continued.

"I don't want a divorce... at least I don't think I do. All I want is to know the truth before I confront her with it and then try to work things out. I—I don't want to lose my wife to another man."

There was a twitch in his eye when he said this, and that should have set alarm bells going off in my head, but I was still green back then. I got some more personal details from him (home address, what kind of car she drove, golf lesson times, physical description and a few other items that would help me along.) We settled on a fee, and I told him I'd get back to him when I found out something for better or worse.

I went to work on the case the next morning, driving out to the Fairfield Oaks country club, located to the east of the city. It was your typical upper-middle class country club. The main building had a couple of large party rooms, a spacious dining room and a comfortable barroom. Behind the building was a fifty meter pool with diving well and adjacent to that was a tennis-court and handball complex. The golf clubhouse was located about fifty yards to the east of the main building, and a large parking lot was shared between the two.

The clubhouse was two stories tall, with the "19th Hole" restaurant on the top floor and the pro shop and changing rooms located at the bottom floor. Behind the clubhouse, the two eighteen hole courses, "Devil Dune" and "Angel Lake" respectively, began. The driving range was across from the parking lot.

I'd gotten to the club around 8:30 in the morning, knowing that Mrs. Randall was due to get there at nine o'clock for her golf lesson on the range. I sat in my car and sure enough, around 8:55, a blue Pontiac Bonneville, license tag WH3-12A, pulled into the lot, and I got my first good look Gloria Randall.

She was around thirty-five years old, short and had brown hair and eyes. Her husband had described her as voluptuous, and she was that maybe twenty pounds ago. She did have a pretty face and nice smile and while she was overweight, she was quite firm. She wore a white golfing outfit with her blouse clinging to her ponderous breasts like saran wrap and her skirt emphasizing the swell of her haunches. She looked like the babes I'd been picking up at Joe's Bar. You know, the women facing the onset of spreading middle age, hoping a hot passionate fling can ward off the encroaching years and pounds for a few more months.

She got her clubs out of the trunk and walked over to the driving range, joining a couple of more women there. She set up her clubs and went to the ball shack and bought a couple buckets of balls. She went back to the clubs and began to do some stretching exercises and took a few practice swings. Around 9:15, I saw a man with a golf iron in his hand stroll out of the clubhouse and walk to the range. He approached Gloria, smiling. She gave him a great big smile, and the morning lesson began.

The club pro was in his late forties and tall. He had a bald head that was tanned nut brown on top and had steel-gray hair on the sides. He appeared to be in somewhat good shape, with only the beginnings of a paunch. The lesson lasted about thirty minutes, and it concentrated on hitting her irons.

During the lesson, I strolled into the pro-shop and appeared to be shopping for some clubs. I went by the cash register. After some discreet talking with the register attendant, I determined the pro's name was Willard Simons, and he'd been at the club some twelve years.

I went back outside and climbed back in my car, keeping an eye on the couple using my rear-view mirror. A couple of times Willard placed his arms around Mrs. Randall, trying to help her swing. I thought I caught him copping a feel every now and then. She just wiggled around a bit, and continued to work on that bad slice of hers, as if nothing had happened.

I knew then, something wasn't right.

* * * * *

Now, this wasn't the first time I have looked into the activities of a club pro to see if he was banging another man's wife. Hell, it wasn't even the second time. I've seen the pros and women at the ranges, on the courses and in the clubs. While they think they're fooling everyone (and they might be), they're never fooling me. I got this sixth sense you see. I can almost (not always, but almost) see things between people for what they really are.

Like the time I was watching another club pro and businessman's wife. On the range, everything was all prim and proper. They were never alone. Indeed, she always took lessons in a group vice one-on-one lessons. He never touched her and spent no more time with her than any of the other ladies in the group. She did play a round of golf with him twice a week, but it was always a foursome with two other ladies. And try as I might, I could never catch them sneaking off somewhere after hours for a short tryst.

But _I knew_.

I knew those two were doing the beast with two backs, but I couldn't prove it. For three weeks, I tried. I was almost ready to call it quits and tell the client it was a bust, when I decided to follow them on one of their rounds of golf.

I managed to join a foursome that had a tee time after the pro one day and followed them. The pro, the wife and the two ladies teed off and after ten minutes, we followed suit. By the time I was making my approach shot to the first green, the golf instructor and his three gals were on the second tee. Suddenly, one of the ladies appeared to be faint, and after some worried looks around, the foursome evidentially decided to call it quits. They took off in their carts down the fairway. After a discreet wait, I excused myself from my foursome and followed.

The pro, with the wife firmly ensconced beside him, was in one cart. The other two ladies were in the other. They veered off the court and went towards a home that was situated on the second fairway. (I found out later this was the home of the lady who appeared to have fainted.) The garage door opened, and the two carts went in and the door rapidly closed behind them

Bingo.

I snooped around the house and was soon rewarded with sounds of passionate lovemaking coming out of _two_ bedrooms. It seemed that the wife had worked out a little deal with her lady friends. The three ladies were all cheating on their spouses, the wife with the pro and the two gals with each other! It was damn exciting stuff, and since I was now wise to the situation, I staked out the home for a week or two and got all the proof I needed to close the case.

The point of all this is that I knew something was up the second I saw these two together. Admittedly I didn't catch on to the lesbian angle, but, hey, no one is perfect.

So when I saw Gloria and Willard together on the course, I knew in a heartbeat that while Willard might have wanted to jump her bones, Gloria was having none of it.

I was going to have to look elsewhere to find out if she had a lover.

I trailed Mrs. Randall for a few days, keeping an eye on her as she went about her routine, everyday business. She was the model suburban wife, going to the store, shopping at the local mall, taking her occasional golf lesson. Every night she'd be home to greet her husband with a crisp, cold martini in hand to help him unwind from a hard day at the hospital.

I expected as much. I discontinued the shadowing of her and called up Dr. Randall. I told him the results of the investigation so far and asked him when his next tour of duty at the emergency room was. He told me that he was scheduled to start a five-day stretch that Wednesday. I told him that I'd take the next day off then start an evening stakeout on her Wednesday evening.

"Well, I know she'll be going to church that night," he volunteered. "She always sings in the choir Wednesday night and Sunday."

I got the name of the church, Mt. Calvary Baptist, and the location from him, just in case I missed her at home.

## Chapter 4

Wednesday evening came, and I found myself parked about a half block down from the Randall residence at around five. After a short wait, I watched Dr. Randall depart for his evening work in the emergency room. Then, about ten minutes later, Mrs. Randall followed out in her Pontiac.

I followed her. She eventually arrived at Mt. Calvary Baptist Church. I pulled into a parking lot across the street and stopped the car. I saw her enter the church, and I settled in for a wait.

The church was a steeple topped red-brick affair, with a sanctuary hall and large classroom complex attached to it. Promptly, at six, the bells rang out a short melody. There was an announcement board on the front lawn of the church. Rev. Leo P. McLardy was listed as the minister, along with the various times of the worship services, 11 A.M. on Sundays, 7 P.M. on Wednesdays.

I figured that the parishioners would start to arrive shortly, and I was right. By service time the parking lot was about half full (not bad for a Wednesday night). After the bell chimes at seven, I was rewarded with the faint sound of an organ and singing coming from the church.

I sat in the car for about an hour. A few minutes after eight o'clock, the two front doors swung open and the parishioners began to file out.

A man and woman, whom I assumed to be the Reverend McLardy and his wife, greeted the faithful as they exited the church. The Reverend himself was a man of medium height, wearing an immaculate dark blue worsted wool suit. His most noticeable feature was his hair, which was black and thick, with just a touch of gray at the temples. He had it swept back over his head in a precise pompadour. The wife was a petite little thing, wearing a demur green dress with white collar. Her blonde hair was pulled back and coiled tightly in a bun. They shook hands with the congregation on the way out. Everyone seemed to be in good spirits.

I kept my eye on the parking lot and after about twenty minutes, I spied Mrs. Randall exit the church from a side door and get into her car. She pulled out of the parking lot. I followed her. After a few minutes, she came to an intersection. Instead of turning left to return to her home, she turned right.

Gotchya!

I eagerly tailed her and she drove down the highway for about forty-five minutes and arrived at a small motel in a nearby town. She parked the car in front of the manager's office as I drove by her. By the time I turned around, she'd left the office, gotten into her car and was pulling around to the back.

I stopped at the front of the motel, parked and sauntered to the back, just in time to see her enter room 115 on the ground floor. I went back to my car and pulled around to the back of the motel to wait.

I parked in the rear of the parking lot, away from a street lamp located on the opposite side. I then hopped in the backseat of my car with my camera and telephoto lens and waited.

My plan was simple. All Dr. Randall wanted to know was who his wife was seeing, so all I was going to do was to take the picture of Mrs. Randall's lover as he entered the motel room. I would wait until they were done, then hopefully get a shot of the two lovers as they left. I was using an extremely sensitive black-and-white film in the camera. The nearby street lamp gave off plenty of light, so no flash would be involved to give me away.

I waited for about a half an hour, and then I saw a blue Ford pull up near Mrs. Randall's car. I didn't know if this was her lover, but I got ready to take a picture of the person exiting the car. It turned out to be a couple of elderly women who let themselves into a room about three doors down from Mrs. Randall's. I looked at my watch, and settled down to wait some more.

Five minutes later another car pulled up to the back of the motel. As I snapped pictures, I was greeted by the sight of the Right Reverend Leo P. McLardy exiting his Chrysler Imperial. He hurriedly went over to Randall's motel room door and knocked. The door opened, and he was let in. After a few minutes, the lights went out in the room.

I had gotten it all on film.

* * * * *

I wasn't all that surprised to see a man of the cloth coveting his neighbor's wife. I was raised Southern Baptist. It's a damn tough life for the ordinary lay person, much less the preacher. you aren't supposed to drink, smoke, cuss, dance, have pre-marital fornication and practice birth control (pre or post marital).

On top of that, you're supposed to give up ten percent of your pre-tax income for the privilege of being a member of God's chosen congregation. Your social life is expected to revolve around the church and let me tell you, you don't know what hell is unless you have been served up some of the nasty, soggy green beans that they feed you at a typical Southern Baptist pot-luck dinner.

It's a hard, disciplined way to live, especially if you're like me; partial to drinking, cussing, fornicating and wanting to use a rubber so you don't catch the clap from the whore you're screwing. (Face it, for the average white guy, the no-dance restriction isn't that big a sacrifice). It's even harder for your average Southern Baptist preacher, because of all the women throwing themselves at him.

" _What_!?" you say. "Women throwing themselves at a man of God?"

Damn straight. Your average holy-roller reverend is tempted with more pussy than a rock star, in my opinion.

If a preacher is not so old that he can't hear and walk, he _must_ contend with the female members of the congregation routinely throwing themselves at his feet, pleading for saving and asking for that touch of personal grace that only he can provide.

The worst ones are the old maiden virgins, who, because of personality defects (or being hit over the head with an ugly stick) have never kissed a man, much less slept with them. The Church is full of these gals, and they're just yearning for the right man to set them free. Their life revolves around the church and nine times out of ten they're in the choir.

There they will sit, with this rapt look of adoration on their face, secretly hoping that one day the man they worship, the preacher, will see their inner beauty and sweep them off their feet, even if it means abandoning his wife and kids. These women are crazy and most preachers stay away from them, a lesson they must teach in divinity school.

The second category of babe that bangs the preacher is of the type that our dear Mrs. Randall fell into. The bored, middle-aged housewife, trapped into her everyday ho-hum existence. These women are itching for some excitement in their lives and just love the idea of sinning with the padre. And, to give the devil his due, they're usually much better looking than the old maiden types—and non-virgins to boot.

If the preacher is looking for a "strange" piece of ass with no strings attached, this is it.

So, I sat in the motel parking lot for a couple of hours, ruminating on sin, marriage and sex, while the Reverend and Mrs. Randall broke a few commandments. Finally, around one o'clock in the morning, the light came on in the motel room. I figured they were getting ready to leave. Sure enough, a few minutes later, the couple exited the motel room and started whispering their goodbyes.

I'm sitting in the back of the car, snapping away, thinking about getting home and getting to bed myself. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spied a man in a long white coat stride around the motel building corner making directly for Rev. Leo McLardy and Gloria Randall.

In a flash, I recognized the man as Dr. Randall, lab coat and all. With a chill, I realized he had a small pistol in his right hand and a look of murder on his face. The couple turned toward the oncoming husband, and both immediately realized whom it was, and that he had a gun.

"No, Elmo, No!" screamed Gloria as she rushed toward her husband, "Don't—don't!"

Dr. Randall slapped her aside with his left arm and started to run towards McLardy.

The Reverend Leo realized by now that he was really close to finally getting to meet St. Peter and not wanting to explain that he died at the hands of a cuckolded husband, did the smart thing and tried to run away.

Too late.

The Doc raised his arm, and I heard two sharp cracks as the gun went off.

Leo went down to the payment with a grunt. Gloria got up and ran between her husband and the preacher. By this time, I'd gotten out of the car and was running towards the Doc and his wife.

When I got beside them, Dr. Randall was just standing there with a dull look on his face and was murmuring "Oh shit, Oh shit," over and over. I reached over and carefully took the gun from his hand.

It was a .22 automatic.

Gloria had squatted next to McLardy and had started moaning. The good preacher, in turn, was clutching his ass with both hands and had begun praying to Jesus to save him.

It seems that the Doctor had capped the Preacher in the ass, and I immediately saw the opportunity to make some real money as long as we didn't get the cops involved and McLardy didn't bleed to death, at least not right away.

* * * * *

Mother nature occasionally bestows on some humans a special gift at birth. You have your Mozarts, Einsteins and Michael Jordans in this world, and then you might have the guy who can fart the National Anthem. Talents vary and most of us didn't get squat or stumbled into a life where that special gift is never given any opportunity to be fully realized.

I was lucky. I had chosen a career that not only allowed me to exercise and develop my talent, but when coupled with my natural duplicity—also a gift?—allowed me to rise to the peak of my profession. It wasn't until I started working with Ernie that I fully began to understand and appreciate this special skill I possessed. If I'd become an engineer, lawyer or businessman, I'd have never had many opportunities to exploit my talent, but fate had led me to Ernie Twillfigger and with it came the full realization that I had something special in me. It is this: when in a damn tight jam, I can think quickly on my feet. That's all, but it has served me successfully in life, and I wouldn't trade it for the world—well, maybe, but you get my drift.

The strange thing about this gift is that it only kicks in when the adrenaline is flowing. In non-pressure situations, I'm as prone to errors in judgment, or more so, as the next man, which may explain some of the tight spots I've gotten in over the years. But always—well, _almost_ always—when the shit was hitting the fan, I was your go-to man. This impromptu ability to size up a situation and plot a course of action to save my or a client's ass in less than a few seconds has always been my ace in the hole.

What can I say—it's a gift.

So when I was standing there in the middle of the night at that motel parking lot, surrounded by a dazed physician with a gun in his hand and his fat suburban housewife moaning in panic over a blow-dried parson lying on the ground with a bullet in his ass, a light switch went off in my head. I knew exactly what to do, and more importantly, how I was going to make money doing it.

I looked around the parking lot and quickly saw no one else was there. No lights had come on from any of the rooms. I grabbed the Doc, spun him around and shook him, trying to snap him alert.

"If you don't want to throw away your life, your wife, your medical practice, and you don't want to go to jail, do as I say," I hissed.

He just looked at me in a state of bewilderment. He must have realized as soon as he saw Leo lying wounded on the ground that he'd committed a royal screw-up. He'd literally thrown away everything he had ever worked for. The money, the big house, the community respect and all those other benefits and rewards that come with being a doctor had just gone down the drain faster than Mrs. Randall going down on Leo and there was nothing he could do about it.

Luckily, for him, I was there, ready to offer him a lifeline. Hopefully, he would grab it. If he did, I was going to make damn sure he paid for it!

By this time Gloria was looking at me in a mixture of wonder and fright. I quickly told her, "I was hired by your husband to find out who you were screwing. He must have followed me as I was following you."

"Oh Elmo— _I'm sorry,_ " she began to wail.

I quickly shut her up.

"Quiet, damn it, we've got to get everyone back in your room real quick before someone calls the cops. Both of you, go back to your motel room, and I'll carry the preacher in."

Gloria, to give her credit, quickly caught on to this and immediately went to her husband's side and led him to the motel room, used the key to open it and went inside. I ran over to Leo, who was listening to all this between moans. I started to help him up. He began to protest that he needed an ambulance and couldn't move. I had to get him into the motel room, fast, before anyone in the motel noticed and reported this mess. Thank God it was a Wednesday night—the place was almost empty, but I still didn't have time to argue.

I pulled my .38, stuck it in his nose and said, in my deepest growl, "Get in the fucking room, now."

He did.

As soon as I was in the room, I shut and locked the door. The first part of my little plan was complete; I'd gotten them all back in the motel room before alerting the rest of the motel. I had a little breathing room to settle things down and to plot out the rest of my moves. The Doc and Gloria were standing in front of the TV, looking at me. Leo had fallen face down on the bed, groaning and shaking. I took a deep breath and began to get things organized.

I pointed at Gloria.

"You. Get all the towels from the bathroom. I don't care if they're dirty or not—bring them to the bed. Doc, come here and help me get the pants off the parson."

Dr. Randall just stared at me. Of the three of them, he was in the most shock it seemed. Even the preacher was handling this better, and he was bleeding.

I grabbed Randall and shook him.

"Look at me," I snarled. "I want you to look at his ass and tell me if you can fix him without having to check him in overnight in a hospital. Can you do it at home? Do you need to go to the ER? I need answers to these questions. _Now_. You're a doctor—well act like it!"

This woke him up. We went over to Leo and after a few feeble protests from him, managed to get his pants down. Gloria had returned with towels, and I told her to keep them around Leo's ass. I wanted to minimize the amount of blood on the bed and keep it all on the towels if we could. Doc tenderly began to examine Leo, wiping the blood away. After a minute, he stood up.

"He got hit with only one bullet, in the left buttock. It entered from the side and appears to be buried in the muscle, not too deep, however."

"Can you stitch him up?"

"Of course, but I'll need to take him to an emergency room, or at least get some supplies from there."

"Who is covering for you tonight at your emergency room?"

"My partner, Pete Sloan, is covering for me. I told him Gloria was sick and needed me."

"Can you trust him, can you take Leo there, patch him up with no questions asked? There's a law that you have to report gunshot wounds to the authorities, you know."

He nodded, "Yes. I can trust Pete. We've been friends since medical school."

Things were clicking; the gift was working.

"Alright people, listen to me!" I barked. "We're going to get, Leo, here, to the ER, get him patched up and then home. No cops, no questions, no hassle. Right now all three of you are looking at personal and professional disgrace if this gets to the cops and the papers. Doc, you're looking at losing your medical license and practice, to say nothing of your freedom. Mrs. Randall, if your husband is ruined, so are you. Golf lessons, ladies teas and shopping at the mall will be things of the past. You'll be on your ass as quick as your husband. I don't think you want to start over again at thirty-five, am I right?"

She looked at me with an injured air about her, but nodded her head in agreement.

"Goddamn it, I'm the one shot in the ass," cried Leo. "Don't I have a say in this?"

_Well, well, well,_ thought I, _taking the Lords name in vain. There goes another commandment. We'll just see about that._

I walk over to where Leo was lying on the pillow, leaned over him with my coat open. He got another glimpse of my shiny .38 in its holster. I grabbed his hair and jerked his head up.

"No, you don't, you cheating son-of-a-bitch. You're going to do exactly as I say. If I had it my way, I'd leave you lying in a ditch somewhere and let you bleed to death. But, since the good Doctor is my client and there's a way out of this without having to resort to murder, we're going to take it, at least for now. You see, the second I got your asses in this motel room and laid out this plan, I, _the bastard who put a gun up your nose_ , became an accessory. That means if the cops get in on this, I'm in big trouble. I'll lose my license and might even go to jail. Let me tell you, asshole, you ain't worth going to jail for, so you do as I say, or we'll take a more direct route to solving our problem."

I let the not-so-subtle threat hang in the air. I wasn't really serious about offing the reverend—murder takes cojones, and I don't have enough—but I knew he'd cave in. The guy was shot in the ass, unarmed and supposedly a man of the cloth, so I knew I could act the hard-ass with him and force him to do as I said. He was a slimy bastard like me, and we slimy bastards always know when it is useless to resist.

He looked at me with a mixture of fear and hate, and nodded his head.

"Alright, let's get organized here. We got four cars at this motel, but only three of us can drive. The good reverend is in no condition right now to get behind the wheel. He can ride in my car."

I leaned over and poked McLardy in the ass.

"Give me your car keys, _preacher_."

With a groan, he reached into his coat pocket and dug out his car keys, and I snatched them from him.

I tossed the keys to Mrs. Randall, "We're going to leave your car here for now, since you're the one registered at the motel. If everything goes according to plan, we can pick it up later. Right now, you're going to drive his car to the emergency room. Doc, you'll drive your car there too. I'll follow. Now, let's get this asshole's rear end wrapped up with towels and get his pants on. I don't want to get his blood on my car seat."

We managed to get Leo's pants on without much trouble and stood him up. By now, the good reverend had lapsed into prayer and was begging for the Lord's forgiveness for his illicit fornication and his earlier cursing.

I slapped his face, hard, and told him to shut up. The last thing I needed was for him to start speaking in tongues and waking everyone in the motel up.

"Okay, we're going to help him into the backseat in my car. Once he's in, both of you get in the cars and head for the emergency room."

I grabbed the doc by the shoulder to get his attention.

"Mrs. Randall, you take the lead. Doc, you'll follow. I'll bring up the rear. Once we get to the hospital, go inside Doc and square things with your partner. When you've made the arrangements, come outside and signal me. I'll bring him in," pointing to the Leo.

"Mrs. Randall, you just stay in the car in the parking lot until I say otherwise. Does everyone understand the setup?"

Dr. and Mrs. Randall nodded their head. McLardy just stood there and stared at the floor.

"Let's do it," I growled and opened the room door.

I half carried Leo to my car, opened the door and tossed him in the back seat and slammed the door shut. He fell down with a groan and sort of curled up on the seat. He began mumbling to himself. The other two headed to their respective cars and got in. I hopped in my Buick, started the engine and pulled out of the parking space. The Doc and his wife did the same, and we all exited the parking lot. From the time we left the room until we got out of the parking lot, less than two minutes had expired.

Damn, I love it when a plan comes together.

* * * * *

The drive to the hospital was uneventful, except when Leo began shoutin' the _Lord's Prayer_ at the top of his lungs, and I had to reach back, slap him on the ass and threaten to kill him. After that he just groaned every now and then.

We pulled into the emergency room parking lot around 2:30 A.M. The Doc ran inside. After a few minutes, he came out and waved me in. I got out of my car and dragged the parson inside. Mrs. Randall just sat in front seat of the reverend's car, staring off into space.

It was a weeknight, so things were sort of slow in the hospital. The Doc and I got on either side of McLardy and took him into the treatment room. There we met Dr. Randall's partner, Dr. Sloan. Together, the three of us got the preacher on the table face down and jerked off his pants. He uttered a curse and a moan, but none of us really gave a damn, especially Randall.

In fifteen minutes, it was over. The bullet was pulled out of McLardy's left buttock; the hole was stitched up; various shots were given to ward off infection and all done without any local anesthesia. Leo was crying like a baby by then, but I figured that Doc Randall was entitled to his fun. After all, it wasn't like he was going to charge him a fee or anything. However, in order to make the good reverend a bit more docile and easier to push around as I took him home, I did manage to convince Dr. Sloan to give Leo a hefty shot of morphine after Randall was done.

Once we had finished treating Leo, I pulled Randall to one side and explained the rest of the plan.

"We're going to put Leo in his car, and I'll drive him to his home. You and your wife will follow me to his house, and after I drop him off, you can bring me back here to get my car. After that, you two are on your own. My advice is for you to go back to the motel, get your wife's car, go home and go to bed."

I looked directly at Dr. Randall.

"You wanted to know about your wife. Well, by damn, now you know. I'll drop by your office tomorrow afternoon and give you my bill. Rest assured that it will be more than we agreed upon, but we aren't going to have any problems paying it, are we?"

He looked at me for a moment, and I saw him get a bit red in the face. After all, in his little world he was king. No one ever talked to him like I just did, but he wasn't in his world now. He was in mine, and he knew it.

He swallowed hard and nodded his head.

We wrestled the reverend into the backseat of his car. By then, the morphine was hitting him hard, and he was alternating between giggling and praying. Mrs. Randall told me that he lived in the parsonage next to his church. I told them to lead the way, and I'd follow.

As we drove home, Leo began to call me his personal John the Baptist, a stern taskmaster who has set him back on the road to righteousness. I had to slap the bastard in the ass again to shut him up.

We pulled up to his house. After I rang the doorbell a couple of times, Mrs. McLardy, dressed in a robe, opened the door. I really didn't know what to expect from her. She was the weak link in this whole mess, the only person who was truly innocent. The last thing she probably expected to see at four in the morning was her husband with a bullet hole in his ass and whacked out on morphine. I was ready for her to fall apart on me, but the lady surprised me.

She looked at her husband. Her eyes flashed white hot.

"Is the bastard goddamn drunk? I told him that if he came home like this again, I was going to shove my foot up his fucking ass."

I breathed a sigh of relief. Handling nasty mouth bitches was a specialty of mine.

"Lady, either help me get him to bed, or I'll just dump him here. You decide. I really don't give a goddamn."

She looked me up and down a bit, grunted and let me in.

"This way," she pointed, "put him in the guest room. I don't want the son-of-a-bitch in bed with me."

I took Leo into the room and tossed him on to the bed. With a groan, he rolled over and passed out.

I shut the bedroom door and turned around to face her. By now, she'd calmed down a bit and was giving me the once over.

"Who the hell are you? I've never seen you before."

"Let's just say that I'm the man who saved your man from getting killed by a jealous husband, okay? Normally, I wouldn't be so blunt, but it's late, and I suspect that this isn't the first time you've caught him screwing around, is it?"

She looked at me a second and then snorted.

"Who was it this time? It isn't that waitress again is it? I told that bitch to find someone else to screw, or I was going to rip out her heart."

I just shook my head and silently thanked God I wasn't married to this broad. I almost felt sorry for Leo when he sobered up.

"No, and it really doesn't matter. What does matter is that an irate husband shot him in his ass, but I managed to get it fixed with no police interference. I'll let your husband explain the rest. I advise you just to wait and hear the story from him."

This sort of stunned her into silence. I spun around on my heel and got the hell out of there.

Dr. and Mrs. Randall were waiting for me, and we drove back to the hospital in silence.

We pulled up next to my car, and I said, "You two were lucky tonight. Randall, remember, I'll be by tomorrow with my bill. Good night."

I got out of the car and got into mine. I was home and in bed in less than an hour.

## Chapter 5

I presented Randall a bill for twenty-five grand the next day. He paid it off without blinking an eye. When Ernie got back from Vegas, he got pissed. He felt I should have charged $30,000. Once Ernie had calmed down, he did admit I had handled a difficult situation pretty well and just attributed my undercharging to inexperience.

A few weeks went by after the Randall affair. Ernie had come back from Vegas with his hemorrhoids inflamed—what in the hell had he been doing with those whores?—and despite his claims of using over a pint a Preparation-H a day, they really were giving him a problem. Ernie constantly pissed and moaned about them in the office and would routinely stand-up, reach around, shove his hand up his ass crack and pinch them to get some relief from the itching. Now, I can understand a man wanting to scratch his rectum on occasion, but most of us would do it in private. Not Ernie. He'd pinch his 'roids anytime, anywhere, and usually groan in relief when he nailed one just right. After he'd done this in front of a couple of clients, and they had sort of gagged in disgust, both Ernie and I agreed that I would do most of the customer interviews, at least until he got his hemorrhoid problem under control.

Things went smoothly like this for a while and Twillfigger Investigations was making more money than ever before thanks to Ernie's connections and my charm. Then one day, we got a call from a Mr. Sanford H. Milton, Attorney-at-Law.

I remember it was a Wednesday morning when the call came in. Ernie answered the phone and after a two or three-minute conversation, he hung up the phone and called for me to come into his office. I walked in and saw Ernie had the special gleam in his eye that he only gets when there's a lot of money to be made.

"Jay, my boy, do you know who that was on the phone?" he chortled. "That was Sandy Milton, the biggest, most expensive divorce lawyer in the state, and he wants to hire us for a job."

"So what, a job is a job, and we have standard rates that we use anyway."

"Damn it, haven't you learned anything since you've been here?" he groaned. "First, our standard rates just went up. This guy represents the crème-de-la crème, and he charges accordingly. Believe me, a divorce is a divorce, and the only real difference between Milton and some other divorce attorney is the rates Milton charges. I he can charge an arm and a leg, so can we."

"Second, we can pad the shit out of our expense account and no one— _and I mean no one_ —will raise an eyebrow over it. We're talking fights over estates in the millions here, so a piss-ant little charge here and there is of no consequence."

I slowly nodded my head, as if in agreement but Ernie just stared at me.

"You still don't get it do you. Listen, when word gets out that we're working for Milton—and buddy, it will if I have anything to say about it—our business will double. Lawyers are like lemmings. They follow the leader, and the leader is the lawyer who charges the most. Right now, that's Sandy Milton."

"Have you ever done any work for him in the past?"

"Naw—he knows who I am, but I guess he figured that I wasn't the right sort of guy for the clientele he catered to."

"Well, why the change of heart?"

"My guess he heard about me taking you as a junior partner, and probably heard you looked more presentable than me—Hell, you know that I do my best work in the background, I ain't afraid to admit that. That's one reason I picked you, you put on a good front."

"Yeah, yeah, right, but did he give any other reasons or any information as to what he wants us for?"

"He just said that this job called for someone who could get the job done, and money was no object. We set up an appointment with him and his client at his office for this afternoon, around half past four."

Money was no object!? These words from a lawyer? Immediately, a warm glow of suspicion began to grow in the back of my head, but Ernie's greed was contagious and got the better of me.

We both agreed that it would be best that I alone go to the meeting. Ernie was still grabbing his ass at random periods, and considering the type of clients that Milton had, we didn't want to take a chance on offending their sensibilities. The rest of the day was taken up in routine activities, and around three o'clock I began to clean myself up and get presentable to meet the lawyer and his client.

I got in my car and drove to Milton's office, arriving there a few minutes before 4:30. Located on a quiet street, if it wasn't for the modest and tasteful lawyer's shingle sign on the sculptured front lawn, you would have thought it was a residence instead of a law office.

It was an old, two-story Victorian turn of the century affair that had been fully restored to its original grandeur. With its immaculate white siding, coupled with green shutters and roof, it dripped wealth and influence. I remember to this day the wave of envy that hit me when I saw it.

I pulled into the small parking lot located across the street and parked my car. I saw a maroon E-type Jaguar parked in the space reserved for Mr. Milton. A few other cars were in spaces reserved for Milton's partners and employees. The only other car not parked in a reserved space was a sky-blue late model Mercedes which I assumed, correctly, belonged to my prospective client. There's nothing like seeing a Mercedes to whet the old avarice appetite.

I walked across the street towards the office, climbed up the three steps to the veranda that wrapped around the house and entered through the front door. A dour looking secretary in her mid-fifties, who identified herself as Miss Saunders, greeted me. I handed her my business card and told her I had an appointment with Mr. Milton. She glanced at the card, sniffed and told me to have a seat in the waiting room, and she'd inform Mr. Milton of my arrival.

I sat in the waiting room for about ten minutes, alternating between staring at the walls and ceiling. I heard a buzzer in Miss Saunders' office and a few seconds later, she walked out and announced Mr. Milton would see me now. I thanked her and followed her down the hall, where she escorted me into Milton's large, tastefully decorated office.

The first thing that came to mind when I saw Sanford H. Milton was the word 'crisp'. Everything about him was crisp. His shirt collar, the cuffs on his sleeves, the razor crease in his dark-blue pinstripe suit, even his perfectly groomed, salt and pepper hair, all had this aura of crisp perfection about them. His face was pleasant and ordinary, the perfect lawyer face. It exuded a sense of dependability and trust that clients and juries found reassuring. If there was ever a man who was a natural-born lawyer, at least in the looks department, Sandy Milton was it.

I hated the bastard the second I laid eyes on him.

He was standing behind his desk, talking with our client, who was seated in one of two overstuffed leather chairs in front of the desk. Milton introduced her as Mrs. Tamara Whippy. I took one look at her and felt the temperature in the room drop a couple of degrees.

She was drop-dead gorgeous. She was tall, a few inches under six feet, with a thin, elegant build. She was a natural blonde and had flawless, alabaster skin. Her hair was short and expertly coiffed. She was wearing a dark blue, conservative Christian Dior suit with a string of pearls as her only jewelry. Her skirt came down to her knees, showing off a pair of perfectly formed calves. Patrician in bearing, the only bit of passion in her manner was hinted in her footwear...a pair of blue-black Italian spiked high heels.

The thing that hit me hardest about her was her eyes. They were ice blue and one look into them told me that I was dealing with one mean, cold bitch.

While Milton was introducing us, she fixed me with a look that said it all..."Look, I am better than you. It has nothing to do with intelligence, education, looks or ethics. It's all in the genes, asshole. I was born with them, and you weren't and there's nothing, _nothing_ that you can do to alter this situation. I'm your better, period."

She said it with a just a glance, and I felt it clear through to my bones.

Hopefully hiding my discomfort, I said, "Pleased to meet you Mrs. Whippy."

I sat down in the other chair without being asked and looked expectantly at Sandy Milton, who started to speak.

"First of all, let me say I was a little surprised to hear that Mr. Twillfigger had sent you instead of himself to discuss this matter—I take it that you're a fully qualified professional detective? Pardon me for asking, but—but this is a special situation that requires the utmost perseverance and skill."

"I'm a fully licensed and qualified Detective, and a former Naval Officer, battle tested I might add," I replied. "I have Mr. Twillfigger's full confidence and am now a partner in his agency. Rest assured, if you hire me, you hire the whole firm."

_Hemorrhoids and all_ , I said to myself.

This seemed to satisfy Milton. As for Mrs. Whippy, she just stared at a wall as she sat there, not willing to deign my existence. She was starting to piss me off.

"Are you familiar with the Whippy family, Mr. Dafoe?"

I shook my head no, but the name did sound vaguely familiar.

"Surely you have heard their stores that go by that same name?"

Now I remembered; the Whippy's Bull. Whippy's was a supermarket chain in the southeast. Their logo was a big black bull with a ring through its nose wearing a butcher's apron and brandishing a whip.

_We'll Whip the Competition's Prices!_ had been their slogan for years, and there was hardly a town from North Carolina to Florida that wasn't near a Whippy's. It was a family-owned business and a damn successful one at that. If Mrs. Whippy was going after a slice of that pie, then Ernie was right, we were going to make some big bucks here.

My interest piqued, I said, "Of course, you just had to jog my memory, please continue."

"Mrs. Whippy's husband is Lawrence Whippy, Jr., who is currently a vice-president in the family business. His father, Lawrence, Sr., is still in charge overall, but is grooming his son to take over one day. My client and Mr. Whippy will have been married four years come next month and unfortunately, what started out as a promising union has deteriorated to a point that Mrs. Whippy now desires to terminate the marriage and salvage what she can out of the rest of her life. That is where you and I come in."

I nodded my head, mumbled a few platitudes about how difficult it is to get a marriage to work out in the pressure cooker of the modern world. Milton smiled benevolently at me as I said this, going through the kabuki dance that he, no doubt, had done a thousand times before. Mrs. Whippy just glanced at me and turned her head away without a modicum of acknowledgement.

"Yes, things are difficult nowadays," cooed Milton, "and I'm sure you see the need for Mrs. Whippy to protect herself financially."

_Here it comes_...

Milton looked over to Mrs. Whippy.

"Now Tamara, I know this is going to be painful to discuss, but if we want to get the full benefit of Mr. Dafoe's services, we're going to have to be brutally honest with him about the situation at hand."

She just stared at him for a second, reached in her pocketbook for a cigarette and waved her hand at him to proceed. I quickly grabbed my Zippo that I kept handy and offered her a light, but she just looked at it like it was a wet turd. She pulled her own lighter out and lit her cigarette. She snapped it closed and stuck it back in her pocketbook and turned away.

The goddamned bitch.

Milton smoothly went on, as if nothing had happened. I, on the other hand, felt the warning bells go off in my head. Something wasn't right here. The lady, even if she was an "Ice Queen", was being awful nasty and not even attempting to act the part of the distraught mate.

"As you no doubt realize, the Whippy family is wealthy, and when Tamara here announces her decision to end the marriage, the family will be able to muster formidable assets against her. She'll be all alone against some of the most hard-nosed lawyers around. If she's to have any chance to preserve what is rightfully hers, we must even the playing field, somewhat."

"I take it, that is where you'll require my services as a private detective, correct?"

"Correct! We're in dire need of someone who can take the bull by the horns and prove that Mr. Whippy has been unfaithful."

I sat there for a moment and stroked my chin, as if deciding I wanted to undertake such a distasteful task. It was all part of the kabuki dance, but the forms had to be obeyed.

"I understand your dilemma—and if I agree to take on this assignment, it is understood I'll get complete cooperation from all involved, yes?"

"Of course Jay—I can call you Jay?"

"Of course — _Sandy_. Now let's get down to brass tacks." I turned to face Mrs. Whippy.

"What information do you have that your husband is having a relationship with another woman, Mrs. Whippy?"

She looked at me like I was caught raping her cat, and before she could speak Milton cut in.

"We're not sure whom he's having a liaison with. We're not even positive it is just with one person. What we're sure of is that Mr. Whippy started acting remote from Tamara here, starting a couple of years ago. In fact, they've been almost completely estranged for over the past year. You can understand how this might upset her. She's sure there's another woman, or women, involved but doesn't have any real proof. That's why we need you."

"Fine, Sandy, Mr. Twillfigger and I will accept the assignment. Our fee is—"

Milton interrupted me. "There's one more thing that you need to know and agree to before you accept this job."

"What's that?"

"Because of the vast resources that the Whippy's can array against us, we're going to need an airtight case against Lawrence."

"I can assure you," I said in my best professional voice, "any evidence we gather against Mr. Whippy will stand up in court. If we say we have proof he's having an affair, we will have proof."

"Oh, I'm sure of that—but we feel we might need a little extra, just to be on the safe side."

_Extra_? I heard the warning bells start to ring again.

"Can you be more specific?" I asked.

"As I was saying, because of the resources the Whippy family can bring to bear, we will need an equalizer. We want you to get actual photographs of Mr. Whippy and his lover in bed together—caught in the act, so to say. We will make it worth your while, but we want that _extra effort_ to get the proof we need. We _really_ must insist on it, I'm afraid."

With that last statement, Milton just sort of looked at me expectantly. Mrs. Whippy was coolly gazing at me, with the smoke of her cigarette curling around her flawless face.

Now I knew why he called Ernie for this job. They wanted pictures of Whippy and his girlfriend doing it in bed, and they wanted them even if it meant someone breaking the law to get them. Taking pictures of Whippy and paramour together in public or even entering a motel wasn't enough for them. Never mind it'd stand up in court, be they weren't looking to go to court. They wanted to blackmail the Whippy family into a settlement, cause let's face it, with resources that the Whippy's could throw against them, there was a good chance Mrs. Whippy would come up way short in any settlement by a judge. They needed those pictures, bad, and they needed an unscrupulous detective to get those pictures for them.

Don't get me wrong, now. Any detective would take pictures of a couple in bed if given the opportunity to do it legally. Where most—not all, but most—draw the line on is trespassing on private property, commit breaking and entering on an estate or illegally invading the privacy of a _wealthy_ person. If the person is poor or just plain run-of-the-mill middle class, it's no big deal; any detective will do it without batting an eye. These people don't have cash or the connections to do anything about it. A rich man, however, can strike back and make life hell for the private dick who breaks the law in order to make a fool of him. Milton knew that and that's why he went slumming for Ernie. He needed a man who would do anything for a buck. Well, by God, I'll show him, I thought. Admittedly, Milton was spot-on when he hired Ernie and me, but by damn he was going to pay.

"That complicates things—I'm not saying that it's impossible to do—but it does entail Ernie and I taking certain risks above and beyond what is usually required, wouldn't you agree?"

"Of course we will pay extra for the service," said Milton. "I was thinking somewhere in the neighborhood of five thousand."

I stared at him a second before answering.

"I need to be able to speak with my partner, in private, to make sure he agrees with this, then we will discuss a final fee."

Milton nodded his head and led me to an adjacent office that had a phone.

I called Ernie up and brought him up to speed on the situation.

"Five grand is bullshit!" he cried. "The Whippys are one of the wealthiest families in the area. Ask for twenty K and settle for ten, minimum, plus hours and expenses."

"I got a better idea, Ernie. Let's tie it to the amount she gets from the settlement. We'll ask for ten grand, but settle for 7500 bucks, minimum, plus hours and expenses. Then insist on a thousand bucks more for every hundred grand she gets in settlement, up to a final fee of twenty thousand plus incidentals."

Ernie thought about it, and then agreed it sounded good, but he insisted that our lawyer was to write up the contract between Tamara Whippy and us—not Milton. That sounded wise to me.

I went back to Milton's office and outlined the plan. At first, Milton balked, but after a few minutes of haggling, where I reluctantly _agreed_ to 7500 minimum, we came to an agreement. I then asked for any information they might have on Lawrence Whippy. With that request, Milton took a folder off his desk and handed it to me.

It was as he was handing me the folder that I noticed it. On Milton's coat lapel was a smudge of what looked like it was from some woman's makeup. I knew it hadn't been there before I left the room to talk with Ernie. I took a look at Tamara, but she was staring off into space. I noticed that the smudge was the same color as her makeup. I filed this fact for later use and turned my attention to the dossier on Lawrence Whippy.

Lawrence "Larry" Clay Whippy, Jr.; Born: March 21, 1939 in Charlotte; Age: thirty-nine; Vice-President, Whippy's Food, Inc.; Graduated: Yale University 1962; Hair, eyes: brown; Height five feet four inches, weight 200 pounds! I looked at this fact in disbelief, then took a look at the picture of the man and believed it. Larry Whippy was short, bald, bespectacled guy with a face not unlike that of a full moon.

This was the small, harmless fat man whose life I'd agreed to ruin. I took a look at Tamara Whippy, who by then was looking at me view her husband's portrait. I pointedly picked up her husband's picture and pretended to examine it.

"Yes, Mrs. Whippy," I intoned, "I can see how difficult it must be for you to lose your husband, him being a Yale man and all." She got red in the face, but said nothing.

It was a cheap victory, but it made me feel better.

After that, we quickly wrapped up business. I told Milton, that as soon as we had a signed agreement, Twillfigger investigations would get on the case. I made my goodbyes and walked out to my car.

It was a little past six. I started my car and left. I quickly backtracked my way back to the office and parked a bit down the road. I was playing a hunch here, hoping to score some insurance in case our client and her lawyer proved troublesome.

A few minutes later, Milton and Tamara left the office together and got into their cars and left in the same direction. I followed them for an hour. They wound up at a little out of the way lodge house on Lake Norman, where they parked their cars in the garage and went inside. After about an hour, the lights went off in the cabin. I didn't bother to stay there any longer. I'd confirmed what I suspected, and had it all on film.

## Chapter 6

The next morning Ernie got in touch with our lawyer and had him draw up the contract between Tamara Whippy and us. By mid-afternoon we had a signed agreement. I started to make preparations to start following Mr. Whippy around that weekend. My social life was still enough on the non-existent side to where I could devote the entire weekend to the project at hand without having to break any dates with any babes.

I told Ernie about my trailing Milton and Tamara to their little love nest at Lake Norman the previous night. Ernie listened a bit and then chuckled.

"I'll be damned, Sandy's tapping that stuff is he? I know he has been divorced for about six years now, so I guess it's no big deal. But I agree, something ain't quite kosher here. I'll make a few calls while you're out trailing Whippy. I really don't expect to get much out of it, but ya never know, eh?"

I agreed. I went home early that day to chill out a bit and have a few beers. I planned to start our trailing of Larry Whippy the next morning. I slept well and got up early, ready to go.

The information packet that Milton had supplied had been thorough. It pretty well scoped out the biographical facts as well as Whippy's daily routine. Milton was a slimy bastard, but he knew his job. The information and its packaging was first rate, and really made my job a lot easier. A lot of time and effort had gone into it and back then I was too green to realize how out of the ordinary this was. The sheer completeness and evidence of time spent on this dossier, plus the apparent affair with his client and her attitude in general, should have warned Ernie and me that things were not as they appeared, but as usual, the money blinded us.

Yep. Milton knew who to choose to do his dirty work for him, all right.

* * * * *

I made my way to Whippy's office, which was located just to the east of Charlotte, in Gaston county. The office was a sprawling one-story brick affair with a large warehouse and loading bay located next to it.

According to the package Milton gave me, the warehouse was one of their regional distribution centers, while the office was the corporate HQ for their entire company.

Whippy usually arrived at work at eight o'clock, driving a steel gray Lincoln Continental. He kept strict hours, always leaving work precisely at five. Most days, he'd spend all his time in his office, venturing out only for the occasional business or bank meeting. At least once every two weeks or so, he'd leave the office at mid-morning and inspect the various Whippy's in and around the Charlotte area to get a first hand impression on how things are going on the front line.

I got to his office at around half past seven and pulled into the warehouse parking lot across the street, shut the engine off and waited. Sure enough, Larry Whippy arrived in his silver Lincoln a little bit before eight. He got out of the car, and I had my first glimpse of the guy.

He looked just like his picture. Short, fat and bald, wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a blue business suit. He walked briskly to the front of his office building and went inside. I settled down for the wait.

This is the tough part of my job, the waiting. I knew I was staring at eight to nine hours of boredom before he left for the day, but there wasn't much else I could do. Larger agencies could put guys on shifts to alleviate this problem, but I was a lone wolf operator in those days. And to be honest, I really didn't mind it that much. I always took a few books to read, had a radio for music and some snacks. I've been the solitary sort in life, and maybe this is why I could stay out on stakeout for long periods of time. Even today—despite employing over thirty gumshoes worldwide—when I'm personally on a case, I still like to work alone. More importantly, however, I was blessed with a steel bladder back then. Nowadays, it's more like tin.

There are few things that can screw up a detective more when he's trailing a man, then having to take a leak. Despite what's been written or shown on TV, trailing a guy mostly consists of not losing sight of him. A strong bladder means not having to stop and piss every time you down a coke or beer, and that means fewer chances of losing track of your mark. Show me a private dick with a weak bladder, and I'll show you a guy who has lost track of a person he has been shadowing be he had to stop and find a place to piss.

So I sat there and waited, reading cheap paperbacks and listening to the radio. I had my car widows tinted so it was difficult for anyone to notice me inside. I watched the comings and goings of the employees of the Whippy's grocery empire. Around ten o'clock, I was pleasantly surprised by the sight of Whippy leaving his office, getting inside his car and driving off. Thankful for this respite, I started my engine and followed him as he headed out.

About thirty minutes later, we were on the west outskirts of Charlotte, pulling into the local Whippy's supermarket. Larry got out of his car and walked inside. After a few minutes, I did the same.

As I entered the supermarket, I saw Whippy off by the produce department, talking with a man in a white shirt and tie, which I assumed to be the store manager. He was taller and in better shape than Larry, but there was no mistaking who was boss. Whippy strode around the store like he was Napoleon, inspecting the different displays, looking at the meat locker, talking to customers and finally making his way to the manager's office, where he spent the next half hour looking over the books and lecturing the store manager. He left the store around noon, smiling and apparently satisfied. He got in his car and left.

I followed him as he drove his Lincoln back towards his office, keeping a discrete distance from him at all times. We were about a mile from his office, when Whippy pulled into a local garage, _Darren's Gas and Lube_ , apparently deciding to top off his gas tank for the weekend—always a good sign of impending action to us detectives. I pulled into a stop-and-rob located across the street, got out and pretended to buy a soda inside, all the time keeping an eye on Whippy.

At the garage, your typical, redneck grease monkey in a ball cap came out and asked Larry what he wanted and was soon filling his tank with gas. Larry got out, pointed to his hood, said something and then went to the bathroom. The grease monkey popped the hood and was busy checking the oil when Larry came back out. They exchanged a few words, a quart of oil was added and Larry paid the tab with his credit card. Altogether, it took about ten minutes and then Larry and I were back on the road.

I expected Larry to go back to his office, but he surprised me by stopping at another Whippy's, located just a few blocks down the road from the gas station. I pulled into the parking lot behind him and watched him enter the market. I hastily took off my coat and tie, switched to a different pair of sunglasses, donned a ball cap and followed him in.

I had learned this trick from Ernie. Always alter your appearance a bit when trailing a mark. People recognize outfits quicker than faces, so carry an extra coat or sweater and a couple of baseball caps whenever you are on a stakeout. You never know when it might come in handy.

I went inside the store and looked for Whippy. I found him at the frozen-food section, talking to a stern looking matron in her late forties, early fifties. She was rather thickset, had dark hair coiled into a tight bun and wore a severe black dress that came down to her mid-calves. Her feet were encased in some god-awful, rubber-soled shoes. When combined with the clipboard she was holding, the whole ensemble gave her the appearance of a schoolmarm from hell. I was afraid to get too close to eavesdrop, so I kept my distance and pretended to be looking for something. Unlike in the last store, Larry wasn't strutting his stuff here. He was acting subdued and a bit cowed with this lady. After a few minutes, they retired to the manager's office. I glided by the office, saw the name "Gladys Mapletree, Manager" stenciled on the door and kept walking. After a few minutes, Whippy exited the office, quickly strode to his car and drove off. I was scrambling just to keep up with him.

He drove the few blocks back to his office and was at his desk by two. I settled in the parking lot for another wait. Sure enough, at five sharp, Whippy exited his office and drove off. He went straight home, and I thought that I was more or less finished for the day. I decided to give him till nine o'clock to see if he was going out for the night, and would then call it quits. I was glad I waited, because at around half past eight, I was greeted with the site of Lawrence Whippy leaving home in his car.

Even better, he was alone.

My instincts kicked in went off when I saw this. I knew something was going down. I was a little pissed at first, because it had been a long day already, and I wanted to go home. Eventually, I convinced myself that if I could nail something down that night, it'd free up the rest of my weekend. So I resigned myself to a long night and hoped for the best.

I followed Whippy as he made his way back east, towards Gaston County. I kept my distance from him. After about thirty minutes, he pulled off the main road and headed south down a narrow two-lane road. I followed, keeping his taillights in sight the whole time. It was dark now. I was starting to worry I might lose him if this took much longer. Then, it happened. We entered a one stoplight town, where I saw him brake up ahead and turn into a small motel parking lot. I slowed down and pulled into a closed used-car lot where I could observe the motel complex.

Whippy didn't bother to check-in at the main office, but parked his car in front of one of the rooms in the back of the motel. He'd just knocked on the door when I spied him. His girlfriend must have gotten there before him. The door to the motel room opened up just a crack and Larry slipped in.

I had him. Now I had to figure out a way to get in that room, and at just the right time.

I sat back for a second and surveyed the situation. There wasn't much in this small, one-horse town. The motel, the car lot I was parked in, a diner and a gas station was about it. Everything was closed but the motel. The name flickering on the neon sign next to the road was "Shamrock Inn". It had around twenty rooms, of which about only a few appeared to be occupied. I were any judge of small town motels and morals—and I am—I'd have bet that none of the couples checked into this dive were married, at least to each other.

The motel had seen better days. The yellow siding was showing signs of major mold, and the parking lot asphalt was crumbling. What stood out the most were the doors to the rooms. They'd been recently painted a garish purple and smack-dab in the middle of each door was painted a neon green, two-foot, four-leaf clover. It gave you a headache just to look at it. If you want the real reason to hate the 1970's, it was the color combinations they had back then, not disco.

I sat in the car and thought for about ten minutes. Once I had a plan of action worked out in my head, I started up my car.

I pulled into the motel's parking lot and cruised by the door I'd seen Whippy enter. The room number was twelve. I parked my car in front of the motel office and entered it. No one was manning the desk at the time, but the guest register was on the desk behind the counter. Quickly, I grabbed it and checked to see who had signed into room twelve. A "M. Smith" had checked in early evening, paying for the room in advance. As I was looking at the book, I heard someone open up a door in the back. I had just enough warning to put it back on the desk and stand in front of the counter as the desk clerk for the night walked in.

He was a young kid, in his early twenties, with long hair tied back in a ponytail. Wearing a Rolling Stones t-shirt and jeans, he was a few inches shorter than me, but was painfully thin. More importantly, his eyes were bloodshot and the faint, sweet smell of marijuana floated around him. He was stoned to the max, and I was thanking my lucky stars.

He looked at me warily and said, "What can I do for you?"

I just stared at the little twerp for a few seconds and let him sweat. Then, ever so slowly, I reached my arm back to scratch the back of my head. As I did, my coat opened up a bit, and there it was, my .38 caliber police special, glowing with menace. He saw it, and his eyes got wide.

"Well, that depends," I said, fully aware that he had seen the gun, "are you too stoned to help me, hippie-boy?"

There are few things more fun in my line of work than picking on poor, defenseless, longhaired druggies. They're paranoid when straight, so you can imagine how nervous they are when high. Their whole world revolves around music and drugs, and they have no stomach for any real violence. I've routinely found them to be easy pickings, especially since I'm usually a lot bigger and armed. You can push them, prod them and use them, and they will let you, cause they don't want to get busted. That means jail and jail means sobriety and sobriety means _reality_. Drugs, it's their Achilles heel, and I must admit, I always enjoyed taking advantage of 'em. The power to terrify another human being into becoming a babbling fool is a hell of an ego trip, and it's so easy with a pothead.

Simply put, it feels good to feel superior.

My running into this punk couldn't have come at better time. I needed a passkey to the motel room. I was thinking that I was going to have to bribe the desk clerk into giving up the key and if the clerk had been a straight arrow and couldn't have been bribed, then force, or even implied force, would have been out of the question. That meant either I'd have to wait for another day and another motel to get the goods on Whippy, or just break down the door and snap what pictures I could—not exactly the best way to get what you want.

That was moot now. I had a dope-head for a motel clerk. If I couldn't extort the passkey from him, I might as well give up my detective license.

The little shit was sweating now. He probably assumed I was a cop, and I wasn't about to let him think otherwise. He just stood there and looked at me, shaking like a leaf.

"Listen, I'm not after you, at least not yet," I sneered. "I really don't give a damn what you rot your brain out with, as long as you do _exactly_ as I say. Don't work with me, and I'll see that you get popped for possession and whatever else I can think of. Do as I say, and you can go home after your shift and smoke a joint."

I let it hang there second or two, then said, "Okay asshole, what's it going to be?"

"Man, I'll do whatever you want, just give me a break."

"Fine. What's your name?"

"Cecil—Cecil Akins."

"Okay, Cecil, first, tell me who is checked into room twelve?"

He turned to the register and looked.

"It says someone named 'M. Smith' checked in there about half past six. I wasn't here then. My shift started at eight. Meg was on then."

"Is Meg still around?"

"No, sir. She left right after I got here. She had a date." The boy was a fount of knowledge.

"Tell me about your rooms here, _hippie-boy_ , what kind of locks do they have?"

"Just plain old door locks."

"Hell, I figured that," I growled. "What I want to know is what kind of security lock the person can set in the room. Is it a chain lock or what?"

"Naw, just a simple door lock is all we got. Mr. Sampson, the owner, was talking of putting in chain locks for the customer, but never got around to it. This place is pretty old you know."

"How many beds in twelve?"

"Two queens," muttered Cecil.

I thought for a second. It was shaping up nicely, almost too nicely. Catching the guy stepping out on the first night of surveillance, going to a nice, quiet out of the way motel, the druggie for a clerk, and now only needing a passkey to open a door with no security chain to slow me down. It was almost too perfect. Life is strange like that, and I wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

I looked at Cecil, reached into my pocket and pulled two twenty-dollar bills.

"How would you like to make a quick forty bucks?"

Now he was confused. Cops weren't supposed to offer money.

"I don't get it—What kind of cop are you?"

"Who said I was a cop, kid? I'm a private detective, and I need to get into room twelve without breaking down the door. I expect you let me borrow the passkey for a while and let me do my job. In return, you'll get this forty bucks, and I won't call the cops and tell them you're smoking _and selling_ weed at this motel."

Cecil looked at me for a second, looked at the money, and then looked at me again. I could see that once he knew I wasn't a cop, he'd calmed down a bit, but he knew he wasn't out of the woods yet.

"You sure I won't get in trouble?"

"Only if you don't do as I ask," I replied. "Now, where's that key?"

He hesitated a second or two, then opened a drawer on the desk reached in and grabbed a key chain with a couple of keys on it. He handed them to me.

"Here you go, both of the keys are passkeys. Now give me my money."

I threw one twenty at him.

"You'll get the other one after I'm done. Now go out back and smoke a joint or something. I'll leave the other twenty on the desk after I'm finished."

I turned and strode out of the office. I got in my car and moved it to a parking space just down a bit from room twelve. I reached in the back and got my camera case out. I grabbed my camera and fitted the wide-angle lens on it. This was going to be quick, close in work. I wanted to make sure that when I snapped the picture of Whippy and his girl making it on the bed, they would be in the picture. I figured that I wasn't going to have time to frame the shot. I had one chance and one chance only. I put on the flash for the camera, made sure it was charged and that the motor drive for the camera was ready to go. It'd snap pictures as long as I held the button down, and the camera had film in it. I was ready.

The lights were still on in room twelve, so I slowly sauntered by it, not expecting to hear anything. I was wrong. There was a radio playing Sinatra on inside and above that sound was the unmistakable sounds of grunts and lust emanating from the room. Christ, a perfect day just got better. They had left the lights on! With this film I was using, a flash would be unnecessary. That meant I had a 50/50 chance of quietly unlocking the door, sticking the camera through the crack and taking a lot pictures without them catching on vice getting one flash shot and all hell breaking loose. Between Sinatra and the grunting going on, I was hoping they wouldn't notice I'd been there. Milton would love being able to spring these pictures on the Whippy family unaware, and I might even get a bonus. Anyway, the last thing I wanted was to make a scene and the more pictures I could get, the better.

Quickly, I took off the camera flash and approached the door with passkey in hand. I slipped the key in and slowly unlocked and opened the door. The level of noise increased dramatically. I heard the unmistakable sound of skin slapping on skin and the voice of a male, grunting in cadence with the slapping noise.

Without looking in, I stuck the camera through the small opening and started snapping pictures, knowing that with the wide-angle lens, I wouldn't miss a thing. My camera was an expensive model, and the sound of the camera's motor drive was drowned out by the noise from inside. Within a few seconds, I'd taken over ten pictures and had probably gotten all the proof/blackmail Milton needed, but I wanted to be sure. The last thing I wanted was to get back to the office, have these pictures developed and find out that the faces were covered up. So I decided to take a gamble and stick my head in a get a few more shots, just to be sure. If I was seen, it was no big loss, but it'd be nice to get away without them catching on!

Slowly, I put my head through the crack in the door, camera ready. I admit, I was a wee bit curious as to whom ol'Larry was banging.

Inside, on the queen-sized bed furthest from the door, I saw a nude Lawrence Whippy, up on all fours with his head buried in a pillow. Situated behind him, with his eyes squeezed shut, was the gas-station attendant from _Darren's Gas and Lube_. He was wearing nothing but an Atlanta Braves baseball cap and pair of black socks, pounding for all he was worth on Whippy's raised, pink ass.

## Chapter 7

I had hit the proverbial "private eye" home run. I'd managed to enter a mark's motel room, snap multiple pictures of him in a very compromising position and, most importantly, managed to do it without anyone being the wiser. Both these guys were oblivious to me, enthralled in the passion of "manly" love. All I had to do was quietly shut the door, return the passkey, get in my car and leave. Whippy would have never had a clue as to what I'd accomplished until his wife's lawyer laid out the pictures and demanded money.

Unfortunately, I blew it.

Let me state at the outset that I personally don't give a rat's ass as to what two or more consenting adults do in the privacy of the bedroom. Far be it from me to restrict people on how they achieve sexual gratification. In turn, however, no one has the right to change me from what I am and that is a normal, healthy heterosexual male. And let me state categorically, and without hesitation, straight men do not and cannot understand why a guy would want to pork another guy. I don't care if the guy is Democrat or Republican, liberal or conservative, black or white, fascist or communist. If a man is straight, he cringes when confronted with queers, period. It's part of our makeup. It's what makes us what we are, it's _in our genes_. We can no more stop this reaction than stop breathing. A man who tells you otherwise is either lying or gay.

In addition, we're on the threshold of giving a certain segment in our society preferential, protected status based solely on where this segment sticks their dicks in order to get their jollies. Think about it, folks, when and where do we draw the line? Hell, you know and I know that there are men out there who will place their schlong about anywhere.

I remember back when I was in the Navy. It was the night before we were due to pull into Thailand after being at sea for four months, and everyone was excited. We had put our libidos on ice for a while, and this crusty Warrant Officer was wanting to get us back in fighting trim for our next day's port call. He set up an old 8mm movie projector, and some of us gathered around to watch some porn movies and take the time out to unwind. After a few clips, the Warrant announces he has got something special and proceeds to put on another reel. He turns on the projector and in a few seconds, we see the screen announce the title of the movie, "Mr. Chickenfucker."

There, amidst howls of laughter and curses, I watched a grainy, black-and-white movie of a man having his way with a thrashing, obviously pissed-off chicken. By the end of the mercifully short movie, the chicken was either comatose or dead and this dude had flung it to the ground, smiling in triumph. I'm not proud to say that I watched it, but in my and my fellow shipmates defense, if you have been at sea an extended period of time, and you're not queer, you tend to get a little weird.

My point is this. As our population grows, there will be in our midst more and more men who are of the same sexual inclination as our fowl-loving friend. This is a statistical certainty. Eventually, their numbers will reach what I call political critical mass, and with the help today's modern tools of mass communication, _like the internet_ , they will start to organize and demand that they be recognized as just one more facet in the beautiful tapestry of human sexual identities. They will say that there's no difference between them and deer hunters, that they eat what they kill and indeed, they're more sporting than hunters cause they don't use firearms. Plus, chasing chickens is great cardiovascular exercise—ever see "Rocky"? Next thing you know, NOW and other fringe groups will be on their side, asking for understanding and condemning as judgmental those who object to these guys. Finally, these cretins will be asking for special constitutional protection and other such nonsense.

Where does it end, I ask you?

In my opinion, the only way to save civilization, as we know it, is to demand that the government and society recognize the sole legitimate and legal sanctioned sexual relationship to be that between two or more human beings—except in Tijuana, where the laws of humanity and physics don't apply—and then commit itself to a "laissez faire" policy as far as sex between adults goes. After all, if two beautiful women want to engage in hot, passionate lesbo sex, preferably with toys, and let me watch and later join in, it's none of the society's or the government's business. I don't think it's anyone's right to make others like or approve it. This is just the way we humans are made and you can't change it.

Which is how I explain what I did next in that motel room so many years ago.

I wasn't yet the sophisticated, socially mature private detective whose talents are now in demand from coast to coast. I was still a little rough around the edges and a bit green with the ways of the world. So when I saw this fat little man having his rear end partied on by a service station attendant, I was unprepared and unable to master my natural, normal heterosexual male reaction.

I just stood there in the doorway, slack-jawed, for a few seconds then blurted out, " _Good Gawd Almighty!_ A couple of mudpackers!"

It was a quite involuntary reaction, I assure you.

* * * * *

Both men froze on the bed for a split second and looked at me like startled deer. Whippy then let out a squeak like a rabbit makes when ran over by a car and rolled over into the space between the two beds. His boyfriend reacted with a nasty little snarl and made a dive for his pants lying at the foot of the bed. That's when my survival reflex kicked in.

I didn't know if he had a gun hid there—and I wasn't about to turn tail and run only to be shot in the back by a naked faggot.

I stepped into the room, pulled out my gun and slapped him in the head with it. The guy fell into a naked heap by the TV, stunned. I hurriedly slammed the door shut and told Whippy to shut up while I tried to figure out what to do next.

My perfect performance as a P. I. had turned into a bust in a less than ten seconds.

I made a quick survey of the situation. Whippy sat on the floor between the two beds, nude and whimpering. The other man was slowly coming to his senses and was warily eyeing my gun and me. Both men's clothes lay intertwined on the floor at the foot of the beds. The lights were on and the bedside radio was now playing a Sammy Davis, Jr. selection. I stood there with gun in hand, and camera slung around my neck. First thing was to make sure mine was the only gun in the room. I quickly picked up their clothes, all the while keeping my gun trained on the gas-station attendant. Whippy wasn't going to be a threat, I could tell.

A quick search of the clothes resulted in two sets of car keys, a couple of wallets and a folding knife. The knife belonged to the gas-station attendant. I threw the clothes into the far corner, pocketed the keys and knife. I tossed the wallets on the unused bed.

"I know you," I grunted as I pointed to Whippy, "but I don't know your friend's name."

I looked at the grease monkey. He just stared at me.

"His name is Zeke, and please don't hurt us," mewed Whippy.

"Zeke, you got a last name?"

Zeke just looked at me. He was a stringy, skinny bastard. He had a narrow face, close-set eyes, brown hair and was sporting what was known in those parts as a "farmer's tan." His ball cap was stained with sweat and there was grease still under his fingernails. He made no attempt to hide the hate in his eyes.

I didn't like the look in his eyes, so I suckered punched him with the pistol again.

I was beginning to feel better.

"I'm asking again, what's your last name, Zeke?"

I know I could have looked in his wallet, but this was a dominance game I was playing, and I needed to establish who was boss here. Just like Ernie taught me.

"Stanley—Zeke Stanley."

"Well, Zeke Stanley, do as I say and no one will get in trouble."

Then, with complete sincerity Zeke said, "We weren't doin' nuthin'!"

I laughed, " _Nothing_!? You stupid son-of-a-bitch, this is North Carolina, asshole. It's illegal to screw your wife in the ass much less the neighborhood grocer. So let's cut out the bullshit—okay?"

I turned to Whippy and started to tell him to get dressed when he said, "Tamara sent you, didn't she? She wants to break our pre-nuptial agreement doesn't she?"

Pre-nuptial agreement? I was beginning to smell a rat, and the rat's name was Sandy Milton.

I looked at Larry a second. I needed to have a talk with him, but I didn't want to worry about the redneck. Keeping my gun pointing at Zeke, I glanced into the bathroom to see if there were any windows. There weren't.

"Zeke, go into the bathroom and shut the door. Don't come out until you're told to."

"Fuck you, I ain't going in there."

I grabbed the glass ashtray next to the TV and threw it on his head.

Zeke went down, Whippy moaned, and I said, "Bathroom, now."

He crawled in and shut the door.

I turned to Whippy, who was shaking like a leaf.

"I'm not going to hurt you, but I want you to answer all my questions. Who knows, we might be able to come to an understanding."

He shook his head up and down.

"First, get on the bed and cover yourself, then tell me about this pre-nuptial agreement." This was the Seventies, remember, and while I had heard of these types of agreements, this was my first time ever to deal with one.

Whippy got on the bed and pulled the covers around him. After a composing himself for a few seconds, he started to speak.

"It's simple. I made Tamara sign an agreement before I married her. I mean, it's not like we loved each other. We were using each other for cover, so it's not like it was a real marriage, you know."

Now I was confused.

"Cover?"

He looked at me strangely.

"I assumed you knew. We're both gay. It's not the easiest thing hiding this, you know. People were beginning to talk about me. I haven't even told my parent's about my homosexuality. Only a couple of my friends know. So when one of them, Sandy, mentioned to me at the country club that he knew a lesbian who might be willing to marry me and give us both cover in exchange for a monthly allowance, I guess—well—I figured it'd be easier than openly acknowledging my homosexuality. It would kill my Mom and Dad to find out."

Sandy...Sandy Milton. I was stunned. I'd been played like a sap.

"So, this—Sandy. He introduced you to your wife?"

"Yes, she seemed like quite a nice young lady at the time. She said she was gay, like me, and wanted to hide the fact from her family in Atlanta. I insisted, however, that my attorney draw up a pre-nuptial. Our plan was to stay married for a few years, then divorce. This would give me a plausible front in later years. We both agreed that we would be married in name only. Christ—I've never seen her nude!"

He paused to catch his breath, then continued.

"We eloped to Las Vegas, got married and set up a home in Gastonia. Mom and Dad were thrilled of course, but lately have been asking about grandchildren."

"That might be a problem."

Larry nodded his head.

"Yes, I suspect this is what triggered this. I mentioned this to her and suggested that we might want to go ahead and start the divorce. I don't really want children and realize that it'd complicate what I thought of as a fairly straightforward business arrangement. I guess—I guess Tamara wanted more."

"This—Sandy, he isn't perhaps Sandy Milton the lawyer, by any chance?"

This startled him a second but he said yes.

"Sandy and I have known each other since High School. We really didn't become good friends until five or six years ago...," his voice trailed off.

"Did he draw up the pre-nuptial by any chance?"

"No, Sandy said it was a waste of time. I had my corporate lawyers do that. In fact, I just talked to them a few weeks ago about exercising the agreement."

It was then I saw the first hint of anger and awareness in his eyes.

I was already ahead of him.

I sat there with a mixture of anger and sheer admiration for what Sandy Milton had done. Five years! He'd been plotting this for _five years_! It was probably just one scam of many this guy had pulled, but the sheer foresight, the patience, the audacity of it all made me pause in awe. Admittedly, Whippy's insistence of a pre-nuptial agreement had thrown a kink in the scheme, but that's where I'd come in. A greedy, ambitious, young gumshoe that acted first and asked questions later, if ever.

I suspected Milton planned to stay in the background the whole time. He'd arrange for Tamara to have another mouthpiece, of course. There was no way he was going to get publicly involved in this divorce, especially since he was ostensibly a friend of the family, had acted as matchmaker and was currently carrying on an affair with the supposedly lesbian wife.

I could see it now, the surreptitiously mailing of the photos to Whippy with the understated threat of exposure. Allow panic to settle in for a few days. This would then be followed by the demand that the pre-nuptial be abandoned in favor of a greatly enhanced settlement in exchange for silence.

That's how I would do it.

When it's all said and done, Sandy would probably get a piece of the pie or even marry Tamara. The worst-case situation for me was that the Milton and Tamara merely extort Larry for a larger living allowance than was currently provided and persuade him to drop the divorce action altogether. Just keep on as before, albeit for a lot more money.

No divorce, no settlement, no additional fee for me.

There was nothing I could do to prevent it or cash in on it. I looked at Larry and realized that he'd figured out the situation too. He was angry, hurt and close to tears.

"That bitch," he hissed. "She and Sandy set me up, right?"

I just looked at him, but he knew it was true.

"I don't suppose there's any way we can come to an agreement so you would destroy those photos, is there?"

He knew the answer before he even asked the question. There was no way I could back off now. I was in too deep. Of course, I could have agreed to hand over the photographs to Whippy once he paid me an exorbitant fee. He was rich enough to outbid Milton any day. But that was blackmail and I couldn't take that chance. He might change his mind and have me arrested later. Yes, Milton had played me for a dupe, and if I didn't cough up these photos to him, there would be no money for me at all. If, out of pure spite, I refused to give the pictures to him, he was a big enough lawyer to ruin me professionally by spreading the word I was unreliable.

No, Sandy Milton had me by the balls.

_Oh well, let's make the most out of a bad situation_ , I said to myself.

"Let's see how much money you got on you."

I reached over and grabbed the wallets off the other bed. The first one I opened turned out to be Zeke's. There were five bucks in it. I took the money and tossed the wallet in the corner. I opened Whippy's and there were seven c-notes, a couple of twenties and some ones. I took it all except for the ones.

"Here's the deal. Today is Friday. I'll hold off turning over the photos till Monday. That is as much time I can give you to get your ducks in a row with your lawyers."

I waved his cash in front of him, "This will cover for the favor."

I didn't bother to tell him that the place where we get our photos developed was closed Saturday and Sunday, so Monday was the earliest I could get the film processed.

"But I need for you to leave me at least a hundred to pay Zeke."

He slapped his hand against his mouth as soon as he had said it.

I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at him. Then it hit me, and I started to chuckle.

Zeke was a pro and Whippy was paying for his services.

I didn't bother to ask him how one goes about inquiring of your local mechanic if he rents himself out for sex. I had decided to get out of there and didn't want to spare the time.

I shook my head, "Pay him later, you know where he works."

By now poor Larry had turned beet red all over.

I got up to leave and asked Larry what car Zeke drove. He said it was the red Camero parked outside the door. I gathered up their car keys and clothes.

"I'll leave everything in the front seat of Zeke's car. Nothing personal, but I don't want anyone to come after me. This will slow you down enough to where I can leave without either one of you hopping in a car and following me."

I banged on the bathroom door and informed Zeke of what I was doing. All I got in return was a muted "Fuck you" from him.

I opened the door, turned to Whippy.

"Remember, Monday, that's the best I can do."

I left the room and shut the door.

I walked over to the Zeke's Camero, opened the door and tossed all the clothes and both sets of car keys in the front seat. I then remembered I had Zeke's knife in my pocket. I left it sticking in his right rear tire. I dropped off the passkey at the front desk, stiffed the druggie his extra twenty bucks, got in my car and drove off.

I was home in about an hour.

I called Ernie up first thing Saturday morning and told him the whole story except for the 700 bucks from Whippy. What Ernie didn't know wouldn't hurt him. He was at first pissed about me getting caught, but that was forgotten as soon as he heard how Sandy Milton had used us for his dirty work without giving us all the facts. He seriously doubted we would see any money after our initial upfront fee, but he agreed Sandy had played it perfectly and there was nothing we could do about it but give him the pictures on Monday. He was just a too powerful and influential lawyer to mess with.

I remember going out and getting real drunk that night then nursing a hangover at home all day Sunday. I got up Monday morning feeling fine, made some coffee and went out to get the paper. I turned on the TV to watch the local morning news.

All they were talking about was that the heir to the Whippy Supermarket fortune had blown his wife's head off with a shotgun late Sunday night, then had turned the gun on himself.

I was numbly sitting there when Ernie called. He informed me that the police were making the rounds of all the local detective agencies. They were looking for the tall, blond hair, blue eyed private detective who was mentioned in Lawrence Whippy's suicide note.

## Chapter 8

From what I gathered on later, Whippy had returned to his home outside of Gastonia early Saturday morning and had stayed indoors the entire weekend. Aside from a brief phone call from his mother Saturday afternoon, he had talked with no one. Tamara Whippy, as was her custom, had been out and about all weekend; shopping, playing tennis and attending a party Saturday night. She'd left the party, evidentially alone, around one in the morning and no one saw her alive again.

According to the Gaston county Sheriff's department, at 10:23 Sunday evening, Lawrence Whippy called the duty desk to report that a murder had occurred at his residence and then hung up. The deputies arrived at his home within fifteen minutes. They found the front double doors to the 10,000 square foot estate wide open and the house eerily silent. Not knowing what to expect, the Sheriff deputies entered the house, guns drawn.

After finding no one downstairs, the officers proceeded to search the second floor. They entered the master bedroom and found Lawrence Whippy. He was dressed only in plaid bermuda shorts, lying sideways across the king-sized bed with his chalky, white face staring blankly up at the ceiling. His flabby arms were flung outwards, spread eagle like, from his body and his legs dangled at the side of the bed, down to the floor.

A bloody, pulpy hole about the size of a baseball was located in the middle of his chest. From underneath his body, a dark red stain was spreading on the white satin bedspread.

A twelve-gauge double barrel shotgun lay on the floor with empty shells in the barrels. Whippy's right big toe was ensnared in the shotgun's trigger guard. The police surmised that he'd sat on the edge of the bed, placed the end of the barrel against his chest, and had pulled the trigger with his toe. The resulting shotgun blast that had torn through Whippy's body had gone on to splatter blood and human debris on the wall on the other side of the room.

The deputies then went into another large bedroom and looked into its master bath. Inside the shower stall, they found what was left of the nude body of Tamara Whippy. Her corpse was slumped over in the corner, still wet from her bathing. Whippy had apparently met her as she was getting ready to exit the shower and pumped one shell of buckshot straight into the bridge of her nose. The only part of her head that remained attached to her neck was her lower jaw, the rest of it having disintegrated into a fine film of goop that was spread along the shower stall.

Between that and the vomit of the deputy who found her, it must have been quite a mess.

The investigators found Whippy's suicide note on the desk in the bedroom. It was short. He wrote that "the bitch" had used him and that the "blond hair, blue eyed, tall private detective" his wife had hired could explain the whole thing. He ended it by asking for his parents understanding and forgiveness. There was no signature.

Goddamn Whippy.

I do the runt a favor, and he repays me by killing my client and then himself. Now I was out of what little fee I was going to make out of this mess, and I had the cops after me to explain this abortion.

I sat there and fumed a few minutes, while Ernie told me over the phone that the law would eventually figure out it was me the note was referring to, and I should just lie low until he got in touch with our lawyer and find out what we should do. It was the word "lawyer" that got my brain cells to working and my special gift to kick in. Suddenly, I saw how to turn this disaster into gold, but I had to act fast.

Damn fast.

I interrupted Ernie.

"Listen, I got an idea, meet me in the parking lot next to the Sears store near our office. I'll be there in twenty minutes."

"What's the idea?"

"No time to explain now, just be there, okay?"

Ernie agreed, and we hung up. I gathered up all the film that I'd shot in the past few days and after throwing it all in my car, took off. In fifteen minutes, I was at the parking lot. A few seconds later, Ernie drove up in his Caddy. I motioned for him to stay in his car, and I got out and hopped in his front seat. I handed him all the film.

"Take this to the photo lab and tell them to develop it immediately. I want 8x10 glossies of every single frame on all the rolls."

"Damn," said Ernie, "I don't know if they'll do it that fast, and shit, don't you want to look at the proofs first before ordering the 8x10's? That can get expensive."

"Pay'em to do it now. I'll need these pictures today. Trust me, if things work out, we might make more money off this than any previous job."

"You don't you get it. The Whippys are dead. You can't get a corpse to pay. Those pictures of yours are so much trash now, unless you want to threaten the family with them..."

Ernie paused and stared at me. He'd begun to get the idea.

"You're fucking crazy!" he hissed. "There's no way, not after this, that you can get away blackmailing the family. They'll have John-Law on you so fast it will make your head spin. They're rich, and that means connections. They'll cover it up, and you'll go to jail. And I'll be goddamn if I'll go with you. The payoff ain't worth the risk."

He made motions to start the car.

"Damnit Ernie, wait a second. I'm not the one that's going to blackmail the Whippy family. Our lawyer is."

"Harry?... Harry Benson!? Listen, Harry's been my lawyer for eight years, and I know he won't touch this."

"No—no, not Harry, it will be our new lawyer."

Ernie looked at me, confused.

"New lawyer?"

"Yeah, our new lawyer, Sandy Milton."

I proceeded to explain it all to him. By the time I was done, I could have sworn there was a gleam of pride in Ernie's eye, the same kind of gleam that a father gets when his son hits a home run or scores the winning touchdown. He took the film and told me to get moving.

Time was of the essence.

* * * * *

As soon as Ernie left, I got in my car and drove to Sandy Milton's office. I pulled into his parking lot and noted with satisfaction his Jaguar was already parked in its reserved space. I parked beside it, got out and walked quickly to the front door. Without hesitation, I threw it open and strode in. The receptionist, Miss Saunders, was at first startled, but she quickly regained her composure.

"Sir, if you can't enter our workplace with some decorum, I suggest you leave."

I was having none of it. Partly out of show and partly out of genuine anger, I snarled, "Shut up. Where's Milton?"

"Sir, I insist you leave, or I'll call the police."

"You better check with your boss to see if he wants the police involved with this. I betcha he doesn't."

With that, I turned and walked towards Milton's private office. With the receptionist yelling behind me, I kicked his door open. Inside a somewhat pale Sandy Milton sat behind his desk, looking up at me with a mixture of fear and contempt.

"I don't know what you want Dafoe, but you better get out of my office, or I'll have Miss Saunders call the police. We have nothing to talk about."

"Screw you."

Milton looked over my shoulder at his receptionist.

"Marsha, please call the police. We're going to have to show Mr. Dafoe we aren't to be trifled with."

I got to admit Sandy Milton was a cool one. With a look of petty triumph, Miss Saunders glared at me, then rapidly reached for the phone on Sandy's desk. Before she'd dialed the first number, I played my trump card.

"Lake Norman, Tamara Whippy, pictures."

It was all I needed to say. Milton almost fell over himself stopping Miss Saunders from making the call to police.

After he got her to hang up the phone he looked at me a second or two.

"Marsha, perhaps I overreacted. I think I might still need some of Mr. Dafoe's expertise. I need to speak to him in private, so go on back to your desk, and I'll call you if I need anything."

"But Mr. Milton, what about the police?" cried Marsha, pointing at me. "He looks dangerous."

"Nonsense. Mr. Dafoe is a valued associate."

Damn, he was smooth. He quickly escorted her out of the office and shut the door behind her. He spun around and looked at me.

"So I was sleeping with her," he stated flatly. "Don't kid yourself. I'm not the first lawyer to do it, and I won't be the last. In the long run, no one will give a damn. You have nothing."

He walked behind his desk and stood there.

It was time to ruffle this bastard's feathers. I stared at him and then slowly walked over to the front of his desk. With deliberate calm I leaned over and shoved him into his chair. Not too roughly mind you, just enough to get his attention. When you need to get someone to work for you, you want to intimidate, not humiliate. That's what Ernie taught me.

"Nothing? Oh, believe me, _Sandy_ , I got something. You see I had a very illuminating conversation with Larry Whippy last Friday night. I know _everything_."

I stood over him, glowering. With no small amount of satisfaction, I saw some nervous fear in his eyes. I kept on the pressure.

" _You_ knew about his little secret. You introduced him and Tamara. You arranged the sham marriage. You were banging this alleged dyke on the side. You knew that he was getting ready to invoke the pre-nuptial."

I casually sauntered back over to one of his overstuffed chairs and settled in one before continuing.

"How do you think the Whippy family will react to all this? Do you think they'll let it slide? How do you think they'll react when I tell them that you hired me under false pretenses? That you knew he was a faggot all along, and you were just using me to get blackmail photos?"

I leaned forward to emphasize my next words.

"You know how they'll react, don't you Sandy? They will be out for blood and who knows, maybe they will get the cops to start looking into all your past activities. Maybe you have other deals that you're trying to hide."

This last sentence was a wild stab on my part, but it made him look at me with a start. I'd hit a nerve there. It was then that I knew that I had him.

"No matter how you look at it, you stand a better than even chance of being ruined."

I leaned back in the chair and waited.

"What do you want?" he finally croaked.

I'd made this slick SOB sweat. To this day, I remember the rush it gave me. Better than booze or sex. Now, just like Ernie taught me, it was time to give him the lifeline and let him desperately clutch at it. Then I would own him.

I got up and walked back behind his desk and leaned over him, my face only inches from his.

"Want? Me?—Nothing. Hell, Sandy—I want to hire you."

Abruptly, I straightened up, turned and walked back to the chair in front of his desk and sat down. Milton stared at me, dumbfounded.

Finally, he managed to stammer out, "Hire me? What for?"

"I got pictures of Lawrence Whippy engaged in sex with a man. I bet his family will pay plenty to keep them from seeing the light of day."

I got to give him credit. Unlike Ernie, he didn't immediately call me crazy. He just looked at me a second, then asked, "How do we go about it?"

We—it was music to my ears.

"According to Whippy, Tamara had family in Atlanta, right?"

He nodded his head.

"Her parents are dead, but she has an older brother there. Name of Ron Wheaton. Tamara and he hadn't spoken to each other for over ten years. He has a bit of a drinking problem. Last she heard he was working as a real estate agent."

Real estate agent! I was leading a charmed life. A real estate agent has the morals of a lawyer but not half as slick. And a drunken one at that! He was perfect for my plan.

I looked at Milton and smiled. And by then, that damn shyster was smiling back at me.

He understood.

"50/50?" he said.

"Fine, but a straight, flat cut. No lawyer fees or other bullshit," I shot back.

He nodded in assent.

"You got his phone number?" I asked.

"No, but I can get it easily enough. I'll call you when the deal is finalized."

I snorted, "No way. I'm going to stick with you until this thing is set up, and then you're going to accompany me to the Gaston County Sheriff's Department as my attorney."

He started to protest, but I raised my hand to stop him.

"Non-negotiable. I don't trust you, at least not yet. Don't worry. I'll keep you out of my story. And by the way, either Ernie or myself will sit in on any meetings that you have with the Whippys or their lawyers. Is that clear?"

He shrugged and said okay. Now that he knew his chestnuts were out of the fire, he was starting to act like his old, smug self. He buzzed for Miss Saunders and got to work.

* * * * *

It was a little before noon when we got a somewhat inebriated Ron Wheaton on the speaker phone. He wasn't yet aware of his sister's untimely demise, so Milton broke the news. He was a little stunned she was dead, but you couldn't say he was upset. A good sign for what we had in mind.

Then as Milton began to describe how this innocent, gracious southern belle was brutally murdered by her decadent but extremely wealthy husband, you could feel this real estate agent's righteous indignation grow into an incandescent fury. He agreed that this affront to southern womanhood couldn't go un-avenged, so in memory of his dear sweet, departed sister, he agreed to hire Milton as his attorney and to sue the Whippy family for damages. As Mr. Wheaton couldn't afford any hourly fees—a recent downturn in the real estate market, he told us—he was more than willing to settle on a fifty percent commission fee on any settlement.

Sandy knew some lawyers in Atlanta, and after another quick series of phone calls, they were on their way to Wheaton's apartment with the contract. By early afternoon, we had an ironclad agreement with Wheaton to sue the Whippy estate. Milton also used some of his connections to find out what information the suicide note had actually contained. He confirmed that all the Sheriff knew was that some detective was involved and what he looked like. My name had yet to come up.

I called up Ernie, and found out the pictures were ready to go. I asked Ernie if they were any good. He said not to worry, everyone that needed to be recognized could be. I told him to put the negatives in a safe place and to meet me at the Gaston County Sheriff's Department at five o'clock, pictures in hand.

I told Sandy to call up the Whippy's lawyers and tell them it was urgent that they get to the Sheriff's office. I was coming in to tell the law all that I knew about the death of Lawrence Whippy.

He called Whippy's lawyers up, informed them of what I said, and we left together in my car for Gastonia. All I had to do now was spin a story for the cops.

We got to the Sheriff's office a little before five and Ernie was already there. He showed Milton and me the pictures from the motel. After we stopped laughing—and inwardly cringing a bit—Ernie drew me aside and showed me the pictures of Milton and Tamara's rendezvous at the lake cabin. We both understood, without saying a word, there was no need to show them to Sandy. He knew we had them.

Intimidate, don't humiliate!

Ernie had just put the photos back into his briefcase when the two lawyers from the firm that represented the Whippy Food chain pulled into the parking lot. They got out of their car and walked over to Milton. Introductions and handshakes were made. At first, the lawyers wanted to talk in private and suggested going to their offices, but Milton and I knew we had to see the police first. We declined and walked quickly into the Sheriff's office before they could object. The lawyers followed.

I walked up to the main desk and informed the dispatcher on duty that I was the private detective who was referred to in the Whippy suicide note. I was ready to cooperate fully with any official investigations in the matter. After few hurried phone calls, we were escorted into a conference room. Within a few minutes, the duly elected Sheriff of Gaston County, Jonah Campbell, and a couple of his plain clothes deputies had joined us.

According to Milton, Campbell had been Sheriff in Gaston County for six years. He was in the back pocket of the Whippys and a few other of the wealthy industrial families in the area. They had bankrolled both of his campaigns for Sheriff and in return he made sure union organizers and other such riff-raff were given short shrift if they wandered into the county.

As he entered the room, I looked him over. He looked like a lawyer. Well groomed, gray hair and dressed in a plain, dark-blue business suit. However, Sandy had told me he'd never gotten past the eighth grade and when he spoke, sure enough, he was pure redneck.

He took one look at me and growled, "So why didn't you come in this morning, you little shit?"

Milton sprang into action.

"Sheriff Campbell," he cooed, "I assure you that as soon as my associate heard of last night's tragic events, he made every effort to get in to see you as soon as possible. Rest assured you're going to have our complete cooperation in this matter."

Campbell shrugged his shoulders, glanced around the room and then looked at me again.

"If you're so damn innocent, why all the damn lawyers, asshole?"

This buffoon and his two thugs couldn't intimidate me. They had nothing on me, and I knew it. So I decided to call his bluff.

I turned to Milton and Ernie and said, "He's right. Why don't all of you lawyers retire to another room? I'm sure I'll be fine with Sheriff Campbell here. Ernie, you too can go, since you had nothing to do with this."

Milton was a little surprised at this, but Ernie, God bless his him, knew what was expected. He stood up and gently patted his briefcase.

"Sure, kid. You ain't got nothin' to hide. We'll step out while you talk."

He motioned to the lawyers to exit with him, "Gentlemen?"

Milton already knew that the real negotiations were going to take place away from Campbell. He and the Whippy lawyers left the room.

Campbell sat there for a second and then started to grin at me.

"Well, son, I didn't think you had the balls."

He waved at his thugs to stand around me. "I bet you're a college boy, aren't you?"

Here we go, education envy. I decided to rub it in a bit before we got started.

"Of course, I'm also a former Naval Officer. Were you ever in the military?"

He got red in the face.

"Army... corporal... and I always hated little shits like you, telling me what to do. Now by God, the tables are turned."

Quickly, he leaned over and slapped me.

"Gonna cry for your lawyer now, _college boy_?"

I wasn't about to give him the satisfaction. I knew that was the only shot he was going to risk taking with my lawyer so close by, so I just looked at him with a smug little smile.

"Just what is it you wished to speak with me about, Sheriff? I'm here to help."

He knew he'd lost the intimidation game, and he knew that I knew he'd lost it. He looked pissed.

"Just start at the beginning."

So I started. I told him about being hired by Tamara Whippy and Milton. I told him about following Whippy around. I told him about seeing him going to a motel. I told him about opening the door with a passkey. I told him about seeing Whippy engaged in sex with another man. I told him about being shocked and stumbling into the room. I told him about Whippy admitting he married Tamara as a cover to hide his being queer. Finally, I told him I was getting ready to report what I'd found out to Mrs. Whippy and Milton when I heard about the murder suicide.

I didn't tell him about Milton being the guy who set Whippy and Tamara up. I didn't tell him about taking any pictures. I didn't tell him about my knowledge of the pre-nuptial agreement.

Campbell and his boys just sat there and took it all in. After I was finished, Campbell stood up, walked around the room a bit then turned to me.

"Before I believe all this horseshit, I want to know the name of the queer Whippy was with. I want to confirm this."

_Here it comes_ , I said to myself. This was the one area I had to really finesse. If they interview Zeke Stanley about this, then the truth will come out. The pictures, the blackmail, everything. I might not be in legal trouble, but the money from any Whippy settlement will disappear if the existence of the photos became common knowledge. The whole deal rested on what I was about to say. I had to ruin any credibility Stanley might have and delay any interviews with him until after we settled with the Whippys. I was counting on two things to keep this on track.

Homophobia and love of stock-car racing.

"Well, Sheriff, I can tell you the man's name and where he works. But if you go talk to him, you're going to lose a chance to bust up a male prostitution ring operating right under your nose."

As soon as I said it, Campbell and his two detectives froze then slowly turned their heads toward me and stared. Eventually, one of the detectives murmured, "Male prostitutes? Why should women pay for it when men will do it to them for free anytime they ask?"

The other detective leaned over and whispered in his ear for a few seconds, and then it dawned on the poor dumb bastard what I meant.

Campbell flopped into the chair next to me.

"You got one minute to explain that last remark."

So I told him about Whippy admitting that his boyfriend was a prostitute named Zeke Stanley and his going rate was in the "hundreds." This news upset all these manly men around me, but the kicker was telling them where this ring was operating out of _Darren's Gas and Lube._

That pushed 'em over the edge. A murder-suicide of a wealthy scion and his wife was one thing, but to have a male prostitution ring operating out of one of the premier motoring hubs of the county was quite another. This was NASCAR country, for crying out loud, and some things—like mom, racetracks and filling stations—are sacred. You could have told these yokels that their daughters were operating a whorehouse out of the local high school, and they wouldn't have been nearly as upset.

Campbell sat there, dumbfounded, for a few moments then sighed.

"I can't believe it. I had that pervert fix my brakes only a couple of weeks ago."

Immediately, both his deputies began to regard him a bit warily. I sort of egged them along by lifting one eyebrow at this statement and giving my best "Well, hell, you never know" look at the two men and then scooted my chair a few more inches away from Campbell.

The Sheriff immediately realized his faux pas and quickly launched into damage control. Can't let it get out that one is associating with known homosexuals, you know. Guilt by association and all that.

"By damn," he yelled, "I'll put a stop to this sort of crap in my county. This ain't New Orleans, not by a long shot I tell you."

I chimed in, "Sheriff, I don't presume to tell you your business, but might I suggest you put a wire on someone and record Mr. Stanley offering to prostitute himself?"

By now, Sheriff Campbell was in full battle mode. All thought and concern of the Whippy murder gone from his head.

"Damn good idea! A sting, that's what we want, a goddamn sting."

It was then the door opened. Ernie and all the lawyers entered. I noted that Ernie had a small grin on his face, so I knew things had gone well.

One of the Whippy lawyers walked over and whispered in the Sheriff's ear. Together, with Milton and Ernie in tow, they exited the room. I just sat there with the other lawyer and two deputies.

About ten minutes later, everyone entered the room again and Campbell announced for all to hear that the case was closed and ruled a murder-suicide. He then said my services were no longer required. I got up and left.

Ernie, Sandy and I went to a local diner, where I was filled in all the details of the backroom negotiations.

Milton had quickly informed the lawyers of Larry Whippy's sexual orientation and Ernie produced the pictures to back him up. Milton also informed them that he was now representing Tamara's sole surviving sibling who was insisting on suing for damages.

The lawyers saw the writing on the wall and placed a phone call to Whippy's old man. He understood the score real quick and asked how much for the photos and film.

Ernie, Sandy and I had agreed in advance to ask for a cool million to settle. This meant a $500,000 fee, with half going to Ernie and myself and the other half to Milton, but here is where Sandy showed his true genius as a lawyer. He told Whippy's lawyers, right up front, that we were initially going to insist on a million dollars, but, now, in consideration of the Whippy family loss and a desire by all parties to wrap this up quickly, we were willing to work out a deal.

What was agreed upon was that Whippy Foods, Inc would hire Sandy's firm and Twillfigger Investigations to do a "security survey" of Whippy Food stores for 500 grand. They would also settle with Ron Wheaton for $100,000.

Of course, per our agreement, Ernie, Sandy and I would get half, leaving Ron with only $50,000.

The Whippy's would get the film and photos in return. The bottom line was that the family would only have to pay $600,000 vice one million. Sandy, Ernie and I would still get our full, half-million dollar fee and then some. Everyone would wind up a winner—well, almost everyone, but what Ron Wheaton didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

All that was left was for old man Whippy to call off the Campbell, which he did with a quick phone call. Campbell knew which side his bread was buttered on.

Two weeks later, Ernie and I were looking at a certified check for $275,000. Milton also began spreading the word that Ernie and I were two detectives "you could do business with." Our phone started ringing off the hook.

About a week later, Sandy sent me a copy of the local paper from Gastonia. Below the headline of "Male Prostitute Ring Busted!" was a picture of a proud Jonah Campbell escorting a somewhat worse for wear Zeke Stanley to a patrol car. The story under the picture said, "After an extensive investigation by the Gaston County Sheriff's Department, Ezekiel B. Stanley, formerly employed at _Darren's Gas and Lube_ , was arrested yesterday for pandering and crimes against nature. Bail was set at $10,000. A formal court date has yet to be determined."

American justice, Carolina style.

## Chapter 9

Things were perking up for Twillfigger Investigations and yours truly. Ernie made me a full partner. My bank account was healthy, I'd moved into a nice apartment, and you wouldn't believe how much easier it was to get laid when you had a little cash to throw around. Business started booming. Indeed, things got so hectic at the office that we finally came to the conclusion that we needed to hire a secretary.

Ernie at first insisted that any secretary we hired had to be willing to service him on a "personal" basis. Nothing fancy, mind you, just your basic manual and/or oral relief and any subsequent clean up if needed. I balked at this.

I gently reminded him that it was a bad idea to mix business with pleasure, and in any event, if we did somehow manage to find a secretary that would include doing Ernie as one of her routine chores, it was a damn good bet she'd have something seriously wrong with her mentally. I told Ernie psycho women were hard enough to deal with in normal circumstances, much less when you got your pants down around your ankles. Ernie, after some argument, reluctantly saw the wisdom in this and dropped this requirement.

We eventually hired Mrs. Maisy Ann Rutherford, a thirty-six-year-old black woman who had recently lost her job when the concrete company she worked for went bankrupt. She was no beauty—short and chubby—but she knew how to run an office, type a hundred words a minute and answered the phone with a pleasing soft southern drawl. She was a widow and her only child, a daughter, was already twenty and married to a Marine stationed in San Diego.

She did have a tendency to wear low-cut blouses that emphasized her enormous breasts which in turn led to Ernie constantly looking down her shirt. There was no way she didn't know that Ernie was ogling her, but she kept on wearing those types of tops. I guess she considered it job security, because she quit wearing them immediately after Ernie retired. She's still my personal secretary to this day, and I can honestly say that I'll miss her when she decides to call it quits.

As for hiring another guy to assist in all this extra business we were getting, at that time I didn't want to take on another detective. I knew I'd made it good in a relatively short period of time, and I didn't want or need an ambitious young gun coming in and upsetting my apple cart.

This didn't mean we didn't need help, but we got around manpower shortages by contracting out our more routine business to what Ernie called "seasoned and mature professionals." I called 'em alcoholic old has-beens, but they got the job done for a price a lot lower than what we were charging the customer. This freed me up to concentrate on the high-paying clients.

* * * * *

It was around six weeks after the Whippy case that we got a phone call from one such client. Maisy, who we had hired a couple of weeks earlier, took the call and wrote down the initial details.

Mr. Eric D. Slatterson, owner and president of Slatterson Mills, needed the services of Twillfigger Investigations to assist him in a very confidential matter. He left his private office phone number and asked us to return his call at our convenience.

Maisy passed all of this to Ernie, who was responsible for the first screen of all jobs. Ernie did a bit of research and then called Slatterson for more details. After getting off the phone with him, Ernie called me into his office filled me in on the job offer.

"Kid, I think we might have a hot one here. This guy Slatterson owns one of the biggest textile companies in North Carolina with well over a thousand people on his payroll. It's located a couple hour drive west of here in a town called Warhill. I got a lawyer friend who works near there, and he tells me this Slatterson is one of the richest men in the area. He lives on a huge estate and is a mover and shaker in the local political scene."

"What does he want us for?" I queried.

"He wouldn't say over the phone, but he did say that it was a sensitive private matter, and he didn't want the local talent involved. That's why he was calling us."

"I don't know, Ernie. It probably means working in the area and that's a hell of a commute. We would have to sacrifice business here to meet the demands of this job, especially if it means working on it for any extended period of time."

"Yeah, I told him that, and he said not to worry. He assured me that we would more than make up for any lost revenue with this job. To prove he means it, he's gonna give us a $1000 cash bonus just to show up in his office tomorrow at one o'clock and listen to his proposition. If we take the job, he'll up the bonus to $2000."

Well, if the man wanted to throw his money around like that, I wasn't going to stop him. We had Maisy confirm the meeting and the location of Slatterson's office with his secretary. I was on my way to Warhill the next morning.

I arrived there around midday. It was a small town of around three thousand souls, located in the rural foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Ten miles to the west was the county seat and largest town in the county, Loganton.

Warhill had a main street dotted with small stores on both sides of the road. The big super-stores like K-Mart and Wal-Mart had yet to make their appearance in this area back then, so small retailers still had a presence there. The one concession to international commerce was an A&P grocery store located near the High School. The roads branching off the Main Street were lined with trees and homes with well-manicured lawns. It was the stuff of Norman Rockwell paintings.

It wasn't until you got well outside of town, near the textile mills, that you saw the other side of the tracks. There were the dirt roads with the trailers or the moldy cinder block two-bedroom homes. Most yards here were a mixture of crab grass and dirt. Driveways were rare and folks parked their cars right on the lawn. Junk and refuse were spread everywhere. This is where the bottom-rung lived or, as the socially conscious would refer to them, the disenfranchised working poor. Ernie, on the other hand, called them the "stupid fucks who were too lazy to finish high school."

It was noon, so I pulled into the local drive-in for a quick burger and confirmed with the locals the location of Slatterson's office. At ten minutes till one, I had pulled into the parking lot outside the stark, utilitarian office building of Slatterson Mills. I walked through the front doors and eventually made my way to Slatterson's secretary. I gave her my name and said I had a one o'clock appointment with Mr. Slatterson. She was expecting me, and invited me to have a seat while she informed Mr. Slatterson of my arrival. She made a quick call on the phone, and I sat down and waited. Promptly at one, a buzzer went off under the secretary's desk, and she quickly escorted me into Slatterson's office and shut the door behind me. Slatterson was standing beside his desk, giving me the once over.

He was a bull of a man. While not that tall, he was beefy, with a short, squat neck and almost gorilla-like torso. He had a gut, but you could tell there was muscle underneath it, and both his legs and arms could be described as thick and stout. His hair was short and steel-gray. His eyes were brown, and he had a ruddy complexion. Overlaying all of this was an elegant dark-blue suit, white shirt and red silk tie, all straight from Saks 5th Avenue. A gold Rolex adorned his wrist. Other than his wedding band, he wore no other jewelry.

His office was comfortable and conservative in nature, meant for business, not show. He had a large, cherry wood desk, with an overstuffed swivel chair located behind it. Paperwork and office tools were neatly arranged on it. Two phones were on the desk corner. Off to one side of the office there was a modest coffee table with a black leather couch and two matching chairs encircling it. A pitcher of water and two glasses were on the table. On the wall were the obligatory pictures of Slatterson's factories and pictures of the businessman shaking hands of various dignitaries. Closer inspection of the pictures showed Slatterson shaking hands with Richard Nixon, Spiro Agnew, Jesse Helms and strangely enough, President Carter. Evidentially, Slatterson liked to keep his bases covered and options open. Something to keep in mind.

He motioned for me to sit down in one of the chairs by the coffee table and then joined me in the other chair.

"Something to drink?" he asked.

I shook my head no.

"Time is money Mr. Slatterson, both for you and me. I don't want to waste your valuable time. Let's see if we can do business."

I decided to approach the matter brusquely and directly, banking on my gut feeling that this is the way Slatterson likes to do business. I saw a spark of approval in his eye and knew I'd played my hand perfectly.

"Fair enough," Slatterson grunted. He reached into his inside coat pocket, took out a thick envelope and threw it on the table.

"Here's the bonus I promised. If you take the job, I got another envelope with the other grand."

I let the envelope lie there and merely cocked my head to listen. Slatterson went on. His next statement surprised me a bit.

"Do you have any children, Mr. Dafoe?"

A bit startled, I looked at him a second.

"No, I haven't married yet."

He looked at me and for the first time I saw a break in the iron man façade, and noticed the pain flash for a moment in his eyes.

"I have a son, Mr. Dafoe, named Edmond. He goes by the nickname Sonny, however. That was my pet name for him when he was young, and it just sort of stuck. He's twenty-three now, graduated from Davidson College last year with a business degree. I'm hoping he takes over from me one day."

His voice trailed off for a second, and he stared off into space. I could tell this was difficult for him.

He shook his head, as if to the clear it and continued.

"Sonny was—I mean is—Sonny is my pride and joy. His mother, Beatrice died a year after he was born, but Cheryl, my current wife, has raised him since he was four. Sonny was a fine boy growing up. He was the quiet type, but a good student. He came home from college last year, and I had every intention of teaching him the textile business, letting him start on the factory floor, and work his way up. I was hoping to have him working out of the main office here in a couple of years and maybe running the whole show by the time I'm sixty, seven years from now. But—something has happened to Sonny."

He stopped to catch his breath. I let him.

He started up again.

"I'm a rich man, Dafoe, but I earned it. I was born dirt poor, and I got my college degree after the war on the GI bill. I started this business twenty-five years ago and made it into something I can be proud of. They talk of me in the garment districts of New York City, can you _believe it_? A bunch of goddamn New York Jews know about me, a redneck from North Carolina."

He shook his head in apparent wonder, stood up and began to pace the floor.

"I'm the man who made double-knit polyester what it is today. Oh, I didn't invent it, but I recognized it for what it is—the cloth of the future. Look at my factories," he gestured to the pictures on the wall. "Everyone of them geared to make double-knit polyester, in every color of the rainbow, from bright yellow to navy blue. Worldwide manufacturers who make suits, dresses, ties, shirts, even socks, depend on, and will continue to depend on, my factories for their raw material. A lot of people all over this country depend on me, and I haven't let them down. I was hoping that Sonny would take over one day and build on what I started. But that dream is in trouble, and that is where I need your help, Mr. Dafoe."

"Go on," I said.

He sighed, bit his lower lip a second and then sat down.

"As I told you, I put Sonny to work on the factory floor last year, in order for him to learn the basics of the textile business. From all initial reports, he was doing fine. Then, about six months ago, Sonny started showing up to work late occasionally and the quality of his work started to slip. At first, the factory foreman, Sam Glavin, hid this fact from me, hoping the problem would resolve itself. However, things just got worse."

He paused and took a deep breath. I could see this was a tough story for him to tell a stranger.

"About three months ago, Sam confronted Sonny with his poor performance, but Sonny just told him to go to hell and threatened to get him fired. Sam has been with me for eleven years and knew that this was a hollow threat. He came to me immediately after his confrontation with Sonny and told me everything."

He paused, poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher on the table and drank it in one gulp. He sat the glass back on the table and continued.

"I jumped all over Sonny that night at dinner. We had words. In a nutshell, Sonny said he wasn't sure he wanted to run the company one day. Cheryl had to step in and calm things down. I was mad as hell and Sonny was even madder. He stormed out of the house and went back to the apartment I'm providing him while he works at the factory. After things cooled down, we talked and patched things up. Sonny agreed to give working at the factory another six months and then move into the management for a while after that. But his performance hasn't improved any—in fact, it's gotten worse. Sam told me a few weeks ago that he failed to show up for three days in a row. He's lost weight and looks terrible. Even though his apartment is only a short drive from our home, he very rarely comes over to visit his mother or me."

Slatterson looked me in the eye a minute, then lowered his head and continued talking.

"Sam told me that the rumor around the factory floor is that Sonny is on drugs. The way he's looked lately, I wouldn't doubt it. I confronted Sonny on this, and he denied it. But—but I know in my heart it is true. That's where you come in. Before I take this to the next level, I want the facts. I want to know what drugs my boy is on, where he gets them, who started him on them. In short, I want you to spy on him. It shouldn't take you long, and I'll pay you handsomely for your time."

"Once you have this information, what are you going to do with it?" I asked.

"I know my son. Once he's confronted with the fact that I know everything, he'll do as I say, get the help he needs. I used to drink Mr. Dafoe—drink a lot. I managed to quit on my own, but it was tough. From what I hear, quitting drugs, especially the hard stuff, is even tougher. I'm not a Neanderthal, and I love my son. I'll get him the help he needs."

_Fair enough_ , I say to myself, _now let's see how much he really loves his son_.

"I appreciate your candor and situation, Mr. Slatterson. I figure it will take me a week, maximum of two to get the information that you need. Because you live so far from my base and office, I'll be unable to devote any of my time to other customers. I'll have to hire others to cover for me while I'm attending your needs, since some of these individuals have problems as pressing as your own. I expect to be covered for those expenses. Assume twelve-hour workdays, at a minimum, plus living expenses. My hourly rate for this type of job is a hundred bucks. Before you object, consider what your lawyer charges per hour. If I get the job done in less than a week, I expect a $10,000 bonus. Take a thousand off the bonus every day I'm late after that. Rest assured, when I get through you'll have all the information you'll need to help your son. I'll have a contract for you to sign tomorrow, and I'll start work next Monday morning. If this is satisfactory to you, you can give me my remaining signing bonus. If not, I'll wish you luck, and you'll get a bill covering my expenses for today."

He didn't hesitate. He took the additional envelope of cash out of his pocket and tossed it beside the other on the table.

"Agreed."

I mentally kicked myself in the ass. I should have asked for $150 an hour, damn it.

Slatterson stood up, "Cheryl thinks I've pushed the boy too hard over the years, that I should back off and let him work this out on his own. I agreed with her to keep peace in the family, so she can't know about you or this arrangement, at least until I'm ready to confront Sonny. Contact me here at the office only. I told Sally, my secretary, you're dealing with a security issue at the plant. That's all she needs to know."

"No problem," I said. "I'll also need for you to write down every possible personal detail you know about Sonny, where he lives, his friends, habits, anything that you might think I need. Nothing is too trivial, okay? I also need some recent pictures of him."

"Fine, when will you need it?"

I handed him my card, "As soon as possible. My office address is on the card. You can have the information delivered there."

I stood up to leave.

"Just out of curiosity, what do you plan on doing to the people that sell him the stuff—got him using it?" I asked.

"I've connections and influence in this neck of the woods, Mr. Dafoe, from judges on down. These people who did this to my son—let's just say they'll regret it."

Both he and I didn't know it at that time, but a lot of people had their death warrants signed that day.

## Chapter 10

I left Slatterson's office and made my way back to Charlotte. I told Ernie of the arrangement, and he told me what I already knew—I should have asked for more money. Ernie said that he could cover for me while I did the Slatterson job, and he would arrange for the appropriate paperwork in order to pad our expense account. A couple of days later, we got the information that I'd asked from Slatterson on his son. I sat down and reviewed it. It wasn't much. Truth be told, most rich young kids fresh out of college don't have much of a life story.

Name: Edmond "Sonny" Richard Slatterson, age twenty-three. He graduated from Warhill High School in 1972 and from Davidson College in 1976, where he majored in economics. He didn't join a fraternity while there. He played the occasional game of tennis and used to be a fairly regular golfer, but has been less inclined towards any athletics since graduating college. He was raised a Southern Baptist, but attended church sporadically, if at all. He drove a black 1976 T-top Trans-Am (License number WJY 197) and lived at #19 Clancy Lane, Pinetop Apartments, located on the outskirts of Warhill. Currently employed as a general repairman at his Dad's main textile plant. He worked the first shift, 7 A.M. to 3:00 P.M.

Attached to the brief bio was a list of some of his known friends in the area, all from his high school days in Warhill. It appeared that he hadn't stayed in touch with any college pals. I flipped through the rather sparse package that had been sent and finally came to the accompanying photographs.

I then got my first look at Sonny Slatterson.

I immediately spotted one of his problems from the photos. He was one of the ugliest young men I'd ever seen. He was built like his old man, but was a good deal thinner. His hair was carrot red, and he had a complexion to match it. At the time of this photo, he was still in the final throes of massive adolescent acne. His face was a literally a mass of pockmarks and scar tissue. His bulging, watery blue eyes were widely spaced, and it looked like the right one was slightly wall-eyed. He was smiling in one of the and while his teeth were straight, the overall appearance of them was marred by the apparent exaggerated size of the front two incisors. Rightly, or wrongly, it imprinted on him an aura of "goofiness." After I'd stopped laughing, I almost felt sorry for the poor, misshapen bastard.

There wasn't much else to glean from the information the elder Slatterson had provided. I went ahead and packed up all the gear I thought I'd need and by Sunday evening I was making my way back to the Warhill area. I decided to check into a motel in nearby Loganton in order to keep any nosey folks in Warhill from asking about the new guy in town. The motel was clean and after a quick meal I turned in for the night.

* * * * *

I was up before dawn the next morning. It was early November and there was a decided chill in the air. After a couple of hot cups of coffee and toast at the local diner, I hopped in my car and made my way to the Slatterson textile mill that Sonny was employed at. I drove around the plant a couple of times, getting the overall lay of the land. By 6:45, I'd picked out a spot where I could keep an eye on the parking lot without attracting attention and had settled into a waiting game. It wasn't until a little past eight that Sonny Slatterson showed up for work.

I watched the black Trans-Am pull into the parking lot. Sonny drove into a parking space, got out of his car and slowly sauntered to the employee entrance of the factory.

After he entered the building, I got out and walked by his car, glancing in. Other than the large amount of trash on the floorboards, nothing really struck me as important. Knowing that I probably had a few hours before Sonny got off from work for the day, I got back into my car, broke out a local map, located where Sonny's apartment was at and took off for it. I figured I might as well have a look there.

I was driving by his apartment within fifteen minutes of leaving the textile plant. The apartment complex was a couple of two-story buildings with one and two bedroom apartments distributed on both floors. Sonny's place was the corner apartment on the bottom floor of the building located furthest from the road. I pulled into the parking lot, grabbed a clipboard I always kept in the car just for these situations and got out.

If anyone saw me, they would assume I was a meter reader or salesman. I didn't plan to stay there long anyway. I walked towards Sonny's apartment, quickly trying the front door to see if by chance it was unlocked—it wasn't. The shades were down on the front window, so I slipped around to the back of the apartment to see if I'd have luck with the rear window. The shades were up and while the window was locked, I could make out an empty looking bedroom on the inside and an unmade bed. Nothing more was to be gained, so I made my way back to my car and left.

I decided to explore Warhill a bit. There wasn't much to see. I parked my car and took a short stroll up the main street.

It was a nondescript little southern town, and the natives seemed normal. I did notice after a few minutes that a large percentage of the population was attired in double-knit polyester. There were men in polyester suits, women in polyester skirts, babies in polyester jumpsuits, kids with jeans and polyester shirts. The colors were generally bright and primary in nature, and after a while I was beginning to get a mild headache from having to look at some of the color combinations I'd encountered.

I took the time to place a call to Ernie and to get him up to speed as to my current situation, and I happened to mention to him about the local populace being afflicted with an apparent double-knit fetish. He immediately informed me he was an aficionado of the aforementioned "wonder fiber" and would I pick him up a leisure suit at one the outlet stores in town. I cheerfully agreed to the request and within an hour I had in my possession a genuine double-knit polyester lime green leisure suit—size XXL—with a complementary polyester Carolina blue shirt and pink tie.

Ernie wore it for years.

I strolled around town a few more hours, grabbed a quick BBQ sandwich at the drugstore lunch counter and was back at the textile factory parking lot by around half past two. I made sure that Sonny's car was still in the parking lot and settled in for the short time left until Sonny finished his shift. Sure enough at few minutes after three I saw Sonny stroll out of the building and get into his car. I followed him as he drove directly to his apartment and went inside.

Rather than pull into the small and sparsely filled complex parking lot, I contented myself with parking down the street a bit and near an empty lot where I had a good view of the Sonny's apartment. I settled in for the wait. It was dark within a couple of hours.

By seven o'clock I was beginning to give up hope of Sonny going anywhere for the night, when I spied his apartment front door open and Sonny coming out and getting into his car. He pulled out of the lot and drove north, out of town. I followed him.

Sonny went down some of the back roads and after a short five-mile drive, he turned down a narrow, dead-end road. I pulled off to the shoulder of the main highway before the turn-off to the road and killed my lights. I didn't want to chance going down the road in my car. It'd be too easy to spot me. I was going to have to hoof it until I figured out what my options were.

The general area was hilly and sparsely populated. Various dirt roads crisscrossed the area, and you could see the lights of homes and trailers occasionally dotting the countryside. The road Sonny had turned down was straight, lightly graveled and had three small wood-frame houses on the left side. A road sign said it was named "Trundle Rd."

All three houses had lights on. Through the wooded area behind the houses, I could make out a few more lights coming from a trailer park on another dirt road nearby.

I slowly walked down the road, looking for Sonny's car. I found it at the end of the road, parked in the front yard of the last house, next to an old Chevy Impala. There was a light on inside, and you could hear rock music being played from a stereo. It was around a half past seven.

I went back to my car, got in and parked it off the main road on a nearby deserted dirt road and walked back to the house. I wrote down the license plate number of the Chevy so I could pass it off to Ernie, so he could run down the owner's name. I then settled down in the woods across from the house just see how things went. After a couple of hours, all the lights went off. Apparently, Sonny had decided to stay there for the night. It had been a long day for me too so I called it quits, made it back to my car and went to my motel for some sleep.

I didn't get up until mid-morning. After a quick shower and shave, I called up Ernie with the license plate number for him to track down. After a large cup of coffee and a couple of sweet rolls from the local convenience store, I made my way back to the textile plant to check on Sonny. His car was nowhere to be seen. I made a quick jaunt to his apartment and confirmed that his car wasn't there either. I decided to check out the trailer he'd gone to the previous evening, but as I was on my way there I met Sonny driving in the opposite direction, hurriedly making his way back to town.

It looked like I wasn't the only one who got a late start that morning.

I decided to keep on heading towards the house on Trundle Road. I figured Sonny was making his way back to town to get to work, so I had some time to snoop around awhile before he got off for the day. Anyway, Old Man Slatterson wanted the names of the people who his son was hanging around with, and I wasn't going to get that information by sitting in a parking lot.

I drove to Trundle Road and turned down it. I immediately saw that the dark-blue Impala was still parked in front of the house. I turned around, went back to the main road and pulled off into the same dirt road that I had parked my car the night before. I settled in for another wait, hoping the owner of the Chevy would venture out. In an hour, I was rewarded for my efforts. A woman driving the Impala pulled out onto the road and turned towards town. I was right behind her.

I kept my distance from her and followed her as she made her way to the local A&P supermarket. She hopped out of the car and went inside. I parked my car and after a minute went inside also. I grabbed a shopping basket, and as I walked around the store pretending to look for something, I got my first good look at the lady.

She was no lady.

As soon as I laid eyes on her, my brain screamed _whore_!

She looked like she was in her late thirties at best. Her hair was dyed Elvis black. It was shoulder length and fluffed out to frame her face. She had big bedroom eyes coated with slivery eye gloss and mascara. She wore her make up on the heavy side and her lips were "bee stung" thick and painted ruby red. There was still beauty on that face, but it was rapidly fading. It was being replaced with a look of wanton, sexual depravity. Not a bad trade off if you ask me.

It was her body, or, to be more exact, how she packaged that body, that stole the show. She was of average height, but voluptuous. She had an hourglass figure, accentuated with large hips and breasts. The kicker was she had managed to squeeze this magnificent, slowly going to seed figure into clothes a couple of sizes too small for her.

The effect was stunning.

She had on low cut, red body shirt and had packed her large breasts into a bra that pushed her boobs in and up. The too tight straps were clearly cutting into her shoulders, and her bra cups were obviously soft because you could see her nipples poking out. Over this she wore a light jean jacket that was open and gave the general effect of framing her cleavage for the world to admire.

She wore a pair of jeans that she'd poured her body into. Her large derriere flared out in the back, and you could see her panty lines on her butt. The front of her jeans were also skin tight, creating in what is known to connoisseurs of sluts like myself as the "camel toe" effect at her crotch. The jeans tapered down to her ankles. To cap this all off, she wore a pair of black, three-inch spike heeled shoes.

This was a woman who knew what she was and made no excuses. When she would walk by, men would stare and women would fume. She was a slatternly piece of ass and reveled in it. My god, I'd have nailed her right there in the aisle of the A&P if she'd asked me. She had that kind of effect on men.

She bought a few grocery items, paid for them and went back out to her car. She drove over to the local drugstore and went in. She bought a few items there, had a sandwich at the lunch counter, then left. As she came out of the store, she stopped, looked at her watch, and walked over to a payphone located just outside the main entrance. It was around one in the afternoon.

I watched her from my car in an adjacent parking lot as she made the call. She dialed a number and after a few seconds began to talk to the party that answered on the other end. A few minutes into the conversation, I could tell things were heating up because she was starting to yell over the phone. She got increasingly animated as the conversation wore on and finally hung up the phone in an apparent huff. She got into her car and drove to the post office, where she apparently had a box rented in her name. She went in, opened her box, and retrieved a small, plain wrapped package that had been sent to her. She got back in the car and drove directly back to her home. I followed her there, then went back to Warhill and waited for Sonny to get off work.

His actions were a repeat of the night before. He went back to his apartment right after work and at around seven o'clock he made his way back to his girlfriend's house. I figured he'd be there for a while, if not overnight, so I quickly slipped back into town for a bite to eat and to call Ernie at home, to see if he got any info on Sonny's lady friend.

Ernie told me the car was registered to one Susan Ethel Bowman, P.O. Box 1301, Warhill, NC. She'd bought the car from a local dealer in Warhill some 10 months ago. I brought him up to speed on what I'd done that day, then decided to make my way back to the house to see if I could snoop around and maybe eavesdrop or get a picture or two without them knowing.

I parked my car on the dirt road again and made my way back down the house through the woods, this time with camera in hand. I really didn't know what I was going to do, maybe I was just hoping to get a picture of this Susan Bowman nude or something—she had that kind of effect on me.

The bottom line was that I was winging it.

In hindsight, I should have never left for dinner. It would have saved me a lot of trouble and time if I'd just stuck around there and watched how the evening began and unfolded. As it was, I joined things in mid-play and as a result, nearly got myself killed figuring out what the hell really happened in that small house that night and why.

* * * * *

It was a little before half past nine when I parked my car back at my now familiar dirt road. I snuck up towards the house. The Chevy and Trans-Am were still parked in the front yard. I was a couple of hundred feet from the house when I first heard the angry voices coming from it.

_What's this_? _A lover's quarrel?_

As I got closer to the house, the voices were getting progressively angrier. I couldn't make out the words being said, but you could tell by the tone that it wasn't a pleasant conversation. The lights were on in practically all the rooms, but the curtains were drawn in the living room. I could vaguely make out the occasional silhouette of a person as he—or she?—walked past the window. I'd finally reached the woods opposite the front door and was debating on whether I should try to get nearer in order to hear what the argument was over, when it happened.

A shrill " _You goddamn bitch!_ " was screamed in the night, which was then punctuated by the sound of a dull, heavy thud and the crack of breaking glass. It was dead quiet for a few seconds. Suddenly, I heard the back door slammed open, followed by noises of someone running through the woods in the back. That's when I was shocked from my inaction and sprinted around to the back of the house.

The back kitchen door was wide open. I wheeled around to look in the woods behind the house. Just in time, I saw some movement in the trailer park that was just beyond the woods. Suddenly, a car engine roared to life in that vicinity followed a few seconds later by the sound of tires spinning in gravel. I only could make out the taillights of a car as it sped away.

Knowing there was no way I could get to my car in time to chase the fleeing person, I turned my attention back towards the now silent house. I waited a few minutes to see if there were any signs of life coming from the inside. There weren't. I pulled out my gun and slowly made my way into the house via the open back kitchen door.

The kitchen was slovenly. Unwashed dishes were piled in the sink, and a few more were on the card table that doubled as a dining table in the middle of the room. Three folding chairs were arrayed around the table. An ancient refrigerator, compressor laboring away, sat in one corner. A grimy, greasy range and oven squatted beside it.

I stopped and listened for a second.

Other than the fridge, there were no other noises I could hear. The interior kitchen door leading to the rest of the house was ajar. With the barrel of my gun, I slowly opened it the rest of the way and made my way into the den. It contained a couch, coffee table, a couple of chairs, a fireplace and the nearly nude body of Susan Bowman.

I smelled her at about the same time I saw her.

There was a rich fetid smell permeating the air. Her bowels must have cut loose when she was killed. There ain't nothing neat about killing, despite what you read in an Agatha Christy novel, especially when the victim is only clad in a short, sheer polyester—what else in this neck of the woods—robe and lace panties. She'd fallen backwards into her coffee table, a cheap wood and glass top affair that had shattered on impact.

That explained breaking sound I'd heard.

The pink robe was splayed open, and death had put to rest the sex appeal of that once superb body. Her breasts were drooped decadently in opposite directions, flaccid, pale and without form. Her belly was shown to have folds of loose skin, with a thick, slightly graying pubic hair growing towards her navel. Her legs were flung open and the panties provided only a modicum of decency. Dimpled waves of cellulite were painfully obvious on her thighs. The feces that escaped from her when she relaxed in death were starting to stain the area under her brown. Her arms lay pressed against her sides, the frame of the coffee table holding them in place.

However, as repulsive as her body had become, its obscenity was nothing to match her face.

Her black hair formed a halo around her head. One could see that the roots were a mousy brown, streaked with gray. There was no color to the skin under the makeup, so it appeared she had some bizarre, surreal mask of death painted on her face. Her mouth with its red lips was open and a drooling tongue was laid out and to the side. Saliva ran down her chin. The eyes were wide open, but each pointed outward in a grotesque parody of the human face. To top it all off, there was a small hand axe sticking out of her forehead at a forty-five degree angle. Rivulets of blood and brains ran down and around her head. It was almost—but not quite—as red as her toe and fingernail polish.

By now, I was in a state of stunned panic. The site and smell had caused the bile to rise to the back of my throat. I was close to throwing up. I should have turned tail and got the hell out of there right then—that's what Ernie told me later—but for some damn reason, call it morbid curiosity, I decided to give the rest of the house a quick search. Rest assured, I had every intention of getting the hell out of there as soon as I looked around.

Gingerly, I made my way around the body, being careful not to step in the blood or shit that lay spreading on the floor. I made my way down the short hall. At the end of it was the bedroom and to my right was the bath. I stuck my head in the bathroom to look.

Nothing. Quickly, I made my way into the bedroom.

At first, I just glanced in and was about to turn around and begin my hasty exit, when I heard a faint rustle coming from the other side of the bed. Slowly, I walked in, went around the bed, and there I saw him, Sonny Slatterson, naked, curled up in the fetal position on the floor. Around his left arm was tied a rubber tube, and a syringe was sticking out his forearm. He was unconscious, pale as a ghost and lying in his own vomit. He was alive, but wouldn't be for long unless someone did something.

The bastard had OD'd.

Ernie tells me to this day I should have gotten the hell out of there and let the punk die, considering the hell I eventually was going to go through, but it wasn't in me. I took one look at Sonny Slatterson and realized that there was a damn good possibility that his Dad might pay me a bonus for saving his son's life. So, I decided to stay and see what I could do to keep him alive.

The first thing I did was to grab him by the legs and drag him to the bathroom. Somehow, I managed to get him in the tub and turn on the cold water. I don't know if this did him any good, but I always saw them do it on TV, so I gave it a shot.

After making sure he wouldn't drown, I held my nose and walked back into the den to call for help. Trying not to look at—and smell—the corpse in the middle of the room, I made a quick call to the operator and told her to get an ambulance out here right away.

After I made the call, I went back to the bathroom and watched over Sonny. Every now and then, I'd slap him hard on the face to see if he'd react. It was like hitting a dead fish. On the plus side, he was still breathing, so I felt that as long as help arrived soon, he'd hopefully live. I don't know how long I stood there looking at him in the tub, but it seemed like forever.

Finally, I heard a siren outside the house, and I started yelling for them to come in, that the patient was in the bathroom and not to worry about the dead body in the den. I know it sounds stupid now, but it made sense then.

I gave Sonny one more slap on the face, just in case, and turned to go meet the emergency personnel. I'd just walked outside of the bathroom when I heard the unmistakable sound of a revolver hammer clicking into the cocked position. I slowly turned to my right and found myself staring down the barrel of .357 magnum. Holding it was a man near who had the look of death in his eyes.

He was a little older and bigger than me, was dressed in a dark suit like me but his revolver wasn't shiny.

It was "painted" a cold, dead dark blue.

## Chapter 11

I've been in this business over thirty years now, and have been in some dire spots where I was close to meeting my maker on a number of occasions. Even so, this was the first time it'd happened to me, and it's like when you lose your virginity—it always sticks in your memory. You might forget the unimportant stuff like the girl's name, but never those critical details—like the year and make of the car whose backseat you were in, for example.

So I can never forget the eyes of the man who held a gun to my head for the first time. They were the flattest and blackest eyes I'd ever seen. Sunken deep into his face, they held no hint of humanity, no spark of compassion. They were the eyes of a man who had decided to pull the trigger on a fellow human being. To this day when I have a nightmare, those eyes are always a part of it.

Nevertheless, I can proudly say I didn't panic! In the split second, I realized the predicament I was in, my gift kicked in. I coolly evaluated the situation, plotted a definite course of action and without any hesitation put my plan into motion. Most men, I can honestly say, couldn't have reacted as quickly and as forcefully as I. They would have just sat there, frozen, while this bastard blew their brains out. Not me, oh-no, not me. I immediately began to call the man a Jew.

" _Jesus H. Christ_ , don't shoot!" I moaned as I sunk to my knees, arms outstretched. "I don't know nuthin', Christ, I'm just trying to help, Oh please, please don't kill me, I'm begging you, don't kill me, _pleeeeeease_..."

Well, what the hell did you expect, a kung-fu kick to the stomach, followed by a rapid disarming of the man and the situation reversed with me holding a gun, telling him to "freeze or die"? That happens only in the movies and dime novels, folks. In real life when a man has a cocked gun to your head and is getting ready to pull the trigger, if you want to live, you beg for mercy— _period_. There's no other option. Stoic silence or ill-advised karate moves will only result in you getting blown to hell.

Nope, the only thing that can possibly save you in this type of situation is pure, unadulterated, self-abasement.

And a little luck.

My quick thinking and actions had an immediate benefit. He hesitated and I saw the first hint of emotion express itself in those eyes...disgust, with a touch of sadism thrown in for good measure. I immediately began to blubber incoherently, forcing tears to stream down my face—well, not really forcing—in hopes of making him decide that I was not worth shooting. I thought for a few seconds that I'd succeeded in my efforts, when I saw the light of reason go out of his face. I knew he'd decided to go ahead and waste me. I began to wail in one last, desperate attempt to get him to change his mind, when I got lucky...real lucky.

The front door to the house opened and a paramedic walked in.

"I'm unarmed, _unarmed_ , don't shoot, I give up!" I screamed as soon as I saw the medic.

The ambulance guy froze and said, "Oh _shit."_

That was enough to save my life. The guy with the gun knew that he couldn't blow me away now, not unless he killed the witness. His eyes came back to life with a flash of bloody hate, and he yelled at me, " _Sheriff!_ Face down on the floor! Hands on top of your head!"

He got no argument from me. With relief washing over me, I slapped myself straight down on the floor and put my hands on my head. "Black Eyes" was behind me in a flash and in a few seconds, I was handcuffed. I was then roughly jerked to my feet and slammed against the wall. He started to search me.

"Hey, there's a guy overdosed in the bathroom, shouldn't you be helping him?" I said, trying to act the part of concerned citizen.

About the same time I said it, the cop found my gun in its holster.

"Unarmed, huh?" he snarled as he took it away from me.

"I got a license for that. I'm a private investigator."

He snorted and shoved me down the hall.

"See to the guy in the crapper," he told the paramedic.

"Sure thing, Sgt. Bradshaw." The medic called for his partner outside to join him. The two of them stepped around the dead body and went into the bathroom.

Bradshaw turned to me and said, "Outside."

I headed for the door with Sgt. Bradshaw right behind me. As soon as I stepped outside, three Sheriff patrol cars came up to the house, lights flashing. It was starting to look like a used-car lot outside. I could see the lights on in the two houses up the road and people had stepped outside to see what the fuss was about.

Sgt. Bradshaw shoved me roughly down the three steps in front of the door. I staggered down them and then fell to the ground. Bradshaw yanked me up. Three uniformed deputies came running up to the front of the house, guns drawn.

"It's okay," announced Bradshaw, "he's cuffed. There's a dead woman inside and a guy overdosed in the bathroom. The paramedics are working on him now."

He pointed to two of the deputies, "You two, secure the house, keep the contamination of the crime scene to a minimum. Make sure the paramedics touch as little as possible as they get the druggie in the ambulance."

He motioned to the remaining deputy, "Help me get this guy into your cruiser. He claims he's a private dick, but for all I know he may be the perp, himself. Take him down to the main station in Loganton and lock him up. I'll radio ahead, let them know you're coming and arrange for the lab boys to examine the crime scene. He's to talk with no one—I repeat—no one until I say he can, got it?"

"Got it, Sarge."

About this time, the two medics had wheeled Sonny out on a stretcher and were starting to put him in the back of the waiting ambulance.

"Hey, Sgt. Bradshaw, this guy was naked when we found him...no ID. You know who he is?"

"Sonny—Sonny Slatterson," I volunteered.

"Good God Almighty," murmured the deputy next to me.

Bradshaw just looked at me one last time with those flat, dead eyes and then motioned for the deputy to take me away.

It took about thirty minutes for the deputy to get me to the main Sheriff's station in Loganton. It was a sprawling one-story affair, only a couple of years old. Two more deputies met me when I got there and after a rapid and thorough strip search, I was thrown into an empty holding cell, and the door was slammed shut behind me. Hardly a word was spoken. I demanded at once to make a phone call, but I was told politely, but firmly, to shut the fuck up.

I sat in that cell for over three hours, staring at the door and barren walls, all the while reviewing the events of the past few hours and getting my story straight. Finally, around two o'clock in the morning, the door was swung open and two deputies came in, handcuffed me, and told me to stand up. I was led out of the cell and taken to an interrogation room, equipped with a table, a few metal chairs and what was obviously a one-way mirror on the wall.

Just like on TV.

I sat there alone for a minute or so, when the door opened and in walked Sgt. Bradshaw followed by a man in his late fifties. He was somewhat overweight, balding, had steel-rimmed glasses on and was dressed in a blue sport-shirt and khaki slacks. Sgt. Bradshaw had a folder of papers with him. Both took a seat across from me. The older man motioned for the folder from Bradshaw. He opened it and sat there and studied it for a minute. He looked up at me for a second or two then looked back at the folder.

"I'm Sheriff John Crump. Says here you're Jacob Luke Dafoe, age twenty-nine," he started. "Also says here you're a private investigator, located out of Charlotte. That right?"

"Yes."

"Now what kind of business would a young feller like you have in our county?"

"I'm here in town in my capacity as a professional, private investigator. That's all I can say right now."

I had that line ready to go. Just like Mannix on TV, don't tell'em anything, client confidentiality and all that.

I didn't even have the words completely out of my mouth when Bradshaw had rocketed out of his chair and was on me. I rolled backwards and fell on my back, trying to ward off the blows from my head with my handcuffed hands, but Bradshaw just switched to kicking me in the balls. I yelled for him to stop, but he just kept on kicking.

"Stan! _Enough_!" Crump eventually yelled, reaching out to constrain his pissed-off deputy. "Enough—I think he might cooperate now."

Reluctantly, Bradshaw stopped beating me. I just laid there and moaned a minute or so. I slowly got to my feet and sat back in my chair. Crump looked at me sort of sad like for a few moments and then got back to questioning me.

"Let's cut to the chase, boy, did you kill that woman we found?"

"No."

"Well, what were you doing at her home? Answer me that."

That bastard Bradshaw was looking at me with those dead eyes of his, just waiting to pounce on my ass, and I could tell that Sheriff Crump wasn't going to try to stop him, at least not right away.

Mannix be damned. I decided to tell them everything.

As soon as it was apparent that I was spilling my guts to them, Bradshaw's look of hate turned to contempt. I never hated another man as much as I hated Sergeant Stan Bradshaw that night, but there wasn't a damn thing I could do. I was handcuffed, alone and sure as hell didn't want another beating. So I started to sing like a bird.

I told them about being hired by old man Slatterson to follow his son and the subsequent tailing him to the Bowman house that evening. I told them about going out for dinner and coming back, only to hear the argument and apparent murder inside the house. They listened to my claim to have heard someone leave via the backdoor and run to the adjacent trailer park and drive off. Sheriff Crump appeared somewhat relieved with this news, but Bradshaw snorted in disbelief. I finished up telling them about going in, finding the dead body and Sonny passed out and my subsequent phone call for help.

Then I just sat there and waited. I wanted to ask to make a call, but with Bradshaw around, I didn't want to press my luck. By now, it was near to four o'clock in the morning, according to the clock on the wall.

Crump and Bradshaw got up and walked out of the room. I sat there. A few minutes later I was escorted back to my cell, and my handcuffs were removed. Exhausted and sore from the beating, I soon fell asleep on the concrete floor.

I didn't know how long I'd been asleep when the door to the cell was swung open, and I was woken up. They had confiscated everything, including my watch, when I had first arrived at the station. Two more deputies came in and told me to get up. This time they didn't put the cuffs on me. I was allowed to go to the bathroom and then taken back to the interrogation room. When I was escorted in, Sheriff Crump was there with another man. This man was dark haired, slim and was dressed in a suit. The Sheriff was polite and asked me to sit down and make myself comfortable. The man in the suit stuck his hand out for me to shake.

"Mr. Dafoe, I'm Tim Anderson, the county prosecutor. I know it's been a long night for you, but could you please go over the events of last night that you told Sheriff Crump about earlier?"

"I don't know Mr. Anderson. I really think I should be seeing my lawyer first, since I'm being held here against my will."

The polite attitude of the Sheriff had emboldened me a tad, plus the fact that Stan Bradshaw was nowhere to be seen.

"Of course, I can understand your reluctance, but I can assure you that you're not under any suspicion—whatsoever. Indeed, if it wasn't for your timely assistance, we might have two deaths on our hands, instead of one."

_So Sonny Slatterson was still alive._ I decided to press my luck further.

"I want—no let's make that I _demand_ to be allowed to contact my superiors in Charlotte. They need to be appraised of my situation and to arrange an appropriate response."

"Of course," purred Anderson. "Sheriff, can you arrange for a phone to be brought in?"

Crump went out of the room and soon returned with a phone that he plugged into a nearby outlet. He placed it in front of me.

"Dial nine to get a line out."

I looked at the wall clock. It was a little past ten in the morning. I called the office. Maisy answered and I told her to get Ernie on the line if he was there. Within seconds, he was on the phone. I told him what my situation was and told him to get his ass down here and get me out of jail.

"Have they read you your rights, kid? Just answer yes or no."

I said no.

"Good, that means they aren't lying to you about not being a suspect, at least not yet. Since you've already come clean, it won't hurt to tell them again. It's an hour and a half drive to Loganton. I'll be there before you know it."

We hung up and I turned to face the two men.

"Satisfied?" asked Anderson.

"Yeah, I guess so. What do you want to know?"

"Just tell me what you told Sheriff Crump earlier."

So I told him.

Anderson just sat there while I told him the whole story. After I was done, he asked a few questions, mostly concerning the fact that I heard someone leave by the backdoor and drive off. He also confirmed the fact that Eric Slatterson had hired me.

After about an hour, I was told I was free to leave, but they might need for me to testify later. The Sheriff called one of his deputies in and told him to get my personal belongings and return them to me, including my gun. I then was allowed to go freshen up, and by the time I was finished, the deputy had come back with my stuff. I took it and made my way to the front of the building. Then I just sat on an outside bench and waited for Ernie to pick me up. About forty-five minutes later, he drove up in his Caddie. I got in and we drove off.

As we were leaving the parking lot, I just happened to see Prosecutor Anderson standing outside a side door, having a conversation with none other than Sgt. Bradshaw. I tried to shrug it off as of no importance, but a cold lump in my gut told me otherwise.

* * * * *

Ernie drove me back to the motel I was staying at. It had been a long night. We went into my room and as Ernie waited, I took a hot shower. My ribs were a bit sore from the beating I'd gotten from Bradshaw, but I was okay otherwise. After I was done cleaning up, Ernie told me to go over the complete story, straight from the beginning. I was hungry, so we decided to go to a local restaurant to get a bite, and I filled Ernie in on the details over a couple of burgers and some fries.

We sat in that restaurant booth for about an hour as I recounted everything that occurred the night before. After I was finished, Ernie sat there a minute and thought. Finally, he looked at me and spoke.

"First, you did right coming clean after being roughed up. You were in a no-win situation. The bastards had you by the balls and there wasn't much you could do but roll over. I'd done the same

"That Bradshaw is a bastard. I'd love to nail his ass," I hissed.

"Damnit, forget that kind of talk. Take my word, you got off easy. Every and I mean _every_ cop organization has their Sgt. Bradshaws. Gettin' a beating from them is all part of the game and there ain't a damn thing you can do about it. They're _the law_. They hold all the cards. Sure, you can sue afterwards and cause a stink, but the odds are you'll lose, and if you have another run-in with them, you might wind up dead."

He lit up a smoke, took a drag and then waved it at me.

"Don't forget, we're in this business for the money. And speaking of money, we need to find out where Eric Slatterson is right now. I got a feeling he's going to need us, and we won't come cheap."

"Need us? Hell, I told you about hearing someone leaving the house right after the fight. There's your killer. I bet the worse thing they can do to the kid is a possession rap. Slatterson needs a lawyer, not us."

"Bullshit. You're the only witness that can—even remotely—vouch for Sonny Slatterson. Unfortunately for the kid's lawyers, you were working for his old man at the time. A prosecutor would have a field day with that fact, especially if they can't locate anyone else to hang the rap on and decide to go for Sonny."

He took a drag off his cigarette and went on.

"But that's their problem, not ours. Take my word for it, no matter what they decide to do with Sonny, Old man Slatterson and his lawyers are going to need to keep us happy and employed, especially if the county decides to go after the boy. They'll need us if only to dig up dirt on the broad and to keep your memory intact, if you know what I mean."

I shrugged my shoulders, told him he was the boss and finished my fries.

* * * * *

We drove back to the crime scene to get my car. We then went back to the motel. There, with Ernie watching, I called Slatterson's office to see if he was in. He wasn't, so I explained to the secretary who I was, and that it was urgent I talked with Slatterson or his lawyers concerning the situation Sonny was in. She took down my number and hung up. There wasn't much else we could do but wait.

In a few minutes, the phone rang. I answered it and found myself talking to Slatterson's personal lawyer, Harold Swinson. I quickly told him who I was and began to tell him about my being hired by Slatterson to follow his son. The lawyer interrupted me.

"Listen—I just got off the phone with Mr. Slatterson. He told me about you and what you're doing for him. He and Mrs. Slatterson were with Sonny all day in the hospital. They'd just gotten home for some rest when I called them about you. Sonny is awake, but doesn't remember anything about what happened last night. I want to talk to you, but not over the phone. Come to my office and we can meet there. Mr. Slatterson is on his way from his home and will join us."

I got his office address. It was in town, about a ten-minute drive from the motel I was staying at. Ernie and I drove to his office and within seconds of arriving there we were escorted into Swinson's office.

Harold Swinson was in his late fifties, rotund, had thinning gray hair, and bespectacled. Like most people, he did a quick double take when he first saw Ernie, but he smoothly recovered and asked us to make ourselves comfortable.

"First of all, let me convey Mr. Slatterson's personal thanks for your actions last night. He realizes that if it wasn't for your timely assistance, Sonny would have died in that house."

I gave a nonchalant, yet manly shrug of my shoulders, as if to say, _All in day's work, my good fellow._

Swinson continued, "We haven't heard much from the authorities on this matter. The Sheriff, who Mr. Slatterson has generously supported in the past, hasn't returned my calls. I'll be honest, this concerns me. His family finds it hard to believe that Sonny could have committed such a heinous act, and we're hoping to get some details concerning the situation from you."

I was just about to open my mouth and recount what seemed like the hundredth time what happened when Eric Slatterson came into the office.

He looked drained. His face, which had been a blustery red when I'd first met him, was pale and haggard. His eyes were bloodshot and he needed a shave. He'd obviously been up all night.

Just to show you how exhausted he was, he didn't even bat an eye when introduced to Ernie.

He turned to me, looked me in the eye and shook my hand.

"Thank you, I owe you my son's life," he said. "His mother and I are in your debt."

I glanced at Ernie and saw the dollar signs light up in his eyes.

We all sat back down, and soon I was recounting the events surrounding the death of Susan Bowman. Swinson was taking notes as I spoke, and Slatterson just sat there like a zombie and listened.

It wasn't until I recounted the circumstances of the argument before the apparent murder, followed by what appeared to be someone running away from the house that Slatterson began to show signs of coming back to life.

"I knew my boy couldn't have done it! See Harry, I was right. I knew Sonny didn't kill that whore! I knew it! I gotta tell Cheryl this, I gotta tell his mother."

Slatterson got up and went for the phone.

"Eric, _sit down_ , please!" ordered Swinson. "Hear the rest of what Mr. Dafoe has to say before we start calling people up on the phone. Cheryl needs to get some rest, and I need to get all the facts if you want me to help you. So just sit down and let Mr. Dafoe finish, okay?"

Reluctantly, Slatterson sat down and listened to the rest of my story. He cringed when he listened to the part about my finding Sonny passed out in the bedroom corner and looked at me with dog-like appreciation when I described my heroic attempts to keep Sonny from dying until the ambulance arrived.

I told them about my being placed under arrest and taken to the county jail. I assured them that I made it abundantly clear to the arresting officer, Sheriff Crump and the D.A. that I'd heard someone leave the house right after the murder. Swinson just nodded and took notes.

After I'd finished, Swinson looked at Slatterson.

"What does Sonny remember?"

Slatterson shook his head.

"Sonny says the last thing he remembers is leaving work and going to that whore's house. It's all blank after that."

"How long had he been seeing this Bowman woman? Did he tell you that?"

"He met her last February. Sonny says that at first he just went there to screw and have few beers, but she soon had him smoking pot with her. One thing led to another, and he started doing—stronger stuff."

Slatterson looked stricken for a second then gulped a few times and went on.

"Sonny says he's been doing cocaine a lot lately, and something called PCP. He claims that only recently had he started using a needle to inject himself with cocaine. That's what he said he used last night, at least he thinks that's what he did. He doesn't really remember."

Swinson looked at Slatterson with sympathy. He knew it was difficult for Slatterson to talk about his son like this.

"Where did he get the drugs? Did he tell you, Eric?"

"That bitch got it for him. He just gave her money, and she got him the stuff. That's all I know, at least for now."

He slumped back into his chair and looked at us.

That struck me as odd, a middle age woman scoring drugs for a kid just out of college. I filed it away for later use.

"Has the Sheriff contacted you yet?" Swinson asked.

"No, they got a deputy standing outside of Sonny's room at the hospital, but he doesn't know anything. He says he just has orders to keep Sonny safe and under supervision. I tried to call John Crump up, but I'm getting the run around from his receptionist. That pisses me off. I gave that asshole thousands of dollars to run for Sheriff. The least he can do is answer my calls. I'll remember this, Harry, let me tell you, I'll remember this."

Swinson held up his hand.

"I don't want you making any more calls to the Sheriff. Let me handle it. You and Cheryl have got enough problems and both of you are on edge. I don't want you going off on a tangent and letting that temper of yours screw this up."

Slatterson slowly nodded his head then said he wanted to call up the hospital and check on his son.

"Fine," said Swinson. "You can call them from the office next door. You'll have a little privacy there."

Slatterson got up and left to make the call.

Swinson turned to us.

"Of course, your firm will remain on retention with us. I don't know what's going to happen in the next few days, but we may need to call on your services."

Swinson looked directly at me.

"Of course, we will be depending on you to recount your experiences to the court—if it becomes necessary. I'm hoping that I'll be able to reason with Sheriff Crump and the District Attorney on this matter."

In other words, bring Slatterson's considerable fortune and political power to bear, get the Sheriff to look elsewhere and leave the Slatterson family to deal with their demons in private. It was a good strategy and ninety-nine times out of a hundred it works.

When it comes to justice and the law, money does matter and don't let anyone tell you different. Like anything else in this life you get what you pay for and the law, despite protestations to the contrary, is the same way. Reasonable doubt is the name of the game and usually, the more money you throw at a problem, the more doubt you can raise. Some will say this makes it unfair to the poor, and they're probably right. Then again, it has been my experience that people are almost always guilty of what they're accused of doing. So I guess it all works out in the end.

We talked a few more minutes with Swinson, worked out the details of our charges and payments and waited for Slatterson to complete his call.

We didn't wait long.

Slatterson slowly opened the door, walked back in. He was despondent. Swinson knew immediately something was wrong.

"Eric—what happened?"

"I just got off the phone with the hospital," muttered Slatterson. "The nurse who answered the phone says that the Sheriff is there and has arrested Sonny for murder."

I glanced over at Ernie. He'd hung his head, as if in despair, but I saw the wisp of a smile on his face. He was probably figuring out where to spend the money we were going to make on this case.

## Chapter 12

I got to give Harry Swinson credit. He didn't blink an eye.

He just growled, "Yep. I was afraid of that," and went into action. He told Slatterson go home to his wife and wait for further instructions. On no account was he to come to the hospital, unless he, Swinson, told him too.

"I don't want you there while I deal with this. It calls for a cool head now and the last thing I need is that famous temper of yours blowing up. Anyway, you're about to keel over from exhaustion, and I need for you to be strong these next few days."

He told Ernie to drive Slatterson back to his home and wait there until we got done at the hospital. Swinson pointed at me.

"You, young man, you're coming with me to the hospital. We'll take my car," he barked. "I don't want to waste a minute. If I know Tim Anderson, he's trying to pull a fast one here. Let's move."

He threw me his keys and then that roly-poly fat little shyster bounded out of his chair, grabbed his briefcase and was out the door. I was on his heels.

In fifteen minutes, we were at the hospital parking lot. As we got out of the car, I noticed a couple of TV news vans from Charlotte parked off in the corner. I pointed them out to Swinson.

"Shit. I knew it—I just _knew_ it," was all he said as we headed for the front entrance to the hospital. We made our way to Sonny Slatterson's private room. Just before we got there, Sheriff Crump greeted us in the hallway.

" _Goddamnit_ John, what the hell is the meaning of this?" snapped Swinson. "Is this how you treat friends?"

Crump just threw up his hands.

"Harry, believe me when I tell you, there's nothing I can do on this one. Anderson is calling all the shots here."

Swinson grimaced but said nothing. All three of us went up to the hospital room. A deputy was standing outside. Crump motioned to let us in and the deputy stepped aside. Swinson went into the room, followed by Sheriff Crump and then me.

Inside was Sonny Slatterson flat on his hospital bed with IVs running out his arms and an oxygen tube under his nose. His hair was plastered greasily on his head, and his pale, watery eyes were staring up in despair at the two figures hovering over him. I immediately recognized them as Anderson, the District Attorney and that bastard, Sgt. Bradshaw.

At the sight of Bradshaw, I stifled a reflex to bolt out of the room.

Swinson, however, was on top of things.

"Sonny, don't say a word. What's the meaning of this? You know I've been retained by the Slatterson family to represent Sonny, why didn't you call me first if there were any questions?"

"Because counselor, we're arresting Sonny here," snapped Anderson. "Your client has been charged with the first-degree murder of Susan Bowman, and we've read him his rights. If we want to question him after his rights are read, we can. He doesn't have to answer them."

"Horseshit. This interview with my client is at an end. He's ill and needs to recuperate. I demand that you leave him and allow him to rest. Post your guard by the room, but he's not to be moved from this room until his doctor says he's fit for discharge or movement."

Swinson pointed to the door.

Anderson looked at Bradshaw, then motioned for him to follow. They left the room. Bradshaw stared at me as he went by. I tried to act cool, but I don't think I pulled it off.

Swinson turned to Sonny, who was now just staring at the ceiling.

"Son, did you say anything to them. I got to know."

Sonny just shook his head and croaked, "Nothing. Christ. I don't remember anything, so what can I tell them. I just want to sleep."

With that he turned his head and closed his eyes.

"Good boy, you just get some rest."

Swinson looked at me a moment then left the room. I was right behind him. Anderson, Bradshaw and Crump were waiting for us outside the room.

Anderson went immediately on the offense.

"Your client killed that woman and no amount of money is going to change that fact. He caved her skull in with the fireplace hand axe, then pumped himself up with heroin when he realized what he'd done."

Swinson didn't miss a beat.

"Nonsense. We have an eyewitness here in Mr. Dafoe, who will swear there was someone else in that house that night. That boy was in no shape to have done what you said."

"All you got is the word of a slimy ass private dick who was being paid by your client's daddy to keep an eye on him," snarled Bradshaw. "He didn't see shit, he just thought he heard something. That's all. The only fingerprints in that house other than the victim's belonged to your client. That snot-nosed punk killed her, and that's all there is to it."

"Why don't we keep this conversation on a professional level and leave out the personal insults, shall we?" replied Swinson. "But let me make this clear, you're not to talk to my client unless I give permission, is that understood?"

"Oh, that's understood and I just want you to understand that no amount of money or any phone call from the Governor is going to help your boy here," Anderson said. "Eric Slatterson can pull out all the stops, but it won't matter. I'm going out right now and hold a news conference with every TV station and newspaper in the area. I'm going to make it clear that the days of good'ol boys and money are at an end in this part of the state. That spoiled rich kid lying inside that private room is going to go to prison and at a minimum, sit there and rot for the rest of his natural-born days. Is _that_ understood?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He spun around on his heel and stalked down the hallway. Bradshaw gave me a sneer and followed him. Crump didn't move but just watched the two of them walk away. He then turned and faced Swinson and me.

"See what I mean? My hands are tied on this one. Anderson has a burr under his ass and so does Stan. This one is out of my league."

"John," pleaded Swinson, "can't you talk some sense into them? Hell, maybe we can work something out."

The Sheriff sadly shook his head and looked directly at Swinson.

"Tim Anderson wants to run for Congress one day. He's bright, ambitious, and fairly honest. He's never liked me or the way I did my job. I've kept him out of my hair up until now, but it gets harder every day. Like I said, he's ambitious and having the head of a sheriff in your trophy case is a good way to get noticed in the election game. I really don't want to antagonize the man."

He stopped to compose himself.

"I'm sixty-seven years old. I've been Sheriff here in this county for over twenty years, and I'm ready to call it quits when my current term is over next year. My back aches and I have the gout in both my legs. I want to spend what time I got left in peace, not in court fighting Tim Anderson for my freedom, so I'm bowing out while I'm ahead..."

He stared off into the distance for second then shook his head.

"Stan Bradshaw has been with me for these last five years and the deputies like him. He's filling out the paperwork to run for Sheriff and plans to file them by next month's deadline. I personally think the man is a first-rate bastard, but he's been loyal to the department and me. But like all young lions, he wants to be his own man. He's gotten Anderson convinced that putting Sonny Slatterson in prison is the smart move, publicity wise, for two ambitious men like themselves— "

Swinson interrupted, "But what if Dafoe here is right, what if there was someone else in that house that night."

"Then you and your boy here are going to have to prove it, Harry. I'll give you and your team full access to all the forensic results and evidence, but as far as the county is concerned, your client is guilty. And I'll be honest, other than this feller's story," he pointed at me, "there ain't anything that says Slatterson's boy is innocent."

With that last statement Crump turned and left.

Swinson and I watched the Sheriff as he disappeared down the hall. I waited for the lawyer to say something. He just stood there a few seconds in thought, shook his head, as if to clear it, then looked at me.

"First thing we need to do is get hold of Doc Akins, Sonny's physician. I've known him for over thirty years, and he has been Sonny's doctor since Sonny was in knee britches. I want to make it clear that Sonny isn't to be moved anytime soon."

We went to the nurse's station and asked if Dr. Akins was there in the hospital. The nurse on duty wasn't sure. She had him paged. Within seconds of the page, the phone rang and Swinson was handed the phone.

"Clark? This is Harry Swinson. I need to see you about what's going on with Sonny Slatterson. Where can we meet?"

It was quickly agreed to meet at Akins office located in the doctor's clinic next to the hospital. We made our way there.

Dr. Clark Akins was a thin man just north of sixty who had a thick, unruly thatch of snow-white hair. He was wearing a white lab coat over his blue shirt and tie.

"We've been friends for a lot of years," started Swinson, "and we've always helped each other when needed. I need your help now."

"Sure Harry, you know me. I'll do what I can."

"Thanks. The D.A. has decided to go ahead and charge Sonny with murder. There ain't a damn thing I can do about that, at least not immediately. But what I do need is for Sonny to stay in this hospital for at least three, if not more, days. I want to avoid his going to the county jail, for the time being. I need time to arrange a hearing and hopefully get the charges reduced or bail set. At any rate, I don't want him at the mercy of the D.A. anytime soon. Can you do it for me?"

"No problem. Sonny is in pretty beat up shape. I don't know how the boy got started on this crap, but the drugs have taken their toll, physically and mentally. I strongly suspect withdrawal symptoms are going to kick in soon, so I'll need to keep him in the hospital till the withdrawal runs its course. I suspect it will be at least four or five days before the kid is in any shape to move."

He looked at us with a glint in his eyes, "How does that sound?"

Swinson grabbed the doctor's hand and shook it.

"Sounds fine. We'll keep in touch."

Dr. Akins nodded his head, and Swinson turned and told me that it was time we went to the Slatterson's home to fill in them in on the details.

We made our way back to the parking lot where we had our car. As we approached Swinson's sedan, we noticed at the other end of the lot the bright lights of the television crews clustered around Anderson and Bradshaw. Swinson and I stood there a second and took in the scene. The lawyer said the last thing he wanted right now was to go on TV. We quickly and quietly got the hell out of there.

* * * * *

We arrived at the Slatterson estate about thirty minutes later. There was a stonewall that ran across the edge of the estate and a huge wrought-iron fence that protected the entrance to the red-brick driveway. The house itself was located in the center of about twenty acres of manicured woodland and lawns. It was a huge, two-story affair, with a separate five-car garage and a tennis court/pool complex located in the back.

As we pulled up to the front of the home, we spied Ernie standing outside the front door, smoking a cigarette. He waved at us as we pulled up. We stopped the car and got out. Swinson inquired about the status of the Slattersons.

Ernie shrugged his shoulders.

"I guess they're okay, all things considered. Mr. Slatterson went inside as soon as we got here. I waited outside and smoked. He came down a few minutes later and said Mrs. Slatterson took the news about Sonny about as well as could be expected. She's in bed resting now. He went back inside and that's the last I heard from him. That was a little over an hour ago."

Swinson nodded his head.

"I'll go in and get them up to speed as to where we stand. You," nodding in my direction, "can brief your partner here as to what happened at the hospital while I'm inside."

Swinson went in the house, and I brought Ernie up to speed on the latest happenings. In ten minutes, Swinson was finished talking to the Slattersons. Together the three of us made our way back to Swinson's office where Ernie and I had left our cars. It was already dark and I was exhausted.

We agreed to meet Swinson in the morning to discuss our next moves. With that settled, Ernie and I made our way back to my motel, where Ernie also got a room. We went to a local hamburger joint and got some food. Ernie wanted to talk more, but I told him we could discuss it over breakfast because I was about at the end of my rope and needed rest. I showered and went to bed.

I slept soundly, but had no dreams.

* * * * *

I woke up the next morning feeling somewhat human, but still sore about the ribs from the beating Bradshaw had given me. Ernie and I ate breakfast, and he made the prediction that our job was going to be two-fold. The first part was to prove who, other than Sonny and the Bowman woman, had been in the house that night. The second task would be to dig up dirt on Bowman so Swinson could do a hatchet job on her in court if we couldn't find out who else had been in that house.

As we drank our coffee, I talked to Ernie about a few things that were bothering me.

"There're a couple of items hanging out there that have got me confused. It doesn't make any sense. According to the Slatterson kid, Susan Bowman was the instigator of the drug use; she was the one providing it. On top of that, the kid also said he was doing cocaine and PCP. Why suddenly did he switch to heroin, especially on the night someone decided to visit and kill his girlfriend? Hell of a coincidence, if you ask me."

"Who knows?" mused Ernie. "It's hard to say what broads will do, especially old ones carrying on with guys young enough to be their son. Maybe the drugs and booze were her way of keeping him with her. May-September romances between a young guy and older woman start off hot, but they cool fast, usually because the guy gets tired of it."

"Yeah, I guess so, but you got to admit, Sonny Slatterson is an ugly bastard. The Bowman lady still had some of her looks. She could have done better."

"He is a _rich_ , ugly bastard—that makes up for a lot."

"Well, his Dad is, but I'll concede the point for argument's sake. But what about the switch to using smack on the very night of the murder?" I said. "That sends off alarm bells in my head, especially since it almost killed the kid. Hell, if I hadn't been there, it would have and this case would have been closed already."

"Good point," Ernie lit his fifth cigarette of the morning, "but I can see how the D.A. can turn that against us—argue the kid wasn't used to using the shit, went off the deep end after he ran it up and wound up killing the bitch."

"You forget I know I heard another person there that night."

"I didn't forget that, but you forget that you can't prove it—at least not yet."

With that, we paid our tab and left for Swinson's office.

The lawyer was alone when we met him. He explained that Slatterson and his wife were at the hospital with Sonny and that their presence wasn't needed while we plotted a course of action. Swinson had been Slatterson's personal attorney for years and had his complete trust. We got down to business.

Just as Ernie predicted, Swinson's plan of attack centered around us finding out who else had been there that night and to dig up any dirt we could concerning the Bowman broad. The formal arraignment of Sonny was going to take place as soon as he was released out of the hospital. Swinson said he knew the judge who had been assigned the hearing, and he felt there was a good chance he'd grant bail to Sonny, no matter what the charge was, even murder. Anderson would fight it, but the Slatterson family would be willing to put up a huge bail if needed.

Ernie and I wanted access to all the evidence that had been gathered, as well as being allowed to examine the murder scene and house. I made it clear to Swinson that I wanted to do it without having to worry about Bradshaw getting in my way, physically or legally.

"Don't worry about that. I think the D.A. and Bradshaw are going to find out that by making a big deal of this case with the TV folks and newspapers is going to prove to be a two-edge sword," said Swinson. "Sure, it counters some of Eric's and my pull in the county and state somewhat, but it also limits their ability to pull strong-arm stuff or conduct a sloppy investigation and get away with it."

"Just make sure that they know that. I'd hate to get in a fight with Bradshaw. It'd look bad for the private investigator you hired to get arrested for beating the hell out of the lead cop in this," I said with a straight face—I hoped.

"I'll let Sheriff Crump know we expect full cooperation," said the lawyer. "He might not be actively helping us in our case, but he can keep Bradshaw in line."

So with marching orders in hand—and exorbitant fee agreed upon—Ernie and I sat out to investigate the circumstances and mystery behind the death of Susan Bowman.

## Chapter 13

Together Ernie and I made our way back to the Sheriff's office and asked to see Crump. We were quickly led into the man's office where, I must admit, we were graciously welcomed.

"I just got off the phone with Harry," said Crump, "and we understand each other. I'll assign one of my junior deputies to escort you to the evidence room and back to the scene. Look all you want, but don't take anything. Feel free to check back every now and then to see if we turn up anything else, but rest assured, I'll keep you in the loop if we do."

"What about Sgt. Bradshaw?" asked Ernie, mercifully letting me off the hook from having to inquire about the bastard. "He has a tendency, from what I've been told, to go off half-cocked. Is he going to be a problem?"

"Stan won't be a problem, Mr. Twillfigger. Y'all just keep away from him and I'll keep him away from you. We got a pretty good case here and there's no need for anyone to louse it up with some rough stuff, agreed?"

I tried to fix Crump with a stony, manly stare, but he wasn't having any of it. He'd seen me about piss in my pants after Bradshaw had his way with me, so there wasn't any real way to recoup my dignity after such an episode. Crump just chuckled under breath and called in our escort/guard. He was a wet-nosed punk who had only been on the force some six months. He took Ernie and me to the evidence room where they stored the stuff they had taken from the Bowman house. There wasn't much to go through.

A little bag with heroin was there, along with the blood splattered axe and a few odds and ends, including a color photograph of Susan standing in front of her house, smiling. She was wearing a white t-shirt—no bra, of course—and a black pair of slacks and sandals. She didn't have quite as much makeup on as when I first saw her. It made her look older, but a bit softer. We asked that a copy of the photo be made for us, so we could use it in our investigation. The deputy wrote down the request.

Ernie and I went through the examiner's report of the crime scene and corpse. Initial estimation of cause of death was obvious, blunt trauma to the forehead, with cranium being punctured by a sharp object, i.e., the axe that was found protruding from her head. Toxicology and autopsy reports were still outstanding. We told the deputy we wanted copies of the reports when they were ready. He made a note.

The forensic lab had already swept for prints back at the house and so far the only sets found had belonged to Sonny or the victim. We noted that fact, then told our deputy friend we wanted to see Susan Bowman's car, if it was available. It was.

We went to the impounded car lot and searched her vehicle. Nothing.

Examination of the murder scene was next. We went to our car and followed the deputy to the Bowman house on the outskirts of town.

* * * * *

In broad daylight, the place looked even more run-down. The siding on the house was dirty, with mold creeping up from the ground. Yellow crime-scene tape was plastered across the windows and doors, and another deputy stood guard outside. We walked up to the front door. After a quick consultation between the deputy and our escort, the seal on the front door was broken and Ernie and I went inside.

The murder scene had been cleaned up. The victim's blood and other bodily fluids had been washed from the floor for sanitation reasons. Just like in the movies, a stark, chalk outline was all that remained of where Susan Bowman's body had fallen. The shattered, glass-topped coffee table had been swept up into a neat pile near the top of the chalk outline. A cheap, brown couch and chair were set up against the far wall and a small, black-and-white TV with rabbit ears sat on a stand across from them. The fireplace lay empty and cold. A few magazines were sitting on a table stand next to the couch. The walls and floor were barren of adornment.

Ernie and I looked under the cushions of the couch and chair, but other than turning up a bit of loose change, we found nothing. We made our way into the kitchen.

There was nothing there of interest either. There was some canned goods and dried pasta in the pantry, and a few plastic dishes, plates and cups on the shelves. The fridge was still running and inside we found only some beer and a few sodas. The cheap card table that served as a dining table and its matching folding chairs were present in the middle of the room. We moved on to the bedroom.

The bed had been stripped, and the floor cleaned of Sonny's vomit. The scent of pine oil cleaner was heavy in the air. Ernie started to go through the dresser, and I headed for the closet.

Inside, I found the trampy and somewhat meager remnants of Susan Bowman's boudoir. The small closet contained no more than a few blouses, four pairs of jeans, one dress and a couple of negligees. At the bottom were three or four pairs of high-heeled pumps, some tennis shoes and a pair of sandals, the same pair that she'd been wearing in the photograph. Convinced there was nothing else to find, I turned to look at Ernie and caught him sniffing a pair of panties that he'd found in one of the dresser drawers. I coughed to get his attention, and he quickly dropped the panties back in the drawer.

"Find anything?" I asked.

"Nothing, just some panties, bras, pantyhose and things like that. No mementos, address book, nothing other than the bare essentials. How 'bout you?"

"Same here, it's as if she just dropped into this house out of thin air. It stinks."

I went over to the bed and looked under it. There was a suitcase there. I grabbed it, threw it on top of the bed, opened it and searched it. Bare as a bone.

In disgust, I slammed it shut, and bent over to toss it back under the bed. It was then that I spied it, wedged behind the bed frame leg, next to the wall. A small, white cardboard box, no more than three-by-three inches square and an inch deep. Curious, I pulled it out from behind the bed frame leg and laid it on top of the bed.

It was one of those small boxes you get when you buy some cheap jewelry from a drugstore. Carefully, I opened it. Empty. Well, almost empty. I nearly missed it because of the box's white color. When I was about to close it and throw it away, the sunshine streaming through the bedroom window struck the inside of the box in such a way that I saw the minute sparkle that a powder can give it if light hits it just the right manner. And it dawned on me. The kind of sparkle of a powder—like heroin. The walls of the box had a light dusting of it. I called over Ernie and showed him.

At first, he wasn't impressed.

"So what, maybe she kept her shit here, she had to put it somewhere. Maybe it's nothing, not even smack. Who gives a damn?"

"Don't you remember me telling you that she picked up a small package at the post office the day she died? It was about this size."

I saw the light of understanding start to creep in into his eyes.

"Someone mailed her the heroin!" we said in unison.

"Deputy!" Ernie hollered. "Come here, _now_ , we need you."

The officer rushed into the room.

"I want you to get an evidence bag, put this box on the bed in it and seal it. We want it tested. When we're done here, we'll go back with you and make sure Sheriff Crump knows about it and sees it, got it? This is damned important."

The deputy, somewhat flustered at his sudden responsibility, stuttered out "Yes sir!" and sped out of the room to go get the plastic evidence bag.

"Look for the paper it was wrapped in," I said, "it was brown."

Unfortunately, our luck had run out. Ernie and I tore up the house but found no brown wrapping paper. We eventually gave up and went outside in the crisp November air, stood by Ernie's car and discussed the situation. We had gotten over our initial euphoria on finding a possible clue, something that Ernie later confessed had very rarely happened to him during his days a private detective, and while we would still have the box tested for drug residue, we had no real proof of it being mailed to her. So, somewhat disheartened, we went back to the Sheriff's office to turn in the box for tests.

We walked into Crump's office and showed him what we had. He looked at us sympathetically, as if he knew we were snatching at straws and took the evidence bag from his deputy, then dismissed him.

"Sure I'll have it tested, but even if it comes back positive, I don't know what it will prove. That she and Sonny kept a neat drug den?" He dropped the bag on his desk.

Then I had an idea.

"Sheriff, can I look at that box one more time, outside the bag?"

He shrugged, called up his lab boys and had them deliver a pair of rubber gloves to his office.

"Might as well play it by the book." he explained. "Now that it's here, we got to be careful, Anderson will kill me if I screw this up. Hell, I shouldn't even let you touch it anymore, but considering you're the one that found it, I guess it won't do no harm."

The rubber gloves were brought in. Crump handed them to me and told me to wear them when I handled the box.

I put them on, got a couple sheets of blank typing paper and a pencil. Carefully, I removed the box and placed it on one of the sheets of paper. I then took the other piece of paper and placed it on top of the box. Carefully, using the pencil, I began rapidly to scratch back and forth on the paper.

Within a few seconds, the words "Susan Bowman, P. O. Box 1301, Warhill N. C. 28970" were plainly visible on the paper.

Sheriff Crump was impressed enough with Ernie's and my discovery that he took personal control of the processing of the box. Within a day or so we had the results from the lab. The light dusting of powder proved to be heroin, of the same purity as the small baggie found near Sonny Slatterson the night of the murder. There was a fingerprint on the box, but it was smudged beyond identification. Nevertheless, it was proof that Susan Bowman was possibly having her drugs mailed to her, and that meant there was at least a third party involved in this mess, even if so far only peripherally. As Swinson pointed out, it was one more thing to hang on Susan Bowman's head—she was now a _drug pushing_ over-painted trollop vice just your run-of-the-mill over-painted trollop. However, we were still clueless as to who was sending her the drugs and if that individual had anything to do with her murder.

Ernie and I split up the workload. He went back to Charlotte to tidy up any outstanding work we had and to start searching the records for information on the life and times of Susan Bowman. I stayed in Warhill and started going around and asking questions about Bowman's activities and habits while she lived in town.

I started by going around and visiting her neighbors, asking them what they knew about the deceased. Bowman's home was in the low-rent section of the county and the uneducated, manual laborers who worked unskilled jobs occupied the nearby houses and trailers. Some had lived in the county their whole lives. Others had drifted in looking for work. Alcohol, pot and television were the focal points of their lives, with sex and the occasional wife beating thrown in to spice things up every now and then.

All were aware of the murder that had occurred and most of those who lived near the murder site had seen Susan Bowman at one time or another. The men, of course, had salivated over her looks and the women, almost to a person, seemed somewhat pleased she was dead, even though they had never really met her. As one middle-aged 175 lb woman told me as she stood there in a knit sweater with no bra, stretch pants and cigarette hanging out of her mouth with the smoke swirling around her platinum blond beehive hairdo, "The bitch obviously was a whore and got what she deserved."

No one, however, had really made more than a passing acquaintance with her, and it was soon clear that Bowman kept to herself the entire ten months she'd lived at the house. People had noticed Sonny Slatterson's car there regularly for the past seven or eight months, but the couple had bothered no one, so people had left them alone. Other than Sonny, she seemed to have had no other visitors.

I talked with the real estate company that managed the properties in the neighborhood. The whole area was owned by a ninety-three-year old widow who had inherited the place from her husband when he died twenty years ago. She was in a nursing home and was childless. Her will stated that the property was to be sold off upon her death and all proceeds go to her local church. Miriam Falwell, the rental agent who handled the old widow's account, said that ten months ago, Susan Bowman had walked in and inquired about renting a place to live.

"I took her out to a few places in town, but she said she wanted to be somewhere more secluded," said Mrs. Falwell, "so I took her out to the places we have outside of town and showed her the Trundle Road properties. To be honest, I was surprised when she said she wanted to rent the house at the end of the road. It's a pretty rundown neighborhood, as you well know, but I guess water always seeks its own level, if you know what I mean."

She arched her eyebrows and looked at me smugly.

"How did she pay her rent?" I asked.

"Always in cash and always on time."

"Did she give any credit references, list her job or anything on the application paperwork?"

"Hmm, let me look. It's been almost a year since she came here. Give me a second and I'll check."

She stood up and went over to a file cabinet and opened it. A minute later she came back with a piece of paper in her hand.

"She put down 'hairdresser' as her occupation, but gave no credit references or any previous address."

"Isn't that unusual?"

"Well—yes, but she paid for the first three months rent in cash, as well as a security deposit. The lease was for six months with an option for six months more, which she took advantage of. Considering where the place was and the lack of demand for those rental properties out there, well, we went ahead and let her move in. And like I said, she was always on time with the rent, 300 dollars a month."

That meant with the security deposit, she paid around 1200 bucks cold hard cash up front. That and another seven months rent came up to over 3000 dollars.

A lot of dough for an unemployed hairdresser.

And the spending didn't stop there. I checked with the used-car dealer where she'd purchased her Chevy. She paid close to a thousand bucks, cash, no questions asked, no haggling over price. Car insurance, a years worth, in cash. Water and electric bills, all paid in cash, always on time. Grocery bills, cash. Local drug store, all purchases in cash. In fact, any store where Susan Bowman had been she paid in cash. No checks, no credit cards, no attempt to run a tab, no debts. Just anonymous, cold, hard cash.

Everyone who had seen her in downtown Warhill, remembered her. The outfit she was wearing when I saw her seemed to be her chosen motif whenever she ventured out, so it was hard not to notice a brazen slut in your midst. Even so, as I asked around, it became obvious she might have dressed like a whore, but she was as aloof as a duchess.

She'd come into town, do her shopping or errands and leave. No small talk, no getting to know your neighbors. Occasionally, she'd order a sandwich from the drugstore lunch counter, but she would sit in a side booth and eat it and make no attempt to mingle with the locals.

For close to a week, I tried to recreate the life of Susan Bowman while she lived in Warhill. All I'd found out was that the lady was unemployed, paid cash everywhere she went, kept to herself, and her social life seemed to have revolved around her trysts with Sonny Slatterson. Hell, I didn't even know how they met in the first place. Overall, after a promising start in finding the small box with the traces of heroin, the investigation had slowed to a standstill.

Then Ernie called me up and told me that Susan Bowman had been dead for almost forty years.

* * * * *

It was no surprise, of course. The strictly cash method of payment, the lack of references, and the fact that for over eight days the remains of Susan Bowman lay unclaimed in the county morgue had been pointing to the fact that the broad wasn't who she claimed to be.

Ernie had used her driver's license info to track her down to her alleged place of birth, Fayetteville, N. C. Some digging around and a few phone calls to some local private dicks in that area eventually turned up the birth certificate of one Susan Ethel Bowman, born August 25, 1937 to Julius and Teresa Bowman of Fayetteville. While both parents were already deceased, they still had relatives living in the area, as well as a surviving son. All remembered that Susan had been born to the Bowman's back in '37 and everyone swore that the same little girl had succumbed to polio the next year. Sure enough, some more digging brought to light the unfortunate girl's death certificate, dated October 3rd. 1938. Cause of death: complications due to polio.

If that wasn't enough proof, a quick visit to the Fayetteville Mt. Zion Baptist Church cemetery proved to be the location of her grave. The child was also joined in eternal rest with her parents, who had been buried by her side after they had passed on. Evidentially, someone thirty-eight years later got a copy of the birth certificate and decided to resurrect the girl from the dead.

The remainder of the story, as meager as it was, fell quickly into place. Susan Bowman was reborn some fifteen months ago when she applied and got a first-time North Carolina Driver's license in Winston-Salem. Nothing more was heard from her until she rented the house outside of Warhill. Then ten months later, she was a corpse again.

Bang, end of story.

Her fingerprints had been sent to the state authorities, but so far with no results. However, even without a positive ID of the corpse in the morgue, Ernie and I agreed that this entire affair was getting to look more and more like a setup. We urged Swinson to confront Anderson with this new information, but he put the quash on this.

He'd pissed off the D.A. a few days before by getting Sonny released on bail directly from the hospital. He had pulled a few good ol'boy strings with the judge and Sonny was home, under a doctor's care, as he recuperated from his overdose. It had caused a stink in the papers and TV news, but Eric Slatterson had put up a king's ransom in bail and had agreed to keep Sonny at the family estate until the matter was resolved in court.

I personally thought the D.A. was secretly happy Sonny made bail because it gave him the excuse to pitch a fit in public, railing at the preferential treatment the rich and powerful still got in the county and how he'd never quit working on the public's behalf to change this. That alone was probably worth a few thousand votes in the future.

Before bringing up this new information and risk more of the D.A.'s wrath by making the state's case more difficult, Swinson wanted to find out who Susan Bowman really was, and if there was anything else out there to besmirch her character—as if being a drug-addled whore wasn't enough. As for the involvement of a third party in all this, he said he'd talk with the Slattersons and see if they had anyone who might want to do them any harm.

Swinson said that while Eric Slatterson was a hard-nosed son-of-a-bitch, in all honesty, he couldn't see anyone going to all these lengths just to inject some misery into Slatterson's life by ruining his son. He was betting that this Bowman woman had a criminal past or an outstanding warrant against her and was merely trying to start a new life or hide from the law. She probably had seen Sonny as an easy mark and was using him for support and money. As for the drugs, maybe she was using an old contact to mail it to her. It wasn't unheard of.

Right now, all Swinson wanted to do is be able to destroy the reputation of the Bowman woman, both in and out of court, and he didn't want to do it piecemeal. He wanted all his ducks in a row when he took on the D.A., and he wanted the facts on this broad written in stone. His goal was to prejudice the jury against the deceased so that they would sympathize with Sonny and either acquit him or find him guilty of some lesser charge, like involuntary manslaughter. So the less heads up we gave to Anderson to counter our plans, the better. So mum was the word.

This left Ernie and me the task of finding out Susan Bowman's true identity. Ernie stayed in Charlotte to mind the store there and to coordinate any record searches about the state and country, while I stayed in the Warhill area, hoping to strike pay dirt.

Eventually, after a few more unproductive days of finding out nothing, I was about ready to call it quits, go home and wait to see if Ernie turned up anything. Not that I was unwilling to stick it out there a while longer and charge Slatterson for twelve-hour days while doing three hours worth of work, but things were just plain boring there in Warhill, and I was looking for a break in the non-action. It seemed like the only available whore in town had been murdered, and I was feeling a tad antsy, if you catch my drift.

So there I was a couple of days later eating lunch at the local drugstore, contemplating how I was to explain to Swinson that I needed to get back to Charlotte to assist Ernie for a while, when the break came that would eventually solve this entire case.

I was sitting there drinking a cup of coffee, when the village idiot came into get paid. Roger Ogle had the nickname "Slow Poke"—more often than not shortened to plain old "Poke". Well, Poke Ogle was a fixture in town. He was in his mid fifties, of average build, had close cropped gray-brown hair and soft, gentle brown eyes. Always simply clad in a flannel shirt and jeans, with a cheap coat when the weather was cold, his main distinguishing mark was a thick scar that started just above his right-eyebrow and traveled up to the top of his head.

Poke Ogle had moved to Warhill some thirty-five years ago and had gotten employment at the local bakery as a dough mixer. Responsible for mixing massive half-ton vats of dough in order to produce loaves of bread for the region, Roger Ogle had been a happy, productive citizen of the town. He was operated a large and complex dough-making machine and was entrusted with the secret recipe for the light and tasty bread the bakery was famous for. He was young, apparently fairly good-looking, was dating a few of the local girls and appeared to have a full and rich life in front of him. Then, the tragedy struck.

It had snowed one weekend, so Roger and a few friends decided to go sledding. There were girls in the group and Roger, hoping to impress one of them, decided to go down the hill while standing up on the sled.

Bad move.

He'd made it about halfway down the hill when he lost control and landed head first onto a rock that was buried under the snow. He split his head wide open from eye to forehead—an accidental do-it-your-self lobotomy. He was rushed to the local hospital and then later transferred to Baptist Hospital in Winston-Salem, where some pioneering brain surgery was done. His life was saved, but at the cost of about fifty IQ points, and he obviously didn't have that many to spare.

When he was released from the hospital, Roger remembered who he was, where he was from, who his family was and other mundane items, but he was functionally unable to perform any complex tasks. Small towns being what they are, the local folk took him under their wing and started to give him menial jobs around town, like sweeping floors, cleaning parking lots and carrying groceries for the elderly. For the next thirty-five years, Roger Ogle slowly plodded, earning the moniker "Slow Poke" and became a part of everyday life in the town of Warhill.

Poke had just finished cleaning up the parking lot for the drugstore, and had sat down beside me to wait for the owner to pay him for his efforts. The waitress had given him a free cup of coffee, and he was enjoying it. We had never talked, but I'd been around town and at the drugstore lunch counter enough now so that he apparently recognized me.

"Hello."

"Hello," I replied.

"People say you're nosey."

"That's my job."

"She was a pretty girl. Big tits." he commented.

"Indeed. Big'uns." I said, silently vowing to get the hell out of town because I'd been reduced to discussing breasts with a retard.

"Mountain girl, ya know."

My ears picked up.

"What you mean, 'Mountain girl'?"

"From Xavier," he mumbled.

"Xavier?"

"Yep."

"Xavier is a town?"

"Nope," he said, then drunk some coffee.

I don't know how I knew it, but that old radar of mine was working. I was getting the feeling that I was on to something. All I had to do was be patient and not lose my temper with Poke. It took about ten more minutes of prodding and forcing him to keep his mind on the subject, but it turned out he'd once helped Susan Bowman fix a flat tire in the back of the parking lot here at the drugstore. As he worked on her car, they had struck up a short conversation, and she'd asked about him and his past. One of the things he'd mentioned was that he was originally from Xavier County, located in the Blue Ridge mountain area of North Carolina, right next to the Tennessee border.

She'd told him she was familiar with that neck of the woods because she'd grown up in the same area, near a town called Oldbury. With that she paid him a few bucks for the assist and drove off. Thereafter, she'd always wave to him when she saw him walking down the street.

Bingo.

I thanked him for his trouble, bought him a burger and made my way to Swinson's office with the news. After a brief consultation with Ernie back in Charlotte, it was agreed I was to make my way up to the mountains of Xavier County and see what, if anything, I could find out.

What I was to find out came close to killing me.

## Chapter 14

I got up early the next morning, packed, settled my bill with the motel in Loganton, hopped in my car and took off for the three-hour drive to Xavier County. By now, it was mid-November, and as I traveled up into the mountains, the weather got colder.

I arrived at the town of Oldbury a little before noon and got a room at the local motel, the "Dewrock Inn". After throwing my gear in my room, I stopped for a quick bite to eat and decided to get a quick lay of the land before I started asking questions in and around town.

Xavier county was located smack-dab in the middle of the Appalachian mountain range that ran from Georgia, through the Carolinas and Tennessee, on up into Virginia and West Virginia. It is rugged, rustic country that lays claim to some of the most scenic and awe-inspiring sights in all of North America. While not as majestic as the Rockies, its beauty can be best be appreciated up close, where you can touch and smell nature around you. It's also home to large tracts of wilderness that remain uninhabited and untouched to this day.

It's not a land that takes to strangers lightly. Despite the abundant vegetation and wild life, the hard, rocky soil is quite inhospitable to the civilizing efforts of man in general. During our nation's migration west, most pioneers choose to keep going west, in search of softer and easier land to tame rather than to settle here. Those that choose to stay were hard sons-of-bitches whose greatest strength lay in their stubborn will to survive. These people and their descendents were proud to a fault.

Unfortunately, they were historically also some of the poorest and most uneducated people in the country. Arable land was scarce and the lack of roads and infrastructure meant industry was unwilling to establish itself there. It created a vicious cycle of poverty and ignorance throughout this area's history.

By the mid 1970s, this cycle, while still rolling, was beginning to show signs of strain. America's affluence was creating a tourist boon as people sought to escape the crowded cities for the peace and tranquility of the mountains. Indeed, some of the earliest to realize the beauty of this area were the millionaire Vanderbilts who built one of America's great summer homes in Asheville at the turn of the century.

In the 1950's, enterprising individuals realized that the mountains of Western North Carolina—home to the highest peaks east of the Mississippi—would be perfect for ski resorts. This idea, coupled with the introduction of the artificial snow machine, had led to the development of quite a few sophisticated ski resorts in and around Xavier county. While not a complete solution to the area's historical woes, it did offer some hope for the future.

So it was with some surprise that as I drove around the area, I saw nestled in the hills and mountains expensive ski chalets and small, exclusive stores, all concentrated around the various ski resorts. However, once I was past the resorts, the old patterns of poverty and trailers reasserted itself. Dirt and gravel roads were prevalent and other than the resorts and the occasional small town, the entire area was rural. It was still a situation of the have and have-nots, and the haves only visited there during the winter.

I made my way back to my motel, and it was then I saw the billboard, advertising the "Xavier County Fall Carnival" featuring "Ranson's Riding Devices". The gala event was taking place at the Xavier County Fairgrounds, and I noticed that tonight was the last night of the carnival. I figured, what the hell, that was as good a place as any to start showing the picture I had of Susan Bowman around to see if anybody recognized her and maybe have a little entertainment as well. I'd try there and if I had no luck, I'd check in on the local authorities the next day to see if they could help.

I took a quick shower, grabbed a bite to eat at the motel diner—even showed Bowman's picture to the waitress, no luck—got directions to the fair and by six o'clock I was pulling into the large field that was being used for parking. After putting my gun in the car trunk—didn't want to scare the kids—I made my way into the Xavier County fairground.

The fairground was a couple of football fields in size, located on some of the rare flat land in the county. Sawdust had been spread all round, and the entire area was ringed with lights. Inside were the various attractions that one finds at rural fairs. There was a small Ferris wheel, bumper cars, the swings that spun you round and round, high up in the air. Indeed, most of the rides were variations of spinning you in a circle. The air had that carnival smell; a mixture of cotton candy, greasy hot dogs and kids vomiting from riding the rides after eating the aforementioned food.

The carnies were out in force, operating the rides while drunk, shilling you to try your luck in a game of chance; ring toss, shoot the target, throw the ball and generally trying to separate you from your hard-earned money. Along one side of the fair was the tent that held the freak shows such as the two-headed goat, the contortionist, the bearded lady and the like, all which can be viewed for only a mere five dollar entrance fee.

The good citizens of Xavier County were having the time of their lives, a little color and cheer in an otherwise drab, hard tack existence. Couples were escorting squalling kids shoveling crap down their guts, all the while dodging teenagers who were running amuck, jumping from ride to ride and marveling at the oddities inside the freak show. Lovers walked hand-in-hand. Young Romeos were wasting paychecks in futile attempts to win their sweethearts a stuffed toy that, in reality, cost only fifty cents.

Life, for a short while, was good.

I made my way slowly around the fair, politely stopping people and showing them the picture of Susan Bowman. After a couple of tries, I had the routine down pat.

"Err...excuse me, I'm trying to locate anyone who might know the lady in this picture. We have information that she might be originally from around these parts. The authorities and myself would be most grateful if you could shed some light on her identity—What's that? Never seen her—well thank you and sorry to have bothered you."

And so it went for the next hour or so, the sidling up to the person, the humble interruption, the sly hint that the 'authorities' were interested, so they would take me seriously, and the same result every time, nothing.

I was beginning to tire of the routine and had decided to call it quits for the night and enjoy the fair a bit by going to take a gander at the freak show. By then I'd wandered to the back of the fair, to the less well-lit section. It was there I noticed a tent off in the back, apart from the rest of the activities. Men—and a few women—were making their way through the entrance of the tent, only stopping to pay a man money before entering. Intrigued, I made my way over there.

The tent was of middling size and there were two plywood signs on either side of the entrance. The sign to the left of the entrance had the word "SPICY" hand painted in red on it, and the other sign had the words "WRESTLING -- $20.00" written on it.

_What's this? A bit of spicy adult entertainment at the fai_ r?

I got in line and waited. Admittedly, twenty bucks for entry seemed a bit stiff, but I was bored and looking for some entertainment. I would put the cost on my expense account. I'd make sure to show someone Susan Bowman's picture inside, just to make it legal.

In all honesty, at the time I thought I was entering the latest variation of the old "hootchie-kootchie" show. I'd gone to one as a young boy growing up. Usually, it was located at a major fair or some other similar attraction. You paid some money and went in a tent—separated from the rest, just like this one—to see some woman strip for you. The Barker would always claim the lady was from some exotic far-off place like India and had traveled to your town with the express purpose to entice you with her womanly wiles.

What you got was some cellulite-ridden dame from Alabama, with poor personal hygiene, copious amounts of hair in the damndest places and almost always covered in bruises from the beating her pimp/boyfriend had recently given her. Even so, for many a young man of the south, it was his first introduction in the mysteries of the female body and sent shivers of orgasmic bolts through his body.

Unfortunately(?) such shows have disappeared from the scene, another victim of HBO.

So it was with some sense of nostalgia that I plunked down my twenty bucks and headed into the tent, fully expecting to see a couple of nude women beating the crap out of one another in a wrestling match.

Boy, was I wrong.

* * * * *

The first thing that I noticed when I entered was the steel, chain link cage that sat in the middle of the tent. Roughly twenty by twenty feet square, it towered up over twelve feet, capped with a roof also made of chain link. A cage door for entrance and exit was on one side. In the rear of the cage, there was a hinged, circular wooden panel, roughly two feet in height, located in the bottom corner. A large tin tube was attached to the back of the panel and ran up to the side of the tent, then outside. The cage itself sat on a wooden platform, a couple of feet high. Around the platform, in a semicircle, there were placed aluminum bleachers, ten to twelve rows to a section. Off to one side of the cage was a small table with a large timer set on it, sort of like the type you saw at a high school basketball game to count down the minutes in a quarter.

Above all of this was a large, somewhat ragged banner with block letters written on it that stated, " _Welcome To The Lair of Xerxes, The Persian Hell Beast!"_

All I could think of was that it must be a bull dyke wrestling match.

The tent was almost full, and I barely found a place to sit in one of the back rows. In all there were around five hundred souls gathered round the cage. Most of the men were farmer or mill workers, but as I cast my gaze around, I spotted a few that could have passed for a lawyer or doctor. Slumming I guess.

There were a few women in the crowd, including one that was sitting in front of me. She was a plump, peroxide blond and was hanging on to the arm of a skinny little man wearing a cowboy hat. She was yapping up a storm in the little guy's ear, and he just sat there and listened, staring at the floor, probably wishing he'd taken his date to a movie where she'd have had to keep her mouth shut.

The air was thick with smoke and the smell of beer and cheap whiskey. While the temperature outside had been close to forty, the air inside was increasingly getting warmer and warmer. People were doffing their coats, and more than a few had begun to perspire. We sat there for about ten minutes, and then natives began to get a little restless. More than a few started hoot'en and holler'en and some even began to pound their feet on the bleachers. I just sat back and watched, becoming increasingly puzzled as to what I'd paid twenty bucks to see.

Then from the back of the tent, a flap opened and in walked three men. The first was a painfully thin elderly black man with a fringe of gray hair. He took a position outside the cage, next to the circular wooden panel. The second man was a nondescript fellow, wearing a parka and slacks, carrying a pad of paper and a pen. He took station next to the clock. The third man, well—the third man could have given Ernie Twillfigger a run for his money in the looks department.

He was a short, squat guy, just a little over five feet tall. He was in his forties, and his hair was dark and greased back. He had a broad nose and close-set eyes. A five o'clock shadow was evident on his ponderous jowls. Between his thick, pasty, blubbery lips, a cheap half-smoked cigar was wedged. The tobacco spittle was dripping down the corner of his chin. He was dressed in a loud, yellow and green-checkered sports coat, with a blue shirt with open collar. You could see the stain of his sweat making a dark crescent around his armpits. His slacks were black and he wore a pair of scuffed up brown and white oxford shoes with white socks. He strode up to the front of the cage and began to speak.

A hush fell over the crowd.

"We all know why we're here," he started, "sporting and wagering men we all are. For three nights, the mighty Xerxes has taken all comers, and for three nights he has vanquished them all."

A few in the crowd hooted, and a few yelled "Get on with it!"

The man took the cigar out of his mouth and stared about the room, as if daring anyone to say anything further. Quiet returned.

"You know the rules, you know the offer," he bellowed. "2,000 bucks to any man who can survive in the cage against Xerxes for fifteen minutes. I repeat, any man who can merely stay in this cage with Xerxes and not ask to be let out, will be rewarded with 2,000 dollars in addition to having his bid money returned to him."

Bid money? What in the hell did he mean by that?

"That's right, 2,000 smackers, and you don't even have to win, only survive. So, who will pay for the chance to wage war with Xerxes, who is man enough to take on the Persian Hell Beast? The bidding starts at one hundred dollars."

So that's it, I thought, they got to bid for the chance to take on this Xerxes. Well, it ain't naked women, but it might be fun after all.

The bidding began, and soon the price was up to 400 bucks. For a moment there it looked like a strapping young buck of the county had won, when a voice in the back of one of the bleachers roared out "500 dollars, and I dare any man to raise it!"

I saw the young man who had just bid turn his head up towards in apparent annoyance, but as soon as he saw who had just spoken, he turned pale, gulped and sat down. I turned and looked at the man who had made the last bid. He had just stood up.

He was the biggest man I had ever seen in my life.

The people began to murmur around me.

"Dickle Doug!" exclaimed the man next to me.

"Dickle Doug who?" I asked him.

"That's 'Dickle Doug' Watford, the meanest man in the county. No one fucks with Dickle Doug!"

Indeed, one look could tell you why. He was around six feet, eight inches tall and must have weighed over 400 pounds, most of it muscle. His jet-black hair was wire brush thick and was sticking out from underneath the ball cap he was wearing. His face was covered with a full bushy beard. He had piercing black pig-like eyes that were surrounded by thick gristle and were topped by one huge single eyebrow that ran across his forehead. He was wearing a red flannel shirt, bib overalls and what looked like a pair of size thirteen boots, which looked curiously dainty compared to the rest of him.

The Ringmaster—for lack of a better term—looked up at this mountain man, took his measure for a moment, and then nonchalantly asked if there were any other bidders. There weren't. He turned to the black man standing by the gate.

"Better get the largest set we got, Pete." he yelled, then turned and waved for Dickle Doug to come down.

Dickle Doug made his way down to the front, reached in his pocket and handed the Ringmaster money. The Ringmaster counted it, nodded and then went to the side of the cage and opened it. He waited for Dickle Doug to enter and followed him in. A few minutes later, Pete, the black man, ran back into the tent carrying a large canvas bag and joined the two men inside the cage.

The Ringmaster stepped forward.

"While we gird this gentleman for battle, my associate, Mr. Milford," he pointed to the man by the clock, "will be taking any and all wagers that he sees fit. Judging by the size and reputation our challenger apparently has, and that this is the fourth day in a row the Mighty Xerxes has battled, the odds are proclaimed even for this bout!"

A groan of disappointment arose over this last statement, and a few men started to protest, but the Ringmaster cut them off.

"If you don't like the odds, don't bet."

They didn't like the odds, but they lined up to bet anyway. Not having seen this Xerxes and smelling a sucker bet, I stayed put and watched them "gird" Dickle Doug for war.

The first thing they did was break out an old leather football helmet, the kind Red Grange of "Galloping Ghost" fame used to wear, and forced it onto Dickle Doug's head. After some struggle and the stuffing of hair and beard in and about the edges, the Ringmaster seemed satisfied with the fit. Ol'Pete then reached into the large bag and brought out a roll of silver duct tape. He motioned for Doug to open his mouth wide, which he calmly did and, to my amazement, Pete began to wrap the tape around Dickle Doug's mouth and the helmet. After three or four passes across his mouth and around his head, Pete tore the tape and patted the end flat on the helmet. The Ringmaster then took out a penknife and carefully cut a slit between the lips of Dickle Doug's open mouth, apparently to give him something other than his nose to breathe through.

I sat there dumbfounded as to what they had just done, but apparently most of the crowd here were regulars and didn't pay much mind to what was going on inside the cage. Many were huddled around the bookie by the time clock and, from what I gathered, the rules of the house were either you bet on the challenger or not at all. That didn't seem to deter any of the action, 'cause folks were betting heavy on Dickle Doug, who was apparently something of a local legend.

I looked back up at the cage, saw Pete once more reach into the bag and this time pull out a huge straitjacket. Now I was really confused.

The Ringmaster and Pete helped Doug into this contraption and in about five minutes this bear of a man was trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. The Ringmaster stepped back, surveyed the situation and then motioned for Pete to leave the cage.

A hush fell over the crowd.

"One minute, folks, one minute left to place your bets on the final match of Xerxes for this engagement," cried the Ringmaster. "One minute to show faith in your local champion!"

A last minute of activity took place around the bookie, but soon all were seated, with the air of expectancy as heavy as the smoke. The temperature in the tent was stifling now; it must have been close to eighty.

"Mr. Watford," said the Ringmaster, "I remind you of the task at hand. Upon my starting the clock, fifteen minutes in the cage with Xerxes and the 2,000 dollars is yours. I you decide you can't last any longer, all you need do is cry 'Uncle'. The only rule is no biting by either you or the mighty Xerxes. If one of you bites the other, the match is over and the biter is disqualified, with all monies are forfeited. Do you understand?"

A muffled but clearly audible "Yeah, I got it," was heard from Dickle Doug.

"Then," intoned the Ringmaster, "give me fifteen minutes on the clock!"

The bookie, who apparently doubled as timekeeper, dutifully set the timer.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you, Xerxes, the Persian Hell Beast!" With those words, the Ringmaster stepped outside the cage, shut the door, bolted it and nodded to Pete, who was standing by the circular wooden panel.

Pete pulled on a rope that was attached to the panel, and it immediately swung up and open. A rumble of thunder was heard emanating from the tin pipe attached to it, and out of it came the mighty Xerxes, greeted by the thunderous shouts and applause of the crowd.

It was the scrawniest assed chimpanzee I'd ever laid eyes on.

He was no more than three and a half feet tall and couldn't have weighed more than sixty pounds, seventy tops. His pelt was a dullish black, flecked with gray and there were bare patches of skin randomly about his body. It looked like he had the mange. You could see the scars across his back where he'd been beaten and whipped over the years. His hindquarters, legs and feet were matted and crusted with what was apparently a mixture of his own dried feces and urine. I didn't think it possible, but it looked like the wretched creature was going bald with age. To top it off, it appeared his left eye was cloudy. Cataracts.

He slowly shuffled out into the middle of the cage and placidly looked out with his one good eye at the crowd, all of who were hollering for his blood.

Over in the far corner stood his opponent, a six foot eight, 400-pound redneck, with his head encased in leather and duct tape and tied up in a straitjacket. If the Humane Society or the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals had been there, they'd be having conniption fits.

As it was, they weren't there, thank God. Just the good, honest hardworking people of Xavier County and yours truly were present to witness this unique sporting spectacle and the only thing I was thinking was that this was going to be a hell of a lot more entertaining than watching two naked whores wrestling. I found myself standing up, hollering and stamping my feet with the rest of 'em.

Better than being stuck in back in Warhill.

## Chapter 15

The bell was rung and the two gladiators warily began to circle one another. At first, Xerxes seemed content merely to watch his opponent and made no move to go on the offense. Dickle Doug shuffled back and forth for a few seconds and then with a grunt, he charged the ape and tried to kick him. With a movement belying his feeble appearance, Xerxes smoothly stepped to one side to avoid the assault and vaulted up to one side of the cage and hung there, waiting.

With a muffled roar, Dickle Doug spun around and ran toward the ape, trying to ram him with his head. It seemed like Mr. Watford had decided the best defense was a good offense and was trying to take the battle to Xerxes.

That was a mistake.

As soon as he got near his chimp opponent, Xerxes sprang up and over his head, and landed on his back, one arm clinging around Doug's head. Immediately, the ape began to pinch Dickle Doug about his neck and back, gouging with his free hand into any exposed flesh, pinching the skin and then rapidly twisting it. You could see the welts begin to swell on the man's skin from where the monkey was striking him. Though the sound was somewhat baffled by the tape across his mouth, you could hear the grunts of pain and anger emanate from Dickle Doug.

After a few minutes of this torture, Dickle Doug dropped and rolled around on the floor of the cage. Obviously, the Mighty Xerxes had seen this tactic before, because he immediately let go, bounded up and onto the cage wall and then dropped back down on to the now prone man and begin to roughly gouge and pinch the man in whatever area was available. When Dickle Doug tried to twist and roll to get the ape off of him, Xerxes merely leaped once more onto the cage wall and waited for the next opportunity to pounce.

This pattern repeated itself for a minute or two. If Dickle Doug tried to stand, Xerxes would once more launch himself onto his back and pinch him around his neck. Dickle Doug alternated between cries of agony and shouts of rage. Blood was soon flowing from the wounds on his neck and much of the tape around his mouth was wet and torn from a combination of spitting from exertion and gnashing his teeth.

Nevertheless, Dickle Doug didn't cry uncle.

With ten minutes to go, you could feel the pulse of the crowd quicken. From what I later gathered, everyone else who had faced off against Xerxes in the last few days had quit by then, having had enough of the gouging and tearing of skin the beast inflicted upon them.

Dickle Doug, however, was made of sterner stuff. I glanced at the Ringmaster at this time, and saw that he seemed quite cool and collected, so I figured he still had a few tricks up his sleeve.

I was right.

I saw the Ringmaster make a motion to Pete—who obviously was the creature's handler and trainer—and Pete immediately shouted a command at Xerxes. With a bound, the beast was up and about on the cage side, just above a madder-n-hell Dickle Doug. The ape was motionless for a moment, as if to gather up the strength and concentration needed for his next onslaught. Dickle Doug had struggled to his feet by then and was glaring at the monkey, who was just a foot or so above Dickle Doug's head.

The ape glared down with apparent contempt at the human who had so far survived his onslaught. Then with a squawk of effort, he flung himself straight up into the air and landed directly on top of Dickle Doug's head.

Dickle Doug staggered back a couple of steps, but kept his balance. Dried feces and dust off Xerxes's ass and hindquarters bloomed out and about Doug's head. I was just thinking of the biological horror this represented, when Xerxes's true intent became obvious to all.

With a wet plop, the beast began to defecate on top of Dickle Doug's head and face.

I don't know what they had been feeding this ape in advance of this battle, but it must not have been too solid. What was coming out of the chimp's ass was soupy and steamy in nature and streamed onto his victim's face, slithering into his nostrils and mouth.

Dickle Doug went berserk. Random members of the audience began to gag and choke at the sight, and a few began to throw up when the smell of ape shit hit them, which of course set off a chain reaction of more people of gagging, choking and throwing up. Within minutes, the stench in the tent was overpowering and not a few weak willed souls fled out in search of fresh air.

Eventually, things calmed down and attention once more returned to the cage. There was Dickle Doug standing in the center of the cage, his face blackened with dung, while Xerxes hung off to one side of the cage, occasionally pissing in Dickle Doug's direction. The tape had worked its way off Doug's mouth and, to the stunned amazement of all, he stood there laughing and taunting at the ape, daring him to shit on him again.

The clock read only four minutes left.

The crowd went wild.

After three successive nights of humiliating defeat, they had found a champion who had endured, who had suffered the worst this bastard monkey and his cronies could throw at him and could mock them in their utter failure. They had bet big on their boy, and soon it'd be time to collect.

I glanced around to get a look at the Ringmaster and was surprised to notice that he seemed not at all agitated or upset. He calmly looked at the audience for a second, then at the clock and then at Pete, who was waiting for a signal from his boss. The Ringmaster gave it, a pumping motion, twice, with his fist. Pete immediately barked another command at Xerxes. A little less than four minutes remained on the clock.

The ape lightly sprung to the floor of the cage and stood before the People's Champion. Dickle Doug was standing there, solid as an oak, straitjacket on, duct tape in tatters about his face, leather helmet askew and bellowing incoherently at the monkey, unafraid of God, much less than of a puny ape. The crowd, confident in victory, was on its feet, screaming, jumping up and down.

The blood, vomit and stench were all things of the past. It was bedlam.

Then Xerxes proved to one and all why he was known as the _Hell Beast of Persia_.

He took one stride towards Dickle Doug, pulled back his left arm and struck.

In a motion as smooth as any man will ever witness, Xerxes's left hand flashed forward, his fingers stiff as a board, his thumb jutting out to the side. Those hairy, bony, filthy, deadly fingers found their way into Dickle Doug's unprotected crotch, tore through the straitjacket, ripped through his overalls and underwear and lodged themselves directly into Dickle Doug's groin. A sympathetic groan escaped the lips of every man there and then the crowd was silent.

Then Xerxes squeezed Dickle Doug's balls. _Hard_.

Dickle Doug Watford's face bulged in stunned shock and fear. As the pressure rapidly mounted, his eyes rolled up into his skull, and he then broke the silence with a high-pitched squeal, which sounded incongruous in a man his size. Xerxes, his scarred back standing as mute testimony to his deadly training, held on and refused to let go, his face set in an evil grimace.

Dickle Doug's high-pitched screams quickly morphed into screams of " _Uncle! Uncle!_ " and the Ringmaster wasted no time in signaling for the bookie/timekeeper to ring the bell. Pete yelled another command and Xerxes, trained assassin that he was, promptly let go of Dickle Doug's balls and leaped onto the side of the cage. Dickle Doug crumpled into the fetal position on the floor, moaning in agony.

There was two minutes and seventeen seconds left on the clock.

Make no mistake. That goddamn monkey had been toying with Dickle Doug the whole time.

As the crowd slowly came to grips with their champion's sudden reversal of fortune—and with it, the accompanying loss of their own money—the Ringmaster, bookie and Pete jumped into the cage, got Dickle Doug to his feet, and helped him out of his gladiator outfit. He was a beaten man.

As he stood before the increasingly belligerent crowd and listened to the Ringmaster announce his defeat while congratulating him on making it through almost thirteen of the fifteen minutes, Dickle Doug realized that his hard-earned reputation as a man to be feared and reckoned with lay in tatters.

Various taunts like "Dickle Doug's a Pussy" and "Monkey Lover" reverberated through the arena, and it must have dawned on him that soon his humiliation would spread throughout the county, maybe even into Tennessee. It must have been too much for him to bear.

I sat and watched as a red-faced Dickle Doug hung his head in shame, the scorn and taunts of the crowd washing over him. Then I watched him as that shame slowly turned into anger, and as the crowd got nastier and meaner, Dickle Doug got angrier and redder.

Suddenly, he let out a bellow, bent over, pulled up his pant leg, reached into his boot and pulled out a small .32 caliber automatic he must have kept there for just such emergencies. As soon as they saw the gun, the Ringmaster and his two assistants were hightailing it out of the cage. Xerxes just hung there and watched.

Dickle Doug spun around, aimed the gun and fired at the chimp.

Now Dickle Doug was a lot of things. Father, redneck, bully, drunkard. However, one thing he apparently wasn't was much of a shot, because despite just being a few feet away from the object of his wrath, he only grazed the ape's neck. It was, for Dickle Doug Watford, his last act on this earth.

Xerxes was only a chimpanzee, but even he realized that being shot at was a clear violation of the "no biting" rule, in spirit if in not actual fact. All bets were obviously off as far as he was concerned. Not since the death of Stonewall Jackson had anyone in the South displayed an innate command of his surrounding territory and how to take advantage of it like that ape did in the next few seconds.

Xerxes shot straight up the cage wall, flung himself up on the chain-link roof and then came hurtling down, fangs bared, in an arc towards Dickle Doug's exposed back. Landing there, he immediately bit Dickle Doug on the neck, which caused the huge redneck to drop the gun, stumble forward and slam his forehead on one of the cage's corner steel poles with a sickening thud.

The coroner later said it was a snapped vertebra in the neck. The result was, however, that Dickle Doug Watford, scourge of Western North Carolina and East Tennessee, was stone cold dead before he hit the ground.

With a leap, Xerxes sprang off the prostrate form of Dickle Doug and reached down and picked up the offending shooting iron. Then, as all apes invariably do with a loaded pistol, he immediately looked down the barrel. The crowd sat there, once more stunned into silence by the rapid turn of events.

Then it happened. Someone, I think near the front of the stage said it; the five words that have sent men and women into a blind, unreasoning panic since the introduction of gunpowder to western civilization from ancient China, some 600 hundred or so years ago.

" _The monkey's got a gun_!"

It was like a dam burst. People began to scream and curse, some even praying to the Good Lord for deliverance. Most—like yours truly—tended to duck down for safety and cover, while others rushed out of the tent, screaming to all who could hear, "The monkey's got a gun! The monkey's got a gun!"

This caused a general panic rapidly to spread throughout the fairgrounds. I could hear, through the canvas tent walls, the shrill screams of women and children begin to pierce the air. A stampede eventually occurred, and the populace, in a wild flight for safety, rushed for the exits and their cars.

The fat blonde in front of me was wailing in utter terror, her date having used the confusion to dump her. She did, however, make an excellent shield between the armed primate and myself, so when she started to make moves to get the hell out of the tent, I quickly reached up, grabbed her shoulders and forced her down, careful to keep her body between me and the ring.

She reacted to this rough treatment by beginning to flail about hysterically. I grabbed a coat someone had dropped and threw it over her head—I remembered seeing Roy Rodgers do this to a panicky horse in order to calm it down, so I gave it a shot— and sure enough, she quickly settled down, with only the occasional whimpering sound escaping from beneath the coat.

Madness continued to reign inside the tent until Officer Clifford J. Grissom, of the Oldbury Police Department, stepped into the fray. A two-year veteran of the force, the twenty-four-year-old Grissom had an Associate's Degree in criminology from Xavier Community College and had recently completed a refresher course in firearms training.

Immediately sizing up the situation, he drew his .357 Smith and Wesson Magnum, took a combat stance and pointed it at the ape. This should have been his moment.

What happened next is difficult to explain. Maybe that young man saw something of a soul in Xerxes's good eye. Maybe he took pity on that poor, wretched creature that had spent its whole life being whipped and beaten. Or maybe he was just following his training when confronting a suspect who was not directly threatening an officer's life.

What he was thinking we would never know, because what Officer Grissom did was yell " _Freeze asshole!_ " at that damn dirty ape instead of shooting him.

Xerxes wasn't having any of that crap. In what must have been the simian equivalent of "Fuck You!", he did a back flip and in the same motion brought the gun up and fired, nailing Officer Grissom right between the eyes.

Monkey: _2_. Mankind: _0_.

Now things were really getting out of hand in that tent.

Fortunately, Ol'Pete had by then managed to make his way to the rope that controlled the wooden panel and raised it. Xerxes, just like he was trained and probably grateful to get away from these silly humans, dropped the pistol and scampered to the exit and down the tin tube to his cage outside the tent. Pete let the panel slam shut.

With the threat of random annihilation removed, some semblance of order slowly began to reassert itself inside the tent. The crowd soon began to survey the dead and damage. I spied the Ringmaster and his bookie associate run out of the tent, and for damn good reasons, because some were beginning to talk of revenge.

Cries of "Hang the black bastard!" were soon heard and I began to fear for Pete's life. However, it turned out they weren't referring to the black man but to the chimp, which I personally feel is a good testament to how far the New South has come with regards to civil rights since the days of "Brown v. The Board of Education."

After a few minutes, I managed to get out of the tent, and headed for my car, blonde in tow. She was shaking like a leaf, and refused to let go of my arm. She wasn't half bad to look at, in a pleasingly plump sort of way. The way she bleached her hair and displayed her tits in a tight shirt, I figured she had been saddle-broken for quite a while now. Since her date was nowhere to be seen and since I'd sort-of saved her from getting killed, maybe she'd give me a chance to ride her once she calmed down.

In a few minutes, I was helping her into the front seat of my car. We sat there and waited until things simmered down in the parking lot. By now, she was calm enough for me to ask her name.

"Bertha Henson."

"Well, Bertha, is there anything I can do for you? I know it's been rough tonight."

She just stared at her feet, giving me an occasional sideways glance.

"I hope you can forgive me for grabbing you like that back in the tent. I just thought it was best that you kept still until they got that ape taken care of. No need to attract his attention—"

"Tim, _the bastard_ , he just left me!"

"Your boyfriend?"

She looked me up and down a second, and I saw that look in her eyes. I knew I cut a damn better figure than that little shrimp she'd been with.

"Not really—I'm sorry I didn't get your name."

"Lyle—Lyle Peabody." I lied. I knew there was a chance of sleeping with her, so I decided to play it by my rules; no real names.

"Thanks for helping me—Lyle."

"Hey, not at all, I never mind helping pretty girls."

She smiled at this and settled her plump ass a little deeper into my front seat. She wasn't a knockout but she wasn't all that ugly either. Early thirties, I guessed.

"Is there anywhere I can take you? Are you hungry? I don't know about you, but all this excitement has made me want a beer. How about it?"

She jumped at the chance.

"Sure, I know of a place just down the road. We can get a six-pack there!"

We got our beer and within the hour, we were pulling up to my motel. Her eyes got a bit wide when I got my gun out of the trunk, but I quickly explained to her that I was a private dick working on a case. This seemed to excite her, and before I'd even finished the first beer, she was all over me.

Afterwards, while we sipped on another beer, and I was resting up getting ready for round two, she started asking me what I was working on. I told her about looking for a girl who was originally thought to be from this area. She wanted to know who the woman was, so I showed her the picture I had of Susan Bowman.

She looked at it for a moment or two, then sort of sat up in bed and leaned over to get more light from the bedside lamp to shine on the picture.

"I think I know her."

My ears perked up.

"You're kidding. Who is she?"

"Oh, shit, I can't remember her first name, but she looks like that Baylor girl who used to live here. We went to school together. She was a few years older than me, but I think that's her."

"Are you sure?"

"Kind of sure. But I bet my friend Linda could tell us. She works as a waitress and knows everyone from around here."

"When can I talk to her?"

"She works the breakfast shift. We can see her tomorrow."

With that last piece of news, I turned off the light and thanked her.

## Chapter 16

The diner Bertha took me to the next morning was named "Sally's Friendly Grill" and was located just off the main drag in Oldbury. As we walked into the crowded restaurant, we were greeted with the smell of waffles, eggs and bacon. We sat at a booth and ordered up a couple of breakfasts with all the trimmings. While Bertha and I waited for our food to arrive, I listened in to all the local gossip flowing about me.

Of course, most of the conversation revolved around the events at the county fair the night before. They were already saying it was the worst night of violence in the county's history. In addition to Dickle Doug and the officer, three more individuals met an untimely end that night directly due to the catastrophe in the rear tent. One elderly man suffered a heart attack by the Ferris wheel when word reached him of the ape having a loaded pistol. A middle age couple bought the farm when their car flipped and rolled as they were fleeing the fair in panic. If you included the Mighty Xerxes on the list—who was lynched later that evening on the outskirts of town by a group of concerned citizens, no doubt as a warning to any other uppity primates in the area that didn't know their place on the evolutionary ladder—the grand total came to six.

While Dickle Doug was a legend in town, it was soon obvious that he was not a well-loved legend, and the consensus was good-riddance to him. There was a lot of sympathy for the late lamented Officer Grissom, who was a hometown boy, and all felt real sorry for the widow he left behind. Luckily, they hadn't started a family yet, which was fortunate but not because the children would have had to grow up without their father. Most felt it was fortunate because no child should have to grow up and have to explain to the world that the reason his or her Dad was dead was because he lost a gunfight with a one-eyed monkey.

According to some, a local politician was already saying that at the next county commissioners meeting, he was going to introduce a resolution banning inter-species dueling in Xavier County. This seemed like a good idea for a few moments to the stalwart citizens eating at Sally's, until a bright soul pointed out that some fancy lawyer might be able to finagle such a law into meaning a ban on hunting and fishing in general. This statement pretty much shot down any support in the diner for the proposed resolution. From what I heard later, the idea was overwhelmingly rejected exactly because of that concern.

I sat there and took all of this in while Bertha got up and got the attention of her friend Linda. Both walked back to the booth I was sitting at. As Bertha took her seat and launched into her breakfast, I introduced myself to Linda, who was a thin rail of a woman with mousy brown hair.

I handed the photograph of Susan Bowman and asked her if she recognized the woman. She took the picture and stared at it as she lit up a cigarette. After a long drag and letting the smoke drift out of her nostrils, she began to shake her head up and down.

"Yep, I know her. Her name is Myrtle Baylor," she said. "She looks a lot older in this picture, but that's her, I'd bet."

For confirmation, she passed the photo around to a few more of the restaurant patrons. Before I knew it, practically everyone in the diner was gathered around Linda, looking at the snapshot. Those who recognized the woman in the picture agreed; it was Myrtle Baylor.

"What did she do? What you after her for?" asked Linda.

"She got herself murdered. I'm searching for who might have wanted her dead."

A few low whistles were heard and some sympathetic muttering.

"Did she have any family around here, someone I can talk to about what her past was or what she had been recently up to?" I asked in my noblest white knight voice. "I'm just trying to get to the truth. That's all."

I heard a few chuckles and one guy off at the counter shook his head and said, "Oh, hell."

Linda looked at me askance for a second then shook her head and shrugged her shoulders as if saying, _you asked for it_!

"She's got kin who live about ten miles from here, up on Sharp Ridge. A whole bunch of 'em live there, in and around them hills. They keep pretty much to themselves. We call them the 'Bat-Face Baylors', cause a lot of them got these funny heads."

Now I heard guffaws come from some of the people sitting around me. A little man sitting a few seats down from me at the counter piped in.

"Funny....hell, they look like they been breeding with rats. You can always spot one of 'em by their pointy ears and front teeth. I always thought they looked like rats more than bats, but hey, you get the drift."

I asked if her parents were still around and the answer was no, they both had died years ago, but her older sister still lived up there.

This was a bit of luck, so I asked what her sister's name was.

"Lucy Baylor," came the answer from Linda.

"Never married, huh?"

The laughs broke out again.

"Oh, she's married alright. Got four or five young'uns," said a chuckling Linda.

"Well, what's her married name?" I queried, starting to get a tad frustrated.

"Baylor," said the waitress and the café exploded in laughter.

"Like we said," commented the little man near me, "them Baylors like to keep to themselves."

Mrs. Lucy Baylor, née Baylor. I started to get the picture. Oh well, they could laugh about it, but Eleanor Roosevelt had had the same problem.

I asked for directions to Sharp Ridge and the home of the Baylor clan and after eating my breakfast, I left the diner with Bertha. I dropped her off at her home, pretended to get her phone number and took off for Sharp Ridge. I remember thinking how I had gotten lucky in getting a lead to Susan Bowman's true identity so soon.

Yeah, I was lucky alright.

* * * * *

It was crisp and cold that day, not a cloud in the sky. I headed out of town and began to follow the directions that the people in the diner had given me to get to Sharp Ridge. I traveled down the two-lane paved road for a few miles, until I came to an intersection that had an old two-story house at the corner. This was where I got off the main road and headed up a fairly well maintained gravel road.

For about eight miles I drove down the road, increasingly going up higher and higher in altitude. Other than the road, there were no other signs of civilization as I drove. Eventually, I came up to a series of switchback, hairpin turns. As I slowly made my way up and over the last hill, I came up upon a plateau and there, spread out before my eyes, was the citadel of the Clan Baylor of Sharp Ridge, North Carolina.

It was a series of four or five hills that stretched out over a square mile or so that had been denuded of trees over the years. There were houses located in and about the hills, as well as the occasional barn and fenced in field. Assorted livestock were visible and the dirt road I was on meandered its way through the various residences. A single large power line broke out from nearby woods and ran its way along the road, with smaller branches running to each home. TV antennas were also evident at the occasional house.

Civilization hadn't completely passed them by, or so I thought.

I drove up to the first house that the road went by and parked my car. I walked up to the front porch and knocked on the door. I figured someone was home, because I could see and smell the smoke coming from the chimney. Sure enough, a few moments later the door opened, and I got my first look at a "Bat-head Baylor" in its native habitat.

My first gut reaction was _varmint_!

He was an elderly gent, with skin like aged leather. He was short and bald, with liver spots dotting across his hairless skull. However, it was how his eyes, nose, ears and teeth molded together that really impressed you.

The eyes were beady, small and close set, separated by a nose that was all nostrils and no bridge. Indeed, I dare say if you looked into the man's face head-on, you could peer directly into the man's skull and observe his sinuses, mucus and all. The mouth was lipless and small. When he opened his mouth to speak you could see the jumbled collection of his teeth, sprouting in various directions and in different states of decay. The crowning achievement inside that mouth was the front two incisors, overly large in comparison to the rest of his teeth and, like some demented rabbit's, were overlapping one another and jutting out at an almost forty-five degree angle. Framing this head were a pair of hairy pointy ears that stood out like jug handles.

He was one scary looking bastard.

I stumbled on my words a bit until I regained my composure and then asked if he could tell me where Lucy Baylor lived. He looked at me suspiciously and asked why I needed to know.

"I have some news about her sister, Myrtle."

"Myrtle!" he cried. "Ain't heard from her in years. Well, I guess it's alright. Lucy and Sam live two houses down. Can't miss it. They got a garage next to their house and a green barn behind it. She should be home."

By now, I'd attracted attention from some other people inside his house, because I could hear and see a few of them standing in the dark behind the man. I glanced in and saw the face of an old woman who could have been the twin sister of the old man. Probably his wife. I could hear the murmuring going on, and it didn't sound all that neighborly.

I quickly thanked him, walked briskly back to my car and took off. For some reason, I felt really uncomfortable there. I patted my gun, just to give me some assurance. It didn't work.

I drove down the dirt road and in about five minutes, I was parked in the front yard of a large, old frame house with a detached garage and a green barn in the back. I made sure I had Susan's—Myrtle's?—picture in my pocket, and walked to the front door and knocked.

A rat-faced boy, around thirteen or fourteen, opened the door. I guess he'd have been cute if he hadn't been a human being.

"Yeah, mister?"

"Is your mom or dad home, young feller? I'd like to have a word with them if I may."

The kid nodded, turned and yelled "Pa! Man here to see you!"

I heard some movement from inside the house and in a moment I was staring at a man about my height, but thinner, with brown hair, thinning at the top. His face was much like that of the elderly gent I'd just spoken with, but not quite as severe.

He looked at me warily.

"What do you want, buddy?" he grunted.

I introduced myself and showed him the picture.

"Do you recognize this lady, sir?"

He gazed at the photo, then looked at me and said, "That looks like Myrtle, but I can't be sure. Lucy, my wife, would know, she's her sister."

He turned his head and yelled for Lucy. A few moments later, a gaunt, worn-out woman, anywhere between forty and sixty appeared. She had a small child, around six, clinging to her. Her husband said I was asking questions about Myrtle. I showed her the picture.

She looked at the picture only a moment, and sighed.

"She was always the pretty one. Yes, that's Myrtle. We haven't seen each other in quite a few years. Is she in trouble?"

Slowly, and with as much tact as I could I told her that her sister was dead, and I was trying to determine who had done it. I saw the tears well up in her eyes, and she turned to go sit on the nearby couch. Her husband's eyes followed her and softened a bit in sympathy, then he turned and invited me in the house.

"Not your fault, friend—I'm Sam Baylor, come in and explain everything." He motioned for me to come inside.

I entered the den.

It was a musky, sprawling affair. A wood stove that had been built in the fireplace was against the wall. Above it was the mantle, with various family memento's and trinkets sitting on it. A couple of tattered, stuffed chairs sat near the stove, opposite an old black-and-white TV. The couch where Lucy Baylor sat was against the far wall and in front of it was a small rug and table. Sam Baylor pointed to the couch and asked me to sit. I did.

"Myrtle hasn't been home in a long time, Mr. Dafoe," said Lucy. "She always hated it here, always wanted to be somewhere else. She was always flitting from city to city. I hope she's found peace now."

Sam Baylor interjected, "Tell us what happened."

Now here was the dilemma I faced. I needed to find out about Myrtle Baylor's life, but I didn't want to antagonize her family by telling them I was representing the man accused of killing her and was merely trying to dig up dirt on the broad.

So I lied.

I told them that Myrtle had been using the name of Susan Bowman, and had been found shot to death in her home outside of Warhill. I glibly said that the sheriff was looking for person or persons unknown who were responsible for the death and had asked me, a personal friend who lived near Xavier County, to look into Myrtle's family history once we found out she was from here, in hopes of discovering something that would lead us to the killer.

With the shock of Myrtle's death still fresh, they really didn't question my story.

Lucy Baylor nodded and asked me what I wanted to know. I told her just to start from the beginning and tell me about her sister.

"Myrtle was only a year younger than me. She was born in '38," started Lucy, "but we were as different as night and day. I was shy. She was outgoing. Like I said, she was the pretty one and always had a boy chasing after her, even when we were in the first grade."

I nodded my head and waited for more.

"Don't get me wrong, we loved each other, and we'd stick up for one another. We was Baylors after all; we were used to outsiders joshing us about bein' backwards. But Myrtle always dreamed about getting out of here and going to the city to live and work. And when she was seventeen, she did just that, she just up and took off."

It was around this time that I noticed that we had attracted a few people, probably fellow Baylors, outside of the house. They had gathered on the front porch, and you could see a pointy-eared head every now and then peak in through the window. They were chattering among themselves, probably all excited because a stranger had ventured into their area.

Sam Baylor looked out at the porch with an annoyed look on his face.

"I guess I better go break the news to folks," he muttered "and tell them to quiet down a bit. This ain't no time for a party. You go ahead, Lucy, and talk to Mr. Dafoe here, while I step outside and take care of things."

He walked out of the room. Lucy continued her story.

"Anyway, that was in back in '55. I heard from her every now and then, and finally, in early 1957, I get a letter from her. She told me she had a job for me at a fancy bridal store in Asheville, working as a seamstress, and that I could come live with her if I wanted."

"Did you go?"

"Sure, I went. I wasn't married to Sam yet, so I figured this was my one and only chance to see and live somewhere other than—" she spread out her arms in a gesture of hopelessness, "here."

"What happened?"

"Well, mister, I moved to Asheville and sure enough, Myrtle had a job waiting for me at this store, sewing ladies and girls dresses and clothes and the like. It was a real nice store that a lot of rich folk came in to buy wedding gowns and men's fancy suits."

She stopped, fought back a tear, then continued.

"Myrtle and few other girls all worked there as sale clerks, or so I thought they did—at first."

She looked at the wood stove for a moment.

"I'd work ten hours a day there, sewing and stitching, but except for Miss Cogburn, the owner, I'd be the only one who worked regular hours there. Myrtle and the other girls would come in late, or not at all, and never really wait on anyone. They would take off about anytime they pleased. Myrtle was staying out late almost every night and after a week or two of this, I was getting upset. I knew something wasn't right, but no one would tell me."

She stopped for a breath.

"Finally, I cornered Myrtle one night and demanded to know what was going on, and she told me. She and the girls were going out...with men on dates arranged by Miss Cogburn."

A whorehouse! Thinking back on how Susan Bowman, Myrtle Baylor or whatever the hell her name looked and dressed, I wasn't surprised.

"Is that when you came back home?" I asked.

She snorted in contempt.

"No, Mr. Dafoe. I stayed there. I was making good money! Myrtle went in and told Miss Cogburn that I knew about the parties and dates she was arranging for the girls. Miss Cogburn offered to set me up on a few dates, but I wasn't quite ready for that. I did start helping Miss Cogburn make arrangements and started answering her private phone that the customers called and such."

Well, I be damned. Lucy Baylor, assistant pimp.

"How long did you and Myrtle stay there?"

"The job lasted only about five more months, then one day, all of a sudden, I came into work one morning and found out Miss Cogburn had sold the shop and moved out of town. She'd found a man. The new owners didn't know anything about our real business and wanted to run a regular clothes store. They let me, Myrtle and the other girls go then and there. I tried to find another job in the area, but—you know how it is. I never finished high school. I came back home to Xavier and picked up where I dropped off with Sam. He's a good man."

"What about Myrtle? Did she come back here?"

"No—She was real pretty, remember. There were always men to fall back on. She told me she'd die before she come back here. She took off for Atlanta, and we gradually lost touch after that. I got an occasional postcard from her for a while, but soon, even that stopped. Last I heard from her was in 1966, said she was working in Las Vegas of all places. After that—nuthin'. Not even when Mom and Dad died."

End of story.

I asked her if she had any pictures that I could borrow or have of Myrtle when she was younger. Lucy just nodded, then got up and walked over to the TV stand. She reached down and from underneath the TV, picked up an old photo album. She came back to the couch, sat down and opened it.

Together, we reviewed the remnants of Myrtle Baylor's life. There were pictures of her as a baby and a young girl. Pictures of her and a much younger but still plain Lucy by the lake. Finally, we came upon a picture of six women sitting in a room, all smiling before the camera. I immediately recognized both Myrtle and Lucy Baylor in the picture. I looked up expectantly at Lucy.

"Yep, that's me and Myrtle in Asheville."

She pointed to one of the girls, "That's Teresa Kirkwood. There's Tammy Hill and next to her is Ethel Rhoney—I reckon all of us were running from something back then and trying to find a better life than is found in these mountains. Even Sherry Cogburn here."

She pointed to the older looking woman in the picture, who looked near thirty. Except for Myrtle/Susan, however, she was the prettiest of the bunch, a striking brunette with what looked like dark, sad eyes.

"Sherry said she was from a good family in Nashville, but she was disowned when she had a baby boy right after getting out of high school. The father of the child never married her. That would ruin a girl back then. She kept the baby, so I guess she loved it—at least I thought she did. When she run off with that man, she left it with an orphanage. I don't judge her too hard, having a baby that young robs a girl of a lot of chances, you know."

"Do you know what happened to the other girls?"

"I heard Tammy killed herself a few years later. As for the others, I never heard from or saw them again after I left Asheville."

I nodded my head and asked her if I could have the picture. She hesitated for a minute, but said yes, anything to help find out what happened to her sister. I pocketed the photo.

It was about this time Sam Baylor came back into the room. He sort of stared at me a moment, then walked over and began to warm his hands by the stove. I figured I had about worn out my welcome. Anyway, I'd found out enough to keep the ball rolling on Susan Bowman a bit longer.

I got up, told the couple I was sorry for their loss and started to make my way out the front door, where apparently a whole gaggle of Baylors were waiting to get a glimpse of the stranger.

I had just opened the door when a rodent like creature, somewhat better dressed than the rest of his kinfolk, stood in front of me blocking my way. I said excuse me, and tried to get around him.

He continued to block my path.

A bit pissed, I started to push my way past him when I looked at the man's face. He was grinning at me with a ferret-like glee. A cold feeling seized at my gut, and suddenly I knew I was in deadly trouble.

Before me stood Ezekiel B. Stanley, otherwise known as "Zeke"—lately employed at _Darren's Gas and Lube_ of Gastonia, North Carolina, and former part-time male prostitute.

It had just dawned on me that the "B" in his name probably stood for "Baylor", when the butt of Sam Baylor's shotgun slammed into the small of my back and knocked me down to my hands and knees.

## Chapter 17

The sudden blow to my back had knocked the wind out of me and pushed me down to the front porch deck, but my mind remained clear. I was acutely aware of the deadly peril I'd stumbled into. I vainly tried to stagger to my feet, hoping somehow to get to my car and escape, when another blow to my back sent me reeling back down. Before I could gather up my senses and make another stab at running away, I felt the cold smooth steel of a twelve-gauge shotgun barrel lightly resting behind my right ear.

"Don't even think about moving, _friend,_ " said Sam Baylor.

I froze in position, arms out stretched, then slowly relaxed on the porch floor, spread eagled, in total, absolute submission. Nothing like knowing you're on the edge of having your head taken off by a shotgun blast to make a man lose all sense of machismo.

"Careful, Sam, he's got a gun under his arm," said Zeke. "It's a fancy one, all bright and shiny."

Damn, betrayed by my own gun.

"Get it, and you," grunted Sam as he shoved the shotgun against my head, "don't try anything smart."

I was too scared even to answer him. Zeke rolled me over onto my back, reached under my left arm and pulled out my gun. He pushed his hand in my face, then stood up and brandished my .38 for all to see.

"What did I tell y'all!" cried Zeke. "Ever seen such a purty firearm! Like something a girl would wear! I told you it was somethin' to see!"

I heard low whistles and murmurs of admiration go through the gathering as he showed off my revolver. They passed it around to each other, rubbing it and testing the weight of it in their hands. One of 'em even looked down the barrel of it, Xerxes style.

Sam saw this and snarled, "Give me that damn thing before someone gets hurt."

He grabbed my gun and slipped it into the large right front pocket of his overalls.

By this time I'd gathered back some of my senses and had taken stock of the situation that confronted me. In addition to Sam and Zeke, there were five other men surrounding me. One of them was the old man who had earlier given me directions. The other four ranged in ages from twenty to fifty. All were dressed for farm work and all, in one degree or another, looked like pink, weasel eyed, rats. Lucy, eyes wide open in shock, stood behind the screen door, and I could see her young teenage son peeking from behind her.

Finally, I got the courage to speak.

"What's the meaning of all this?! I'm come here, trying to find out who murdered one of your own kin, and am attacked—"

"Shut up!" yelled Zeke. He viciously kicked me in my side. I gasped and moaned with pain.

"Hold on, Zeke, hold on," cautioned Sam, "let's take him out back and deal with him. Don't worry, we'll make him pay for his lies about you."

_Make him pay_. Those words sent chills down my spine. I knew that whatever these bastards had in mind wasn't going to be pleasant. I looked over at Zeke and saw that his face was flushed and his eyes were burning in anticipation of what was to come.

He'd changed his appearance a little since I had last seen him. First, he was wearing more than just his socks and a baseball cap, and second, he'd cut his hair. It was a typical "bowl" cut, with the sides of his head and the back shaved close, with hair on top longer and slicked back.

Standing next to his kinfolk, it was obvious he was related to them, but it was also clear that while the blood of the Baylor's ran deep through his veins, Zeke brought a little extra to the table. The nose was a tad longer, the ears a little less pointed, the eyes a bit wider spaced. Overall, the combination created an impression that was more raccoon vice rodent in nature.

As they dragged me off the porch and back towards the barn, it became obvious what had happened.

I was a victim of mankind's natural sense of eugenics.

Twenty to thirty years ago, the female Baylor, who was eventually to give birth to Zeke, no doubt realized it was time to bring some new blood into the family. This wasn't a conscious decision on her part, but some innate, compulsive, unfathomable urge that beckoned her to cleave with some distant, unrelated person, i.e., a male Stanley.

This elementary, primal force of natural selection and breeding has manifested itself throughout history. Royalty, like in Japan or the Hapsburgs of Austria, every few generations would reach outside their family tree to refresh the bloodline, to keep it from degeneration. They had no concept of genetics back then, but these families instinctively knew when it was time to renew themselves.

And so it was with the Baylors of Sharp Ridge, North Carolina. Admittedly, considering what was eventually produced, one can make the argument that the Baylor clan was one or two generations late in responding to this call of nature, but the clan had responded, nonetheless.

A Baylor married a Stanley and begat a Zeke, and for over twenty years, he grew up, away from the influences of his maternal bloodline. Nevertheless, the Baylor blood in him beckoned. Just like salmon swimming blindly upstream to return from whence they were spawned, Ezekiel Baylor Stanley returned to the family fold, to start a new branch on the somewhat sparse and denuded Baylor family tree.

No doubt he was considered quite a catch by some of the Baylor women, with his having a different set of chromosomes and all.

Unfortunately, yours truly here had pistol-whipped the little inbred bastard—and turned him into the law to boot—before he had come home to procreate. And now he was out for my blood.

* * * * *

They dumped in the back yard and surrounded me. One of them had broken off a handle to a broom, while others had removed their belts.

"For God's sake, what the hell is going on here?" I pleaded. "I've never met any you before today. You're making a horrible mistake!"

"You mean to tell me that you never laid eyes on Zeke here, or beat him up or told those lies about him to the police?" demanded Sam.

"As God as my witness, I didn't do anything. I've never seen this man before in my life!"

"Liar!" shouted Zeke. "Look in his wallet and see where he's from. He told you he was from around here. Bullshit. I bet his driver's license says Charlotte."

I knew I was screwed and got up and tried to make a mad dash out of there but was quickly thrown to the ground. I was held down as a hand grabbed my wallet, and it was tossed to Sam, who opened it and took out my driver' license.

"Yep—Zeke's right. He's from Charlotte."

Sam handed his shotgun to one of the men and walked over next to me. He handed me back my wallet and told me to put it in my pocket.

"We Baylors ain't thieves."

"Now, I can—I can explain everything," I stuttered as I sat up on my knees.

Sam looked around for a second then looked back down at me. I just stopped and stared at him, frozen with fear as to what was to come next.

Suddenly, he kicked me in the stomach. I doubled over in agony.

"You bastard," he snarled. "You lying dirty bastard. I know what your types are like. You come into our land, with your slick ways, fancy suits, Yankee charm—"

"I ain't no damn Yankee!" I squalled.

Note to all non-southerners: You can call a southerner about any name in the book, but nothing will get an angry response from him quicker than calling him a Yankee, even if it means pissing off a bunch genetically challenged misfits, as you are about to see.

For a second the other Baylors looked a bit apprehensive, for they had been told I was a Yankee and what they had planned for me was evidentially not appropriate for fellow southerners. A glimmer of hope shot through me, but it was quickly snuffed out.

"He's a goddamn _liar_!" roared Sam.

With that brilliant bit of rhetorical sophistry to allay their fears, I saw the relief spread in their narrow faces, and I knew that I was screwed if I didn't do something quick.

I turned to Lucy and tried to appeal to her softer side.

"Mrs. Baylor, I came here to help find out who murdered your sister. That's all I wanted to do. I don't know who this man is," I pointed at Zeke, "but I swear I've never seen him before in my life. Please, all I want to do is find justice for your sister, and that's it."

"Liar! Goddamn liar!" screamed Sam. "You and your fancy guns, fancy bows and arrows..."

Bows and arrows? What the hell?

"Damn Yankees like you come here—huntin' our game, swimming in our creeks, askin' us if we can play the banjo and shit, laughing at us... accusing a Baylor of being a—a Ned Beatty! Ain't a Baylor ever been born who's a goddamn Ned Beatty, never will be!"

Ned Beatty? Banjos?

And then in a flash it hit me— _Deliverance_. He was pissed off at the movie _Deliverance_! Never mind that Ned Beatty was on the receiving end in the film, Sam Baylor and his kin were madder than hell about it.

I imagined what life must have been like for these people. The trips into town, the snickers, the teasing, humming of that damn song, _Dueling Banjos_ , behind their backs. Finally, someone whispers the meaning of it all in their ear, followed by the fateful trip to the moving picture show, where they watch, in horror and shame, of what the world imagines them to be.

In Sam Baylor's warped mind, someone had to pay for this outrage, and it looked like it was going to be me.

I looked into the man's eyes and saw that any sense of reason or humanity had long ago fled. There was only a blind, purple rage there, and as he started to pace back and forth; a white froth of salvia could be seen forming at the edges of his mouth. He was working himself into a killing frenzy, and it suddenly occurred to me that of all the Baylor's there, Sam Baylor was the maddest of the lot.

Suddenly, with an incoherent shout, Sam was on me, kicking. The other men quickly joined him, and I instinctively curled up into a protective ball, trying to protect myself. A hail of kicks, belt lashes and the occasional blow of a broom handle erupted around me.

Suddenly, Lucy was in the middle of all this, screaming for the men to stop, pushing them away from me. The beating ceased as they turned to listen to her. Thank God, maybe my plea worked.

" _Damnit_ Samuel Leroy Baylor! Don't you dare kill this man in my backyard. I won't have it!"

I mentally thanked her for saving my life.

"Take him out back behind the barn or somewhere, but don't use my yard for your damn dirty work!"

Why that no good, whoremongering assistant pimp bitch!

Then, it hit me, a way to talk myself out of this mess. It probably wouldn't work, but it was worth a shot, cause the alternative was a slow and painful death by belts and broomstick. However, I had to act now, before the beating resumed.

"Alright, I admit it! I'm a damn Yankee liar!" I shouted.

This caused every one of them suddenly to freeze and look at me in wonder, except for Zeke, who obviously smelled a rat.

"I did it! I admit it! I beat the shit out of Zeke over there," I sneered, "and the little bastard didn't even put up a fight, not like a real Baylor would have. And I admit I turned him into the police, but it was true what I told 'em—your cousin Zeke is a godforsaken Sodomite!"

Zeke started to protest, but I held up my hand and continued. The others, thank goodness, stood there and listened.

"What do you really know about Zeke here?" I smarmily queried. "Yeah, he's half Baylor, but he's also half Stanley, and where I come from, the Stanleys are famous for being 'Fancy Boys', as we Yankees like to say."

I saw some doubt creep into the eyes of one or two. _Just keep talking, Jay my boy, just keep talking._

"Hell, for all you might know, Zeke might be up here, playing around with someone from town or maybe casting an eye over one of your own young'uns," and I looked over and pointed to Sam's and Lucy's teenage son who was standing off to one side.

And that's when I saw it in the kid's eyes. The flash of panic, the flush of shame.

I saw my salvation there.

" _Good Lord_ ," I gasped in mock horror, pointing at the kid. "Oh sweet Jesus, we're too late! He's already got to your boy, Sam!"

The boy stood there, eyes downcast, and then he looked up, lower lip and what passed for a chin, trembling. He jerked his head back down, afraid to meet anyone's gaze.

I looked over at his mother. I saw the horror mixed with anger creep into her eyes.

Sam saw what was happening and tried to calm her down.

"Now, Lucy darlin' we don't know anything for sure. Let's just wait a few seconds."

I saw she was ready to explode, and I groped for the words that would push her over the edge. I struggled to figure out what I should say, knowing that one misstep could backfire on me and re-ignite the beating.

Then a mother's love stepped in and saved me.

"Caleb Micah Baylor, LOOK AT ME!" yelled Lucy.

The boy plaintively looked up at his mother.

"Mom—oh Mom _..._ " he whimpered.

A mom, whether her last name is Rockefeller or Baylor, has that sixth sense about her children. She can tell when they're lying, when they're trying to hide something or, most importantly, when they're in pain. Lucy Baylor had looked into the agony of her son's eyes and had seen the truth. I saw the white-hot flame of anger rise up in her face. She whipped her gaze towards Zeke.

Now I've seen a lot of ugly things in my time. I've seen cold, professional beatings dealt out by the Gambino crime lords of New York City. I've witnessed torture by the Chinese Tongs of San Francisco. I've seen a man decapitated in the jungles of the Philippines and one time in Las Vegas, I saw the terrible fury of two Thai transvestite hookers going at one another. But nothing— _nothing_ —I have ever seen has matched, in terms of pure unadulterated hatred, of what I was about to witness.

With a feral-like snarl, Lucy bounded towards Zeke, arms outstretched and hands and fingers stiff like talons. Like the harpy-bitch she truly was, she fell upon that poor bastard and plunged her fingernails, dagger like, into the soft tissue of his neck. You could see the blood well up where her nails punctured Zeke's skin with a sharp _pop._ They fell together onto the ground, rolling over and over in the grass and dirt.

Sam was hollering for them to stop, but to no avail. The other Baylors looked on in stunned amazement, but made no move to stop the fight.

Suddenly, the two stopped rolling in the dirt. Lucy sat astride the hapless man, her claws firmly embedded in his neck. Zeke could only gurgle in pain.

Then, it happened.

I watched as she reared her head back with only the whites of her bulging eyes showing, tendons standing out like metal bars on her neck, mouth wide open, displaying a set of yellowish teeth that had rotted to what were now exquisite, sharpened fangs. With a snap, her head flashed forward to collide into the middle of Zeke's face with a dull thud. I heard a muted growl issue from the back of Lucy's throat, which was immediately followed by crunching sound. I saw her head shake back and forth, like a dog ripping a piece of meat from a carcass. Suddenly, she broke free of Zeke's head and tossed her head back in triumph. Her face was smeared with blood and gore.

With a loud " _phuffttt_ " she spat out something to the ground, small and bloody.

It was Zeke Stanley's nose.

In the same instant that I realized what she'd done, Zeke let out a shrill shriek and, like a hemorrhaging whale, he snorted through the two new "blowholes" in the middle of his face, resulting in a red mist blossoming above his head. Then great gouts of blood began to spew out his mouth and nose, and he was gurgling and moaning in distress, trying to stop the bleeding with his hands. His face, hands and arms were soon rapidly caked with blood.

Every living soul there was stunned by the sight, mesmerized by the incredible violence.

Every living soul—save one.

I'd been squirrel-trained by Twillfigger, you see. I had seen worse.

All eyes were on the battle between Lucy and Zeke. They were gathered around the couple, looking in shock and horror at the carnage that had unfolded before them, leaving me alone and unguarded. Sam had his back to me, and I saw my chance. I swiftly got to my feet, took a couple of strides and wound up directly behind Sam. He had no idea I was there. In one swift move, I reached up and put my left arm around his throat and in one smooth motion, reached into his front right pocket, grabbed my .38 and placed it against his head.

"Don't even think about moving, _friend,_ " I whispered into his ear.

He didn't.

The others were completely unaware of what I'd done, being absorbed in the fight that was taking place in front of them. Lucy had now latched on to Zeke's left ear, and was trying to chow down on it. I knew I had to get everyone's attention, just to make sure they knew that any stupid moves on their part would result in serious damage to Sam. As Ernie taught me, if you're going to pull a gun, let them know it and let them know you're in charge.

A warning shot in the air was what was needed, but one look at the pitiful sight of Zeke there on the ground, noseless, bleeding and screaming, must have triggered something in me.

With great care—and not without some feelings of mercy—I fired my gun directly into the Zeke's left kneecap, blowing it into pulp.

Lucy spun off of him in a flash and Zeke immediately let go of his face and grabbed his knee, shaking with convulsions of pain. He screamed once then settled into a series of noises that sort of sounded like " _ack... ack..._ _aaaaaargh_..."

Nothing like a slug to the knee to take a man's mind off losing his nose.

That got everybody's attention. It even snapped Lucy out of her berserk rage.

I quickly placed the gun back to Sam's head.

"Now that I got your attention, let me tell y'all what I'm going to do. First, you," I nodded at the man holding the shotgun at his side, "drop that to the ground, now."

One look at Sam was all he needed, and he dropped the shotgun.

"Good—now I'm going to tell you exactly what I'm going to do, so there's no mistaking my intentions. Do exactly as I say, and no one else will get hurt. Disobey me and I swear I'll spatter Sam's brains on the ground. Everyone understand?"

After a second or two, everyone nodded in agreement. Everyone but Zeke, that is. He had strangely gone silent, but obviously was still alive, because I saw him quivering uncontrollably on the ground.

Probably was just trying to catch his breath.

"Excellent. Now Sam and I are going to walk over to my car sitting over there and get in. We're then going to drive away. After a while, providing you don't follow me or threaten me in any way, I'll let Sam out, and we will go our separate ways. That will be that. _Understand_?"

They nodded yes.

I shoved the gun harder against Sam's head.

"Remember, if you try something stupid, or if I feel threatened in any manner, Sam here is the first to go, got it?"

They got it.

"Okay, Sam, let's go to my car—and please don't make me kill you."

Slowly, Sam and I made our way to my Buick, with me being careful never to turn my back to the others. We got to the driver's side of my car, where I realized I had a problem.

If I told Sam to open the door and slide over to the passenger side, he'd be in a position to try something when I made my way into the driver's seat and fumble with the keys to start the car. It would only take a split second of inattention on my part to give Sam the opening he'd need to jump me and give his kin time to come in and overpower me. In the movies, the private eye always gets the suspect to sit quietly in the car, with no concern for his own safety or the awkward position it puts him in. In real life, especially when dealing with crazy bastards like the Baylors, it's another story.

Not to worry, I had a solution.

I made Sam crawl into the car on his hands and knees and stick his head down into the passenger-side floorboard, with his rear end sticking up in the air on the passenger seat. Awkward position for Sam, but it made me feel a lot safer. I quickly hopped in the car, shoved my key in the ignition and started the car.

I stuck my head out the window, for one more warning to the other Baylors.

"Remember, if I see you trying to follow or stop me in any way, I'll blow his brains out."

Now considering that I had my gun pointed at Sam's ass, this wasn't a totally accurate threat. Indeed, a couple of the Baylors sort of looked at each other in a state of confusion, but they soon got the drift of my true meaning and said not to worry, just don't hurt Sam.

I pulled out of the dirt driveway and got the hell out of there.

It took only about twenty or thirty minutes of driving over that twisting, narrow backwoods road to get to the intersection at the main highway, but it seemed like hours to me and probably even longer for Sam.

As soon as we got there, I got out and ordered Sam out of the car. I made him stand about twenty yards from me as I got back into the Buick.

"I ought to kill you for what you tried to do to me back there, but I'll let it slide."

He just stared at me.

"Remember, I'm not the one who let that little bastard near your son, and if it wasn't for me, he'd still be doing what he was doing."

He dropped his head down a moment, in apparent shame.

I continued.

"My guess is you wouldn't want folks to know what was going on up here, right under your very nose. It sure as hell wasn't banjo lessons, if you know what I mean."

He looked back at me now, a beaten man.

"Go on about your business, Yankee." he said. "We Baylors take care of our own."

"We're even, right?"

"Even." he said.

And with that I drove off, tires squealing. I didn't stop until I got all the way back to Warhill.

I've never been back to that part of North Carolina. Nothing but a bunch of goddamn Ned Beattys up there, if you ask me.

## Chapter 18

It was dusk when I got back to Warhill and settled into my motel room. I went into the bathroom and examined myself in the mirror. I had a scrape or two on the side of my forehead where I'd been kicked a glancing blow, and my ribs ached something fierce, but they didn't feel broken. I took a long, hot shower, took some aspirin and collapsed into bed.

I was exhausted.

I woke up the next morning sore and stiff, but functional. I took another shower to loosen my joints, and after eating breakfast, drinking a quart of coffee and downing some more aspirin, I felt almost human again.

I took stock of the situation.

I knew a bit more about Susan Bowman now, where she came from, and some of her past. She'd been a hooker some twenty years ago and had eventually made her way to Las Vegas by the mid to late sixties. I pulled out the old picture taken in Asheville of Susan Bowman and her fellow call girls that I'd managed to get from the Lucy Baylor before all hell had broken loose. I flipped it over and was pleasantly surprised to find the name of each girl written on the back.

I made note of the names and slipped the picture back in my coat pocket.

Swinson had said he was looking for stuff to tarnish Susan Bowman's reputation. Well, I guess being a whore for hire was a good start. I made a mental note to tell Ernie to make a record search under Bowman's real name, Myrtle Baylor. There was a good chance we might turn up some more dirt or leads.

All things considered, I was sort of pleased with myself. I figured that we had enough information and leads to milk this job for quite a bit more money. I was really excited about the possibility of a trip out to Las Vegas, since that was the last known whereabouts of Bowman before she turned up in Warhill.

Yep, I could see Ernie and me drawing this thing out for quite a while longer and making a killing.

I called the office in Charlotte and got hold of Maisy. She said Ernie was out. I gave her the facts about what I'd found out about Susan Bowman and said I'd call later and talk with Ernie. I hung up the phone with her and then called Swinson's office.

I talked with his secretary told her I had some important information about the Slatterson case and needed to meet with her boss to discuss it. She said he'd be free around by ten o'clock, and I said I'd be there.

* * * * *

I walked into the lawyer's office building a few minutes before ten and sat in the waiting room. A few minutes later, Swinson's secretary walked up to me and escorted me into his private office. There was Swinson, sitting behind his desk, and to my surprise, Eric Slatterson was sitting in a chair on the other side of the desk.

He'd changed since I'd last seen him a few weeks ago. The face was less red, he had lost some weight, and his eyes were dark and puffy. Still, he was impeccably dressed in blue pinstripes and Italian loafers. He was looking at me expectantly, as if I was arriving with the miracle that would save his boy from the hangman's noose.

Well, I didn't have that, but I did have enough to keep the search up and the money flowing. I walked up to the two men, shook their hands and took the proffered seat. I asked them how young Slatterson was doing.

"He's at home, under a doctor's care. He's very depressed over this—this woman's death," muttered Slatterson. "The doctors have been giving him medicine to keep him calm and help him over his addictions."

So, the kid was still carrying a torch for his middle-aged Juliet and had switched from heroin to Valium. A real winner.

"I understand you have made some progress with regards to the Bowman issue, Mr. Dafoe," said Swinson. "I certainly hope it is something we can use."

I decided I wanted to keep things in the proper perspective.

"Let me state, right off the bat, that what I have found out has no direct relation to the death of Mrs. Bowman, nor does it help towards the exoneration of young Sonny."

I saw the eyes of Eric Slatterson go a bit dull in disappointment; his body sagged back into his chair.

"But I did manage to confirm the Bowman woman's true identity. Her real name is Myrtle Baylor. She was originally from Xavier County, North Carolina, and she had a personal history of prostitution some twenty years ago when she lived in Asheville."

Slatterson perked up.

"We also suspect, but can't yet confirm, she also plied her trade in Las Vegas as late as 1966. Right now the trail is cold after that but with additional work, we're confident we can trace her entire history. We're running a record check on her real name as we speak and hope to turn up more leads and incriminating evidence."

Slatterson's face lit up with hope and with that I knew there was a damn good chance of me taking an all expenses paid trip to Las Vegas.

I had him hooked.

"I've discussed this with my senior partner, Mr. Twillfigger," I lied, "and he and I have come to the same conclusion. Something has smelled with this whole setup from the start. A woman using a false name, of no apparent means, suddenly comes into town, rents a house, cash on the barrel-head, and within weeks has seduced the young son of one of the most successful men in the area, indeed the state."

It never hurts to suck up to the client.

"An unknown third party begins to send this woman deadly, illicit drugs through the mail, which she used to ensnare and ruin the young man's life. Then the woman is murdered, and the boy almost dies of an overdose. Indeed, he'd have died if you," I nodded towards Slatterson, "hadn't been concerned enough to have hired me and my firm to find out was going on."

Slatterson hung his head for a second and then looked at me in grateful acknowledgement for saving his son.

Yeah, yeah, I was laying it on thick, but I had him eating out of the palm of my hand. Las Vegas, here I come!

"After some digging and just plain, old fashioned hard nose detective work, I've found out who this tramp was and some of her past. She was for hire alright, and our next goal has to be who hired her and why. We think it might be someone who bears a grudge towards you, Mr. Slatterson, and hopes to harm you through your son. I think we can safely say you have stepped on some toes on your way up. Most men in their chosen profession have. Hell, I've been known to step on a few toes on my client's behalf, even recently, if you catch my drift."

I lightly touched my scraped forehead with what I hoped was a stoic look in my eye. Let them imagine the rough stuff I performed for them. I saw a look of manly admiration and awe from Slatterson, and I could tell from Swinson's face that he was glad he'd hired an obviously tough son-of-a-bitch like me.

Outside I was cool and calm, but inside, I was jumping for joy and was already trying to figure out how to claim the money I was going to spend on hookers and Vegas showgirls on my expense account. Ernie would be some help there.

"What course of action do you suggest, Jay?" asked Swinson.

"Well, the job is two-fold. If we can figure out who was bankrolling this Bowman woman, I think there's a good chance of finding out who really is the murderer. Even if we can't prove this person did it, we'll muddy the case against Sonny enough that they won't be able to convict him of anything."

"I want the person or persons responsible for this outrage against me and my family found and my son exonerated," interjected Slatterson.

_Uh oh_ , I think, _better lower the bar here a bit._

"I know, Mr. Slatterson, that you would rather have the real killer caught and the charges dropped against Sonny, but life isn't all that fair or neat, right Mr. Swinson?"

I looked over expectantly at the lawyer.

Swinson looked at his desk a moment, then looked at Slatterson.

"Jay is correct, Eric. I know that you would prefer that the charges be dropped against Sonny, but let's be realistic. If what Jay says is correct—and I have a gut feeling it is—then the party behind the Bowman woman is well funded, clever and probably covering his tracks. We might eventually know who to point the finger at, but proving it might be another matter altogether."

Slatterson's shoulders slumped once more.

"However," Swinson went on, "I think it is safe to say that we have a damn good case of reasonable doubt already, and if we continue to gather more disparaging information on the Bowman woman, it will only get better. Right now if I were a betting man, I'd say we have a 50/50 chance of getting Sonny off with no jail time, and we haven't even really begun to scratch the investigative surface. Our case will get stronger as we learn more, I'm confident of that."

Las Vegas, here I come!

Swinson turned to me.

"Where do we go from here?"

"Well," I said as I thoughtfully stroked my chin, "Mr. Twillfigger is the master of the record search. If there are arrest records, marriage records or the like on this broad, Ernie will find it. The man is truly an investigative marvel."

I was secretly hoping Ernie hadn't gone off on one his periodic booze and whore binges. Last time he'd done that, I found him after a week at a local trailer park that doubled as a part-time bordello. He was passed out drunk and naked at this 58-year old hooker's mobile home. He was missing his wooden leg, and his stump was coated with an obscenely generous amount of Vaseline Petroleum Jelly. We never found his prosthetic leg, and I didn't have the stomach to ask him what he was doing with his stump.

"As for me," I continued, "I'll keep on investigating the background of the Bowman woman. We know she was in Vegas eleven years ago, and I bet Ernie will find a paper trail of her out there. Until I get something more definite on her, I still have some names I can follow up on with regards to Bowman's activities after she left Asheville."

I pulled out the photo I had gotten while in "Baylor-Land" and tossed it on Swinson's desk. Swinson picked it up and looked at it.

"That's a picture of Bowman, her sister and her fellow prostitutes when they worked in Asheville. They used a bridal shop as a front and the owner was the madam of the joint."

Swinson continued to look at the photo.

"She's the older one on the left," I added, "their names are on the back. One of them is dead already, but as far as I know the rest are still alive and kicking."

Swinson slowly turned the photo over to read the names.

"I need some copies of that picture made, pronto," I said. "I usually have my photographer in Charlotte do this, but I figure you got your own folks that can do it quicker. I'm going to track these broads down and see if they can add anything to the Bowman woman's story. When do you think you can get me the copies, Mr. Swinson?"

Swinson leaned back in his chair a moment, shut his eyes and took a deep breath. He opened his eyes, looked at me, then Slatterson, then back at me.

"I'll have the photos to you tomorrow. Come by in the morning and we can discuss some more details of your plan of action. Now, I have other duties, and I also need to discuss some business with Mr. Slatterson here. I can safely say that we're appreciative of all the fine work you have done."

Swinson got up, walked around the desk and shook my hand. I got up and after shaking Slatterson's hand and giving him my best, manly "Buck up, Buddy" look—as if I really gave a rat's ass about him—I left the office. It was a little past eleven in the morning.

* * * * *

I stopped at a local diner, got some lunch and then headed back to my hotel room. By now, it was near to one o'clock. I tried to get hold of Ernie on the phone a few times, but Maisy still didn't know where he'd gone. I told her that as soon as she heard from him, she was to tell him to call me immediately. I'd stay in my room until he called. I was starting to get a bit worried that maybe Ernie had gone off on a tear again.

At three o'clock, sharp, the phone in my motel room rang. Hoping it was finally Ernie, I grabbed the receiver, ready to curse the one-legged bastard for being so hard to find. Instead, the voice of Sheriff John Crump greeted me on the other end.

"Dafoe, this is Sheriff Crump. You get your ass over to my office, _now_."

"Excuse me Sheriff, but is there a reason for this? I'm a busy man and let me say, the treatment I got at your office last time I was there doesn't encourage any repeat performances."

"Damnit son, get your ass over here _immediately,_ or I'll put an APB on you and have you hauled in."

"I'll have to contact my lawyer, Mr. Swinson, on this Sheriff. I don't think he will be amused."

"That's gonna be damn difficult, you little snot-nosed bastard," growled Crump, "considering the fact that Harry Swinson and Eric Slatterson were shot to death by Sonny not more than two hours ago."

Shit. There went my free trip to Vegas.

* * * * *

As soon as I hung up the phone with Crump, I picked it up again and called Maisy back in Charlotte. Frantically, I told her what had happened, where I was going, and that she was to find Ernie and let him know. I also told her to call our lawyer and to tell him that I needed him to get his ass down to Warhill or else find me a local lawyer to keep me out of trouble. I then grabbed my coat and headed for the Sheriff's office.

There was already a crowd gathering outside the office building by the time I got there. The press had gotten hold of the story, and as I pulled into the parking lot, there was a camera crew from one of the TV stations milling about in the front of the building. Two more TV station trucks arrived before I even made it to the front door.

The deputy at the reception desk had been told I was coming and said I was to wait in the nearby conference room for Sheriff Crump. He made me check-in my gun, and after that was done, I was quickly escorted into the same room where Sgt. Bradshaw had assaulted me after the Bowman murder.

It seemed like that occurred a million years ago.

I cooled my heels there for a while. I was still in a daze over the turn of events of the past hour, so I used the time to gather up my wits and speculate on what went so terribly wrong.

My first guess was that Swinson and Slatterson had gone back to the Slatterson home and had confronted Sonny with the facts. His one true love in life had been available to any man with twenty bucks in his pocket, and they obviously had hoped to shatter any romantic notions he might have still had about the broad.

I could see it in my mind's eye what happened. Slatterson went to see the boy armed with the information I'd found out. Sadly, he told Sonny that it was all a lie. The use of the fake name by an admitted prostitute, the mailing of the drugs, the obvious inference that someone was out to get his father through him, all laid out to him in embarrassing detail, with the trusted family lawyer and friend there to back up the story.

He'd been played for a sap, and it was time for him to accept this fact, quit mourning over this slut and get on with life. At least, that's the reaction Eric Slatterson was probably hoping to get.

What he got instead was a son gone berserk. The kid must have just snapped. The ugly truth was probably too much to bear and Sonny took his anger, frustration and withdrawal symptoms out on the domineering man in his life, his father. Poor Harry Swinson just got caught in the crossfire.

Most importantly, I was out of a trip to Las Vegas. If I ever met the little bastard Sonny again, I vowed to kick his ass.

And then it dawned on me. The Sheriff never mentioned what happened to Sonny. Was he arrested? Was he dead? Or was he, God forbid, out free, looking for the jerk who dug up the dirt on his paramour?

Damn it, now I was getting nervous. What if that little shit was out free, roaming the countryside with murder on his mind, out there gunning for yours truly?

I immediately changed my mind about wanting to meet the little punk, and soon I was jumping at every noise that happened to make its way into the conference room and wishing I had my gun. If that kid was out running free, I was going on a long vacation until he was found.

By the time Crump walked into the room, I was pacing the room and had worked myself into a fine state of paranoia—which is actually a pretty good state of mind to be in if you want to stay alive.

"Where's Sonny Slatterson?" I bawled out as soon as I saw Crump.

He looked at me kind of funny a second and then the light of awareness came to his eyes. He softly laughed at me with contempt.

"Don't worry, tough guy, he's dead too. You're safe."

I was too relieved to be embarrassed by my agitated state.

He sat down at the table and motioned for me to sit.

"Harry Swinson's secretary tells us you met with Harry and Eric Slatterson this morning. What was the meeting about? And please, no bullshit, I'm really not in the mood, okay?"

Now that I knew Sonny was out of the picture, I had calmed down a bit. There wasn't much use of hiding the facts of what I'd found out. I decided to tell all and head home to Charlotte to regroup. There might be a way to make money off of this, but right now I didn't see it. Maybe Ernie would have some ideas.

I told Crump everything I'd found out about Susan Bowman. I told him how we suspected someone was behind her and how we were making plans to find out whom that person was and to get a better picture of Bowman/Baylor and her past.

"I guess the kid cracked when he was told the truth," I said.

Crump nodded his head.

"Yeah, makes sense. We found the bodies in Slatterson's study. Slatterson kept a handgun in his desk. The kid must have known that. It looks like he shot his Dad first. One shot to the chest. Harry must have tried to run, because he was hit twice in the back. Coroner says both men died almost instantly."

"I take it the kid then realized what he did and turned the gun on himself."

"That's the official verdict," Crump said in a flat tone.

That last statement struck me as odd, so I decided to poke around a bit.

"Mrs. Slatterson might want to know that what the real story is behind the death of her husband and son," I said. "I mean, despite what Sonny did today, there's a damn good possibility he was framed for the earlier murder. And I bet that you don't like the idea of someone getting away with murder in your town?"

After I made that last statement, Crump looked at his hands for a minute and then looked at me. Suddenly, he looked a lot older. His face drained of color.

"I'm going to tell you something, and then you're going to leave this building, leave this town, leave this county and never, ever come back, at least while I'm alive. Understand?"

I just stared at him, confused.

"Sonny Slatterson didn't kill himself," stated Crump. "After he shot Harry and Eric, his Mother ran down from upstairs to see what was going on. She ran into the study and saw her son standing over the dead bodies of her husband and Harry, the gun still smoking in her son's hand. Sonny was in shock. She approached him, tried to coax the gun from him, and he struggled with her. It went off and Cheryl Slatterson was left holding the gun and her son lay dying at her feet."

Crump stared back at his hands and kept talking.

"I met Eric Slatterson over thirty years ago and while I thought he was a bastard of a man, he has been good to me and this town. Sonny, God rest his tortured soul, was once a fine boy. I remember when he was born. As for Harry Swinson—well, he and I grew up together, fought a war together and grew old together. He was my friend."

He looked up back at me and now there was fire in his eyes.

"I tell you this because I want you to understand that I'm serious. These people meant something to me, but I say—let it go."

"What the hell?" I snapped.

Crump held up his hand to silence me.

"Oh, you're right about what probably happened. I think someone from Eric's past, someone he took advantage of, or something like that, is behind all this. This person no doubt hired the Bowman woman and most likely had her killed. But I just left a hysterical wife and mother in the room down the hall, undergoing the tortures of the damned. I got a town in shock, wondering if their jobs are going to be there tomorrow or is it all going to disappear with Eric Slatterson's death. I got a press that has already tried and convicted Sonny and a D.A. who has now lost all interest in the case, because it isn't going to help him get elected to Congress anymore. So, you see, Mr. Dafoe, it ain't just worth it."

I stared at him, at a loss for words.

Crump stood up and glowered down at me.

"So here is what you're going to do, Dafoe. You're going to go back from whence you came and get on with your life. Go dig up your dirt in someone else's backyard. If I see you back here, or if I hear of you bothering Cheryl Slatterson or anyone in this town—well—I'm still sheriff here, and I can shut down another investigation to a murder as easily as I'm shutting this one down. Go home. It's over."

With that last threat lingering in the air, he spun around on his heel and left the room.

I sat there a few minutes and let it all sink in. I knew Crump meant what he said. If I tried to pull a fast one like I did in the Whippy case, there was a good chance I'd wind up in deep trouble or even dead.

It was time to cut and run.

I stood up, stretched and walked out of the room. If there was a trip to Las Vegas in my immediate future, I was going to have to pay for it.

I was walking down the hall towards the main exit, when I saw her. She was respectfully being escorted out of the building.

She was older now, but she had aged well. The hair was brunette going elegantly gray. The figure, while fuller, still was attractive, no doubt due to lots of tennis and golf. The face was older and lines were etched here and there, but with proper makeup, and after a decent interval of mourning, there was no doubt she'd be a stunningly attractive mature woman, looking a decade younger than her fifty or so years.

She saw me and after the man next to her whispered in her ear, she stared at me with cold, flat black eyes. It took a few seconds for me to associate the face with the name, but as soon as I did, I knew I was in mortal peril.

I knew now what had happened to the madam who had employed Myrtle Baylor as a hooker twenty years ago, only to abandon the job in order to marry a man.

Sherry Cogburn, brothel madam had become Cheryl Slatterson, respected wife of rich industrialist.

I also knew what had become of the son she had abandoned those many years ago.

As Sgt. Stan Bradshaw stood beside the Widow Slatterson, staring at me with cold dark hate, it was obvious.

He had his mother's eyes, you see.

## Chapter 19

About the time it hit me that I was staring at mother and son, it dawned on me that I was also staring at a couple of stone-cold killers who, so far, had four bodies to their credit. And if I didn't do something quick, I was going to be number five.

Immediately, my survival instincts—panic and paranoia—that had gone complacent when told that Sonny Slatterson was dead slammed back with a vengeance. My gut felt like it had a lump of ice in it, my hands went numb and my legs got wobbly.

For better or worse, I realized I had been thrust into war against a couple of really evil, nasty people and immediately started working on a battle plan as I turned and stumbled my way out of the building via a side exit. By the time I'd rushed to my car, fumbled with my keys, unlocked the door and was squealing out of the parking lot, my strategy was in place. It was three-pronged in nature and would require split-second timing.

First, was to get the hell out of Dodge.

Second was to lay low and hide for an indefinite period of time.

Third was to hope it all went away.

Admittedly, my initial plan was a bit rough. Even as I sped out of town at over seventy miles an hour, running stop signs and red lights along the way, my steel-trap mind was refining it. By the time I'd gotten past the city limits, I knew that I might have to take on a new identity or leave the country in order to be truly safe.

To those of you who say I left town in a blind panic, I say bullshit.

A person in a blind panic would have missed the turnoff that took the road back to Charlotte.

I didn't. Even though it was dusk and getting dark, I didn't drive by the turn.

A person in a blind panic would have kept on speeding.

I didn't. Once I hit the county line, I slowed down and regrouped.

No, I was not in a blind panic, but in a tightly controlled, well-managed and—dare I say?—professional panic.

I knew, without doubt, that if I'd stayed in or around Warhill, I'd have been dead before the next morning and Sheriff Crump would turn a blind eye to everything. When the cops turn on you, there ain't anything you can do but run. A person in a blind panic wouldn't have figured that out.

Moreover, I can categorically and confidentially say this was not a blind panic because I know what a blind panic is.

I was going to experience one in about an hour.

After about thirty minutes or so of driving, I was beginning to feel a bit better. I was, for the time being, out of any immediate danger, and as I drove down the road through rural North Carolina, I began to reconsider some of my earlier plans.

I figured that as soon as I hit Charlotte, I would track down Ernie and tell him what had gone down. Then, it'd be off to the lawyers, make a sworn statement, notify Cheryl Slatterson and Bradshaw that the game was over, and I'd leave them alone if they left me the hell alone.

In hindsight, of course, I realize the sheer naiveté of this idea, but I was still a young pup back then. Now I know how to squeeze as much money, legally, as possible in this type of situation, before screwing the parties concerned and turning them over to the cops.

Yep. Overall, I was beginning to feel a bit better over the situation, even a tad proud of having figured out what was really going on back in Warhill. For the first time, I was starting to feel like an honest-to-God detective, a shamus, a real private eye. Then my car engine began to sputter and in less than one minute I found myself stranded out in the middle of nowhere on a two-lane country road, out of gas and with that familiar lump of ice beginning to grow in my gut again.

I started cursing my own stupidity, realizing I had broken one of Ernie's cardinal rules. Never let your car have less than a half a tank of gas, and if you're on the road, never turn in for the night without first filling up. You never know when you might have to leave in a hurry. In the rush and excitement of the last couple of days, I'd forgotten the basics and was now about to be taught the lesson from hell for my failure.

I sat there in the dark a minute or two and surveyed my situation. I was on a stretch of road that had nothing but woods on either side as far as the eye could see. It was getting dark and the sky was overcast. The surrounding terrain was made up of gently rolling hills, and I remember seeing a sign a couple of miles back that said, "Cherryburg - 5 m."

Cherryburg was a small town of five thousand souls or so and I figured it was now roughly three miles away. Traffic was sparse on this road since the interstate had been built, so I figured that I'd probably be able to hoof it to town for gas about as quick as waiting for a car to come by and lend me a hand. With the temperature in the mid fifties, it wouldn't be that bad of a walk. If a car offered me a lift while I was jogging down the road, so much the better.

Still, I was upset up over the timing and bad luck of the incident, but I knew that the quicker I got gas and out of there, the better. I left my car and quickly began to walk down the road towards Cherryburg.

I'd been walking fifteen minutes or so when the first car came up over the hill behind me. It slowed down by my car for a split second and then continued to heads toward me. I turned and faced the car as it sped by me, partly out of hope that it'd stop and pick me up and partly because I wanted to make sure it didn't run over me. It turned out to be a good thing that I watched the car go by because it turned out to be full of teenagers who screamed some obscenities and then flung a few empty beer cans at me, which I managed to dodge. The little sons-of-bitches just kept going. I did the only thing I could do and that was to flip them the bird.

I kept walking and a few minutes later, headlights again appeared behind me. Once more, I turned around to watch the vehicle go by me. It was a large truck that didn't even give me a moment's pause, but just roared down the road, to be enveloped in the dark.

I kept walking.

After about ten more minutes, I began to notice the glow of the town in the night sky before me. I figured I was only a mile or two away from civilization. I picked up the pace. The quicker I made it there, the better. Another pair of headlights came up behind me, and once more I turned to face the car, not really nursing any hope of catching a ride. I watched as the headlights came down the road, at first at a fairly rapid speed. Then, as the lights got nearer to me, the car apparently slowed down to a near crawl.

Suddenly, I knew what was going to happen even before I knew it—if you know what I mean.

The driver of the car suddenly gunned the engine back to life and the automobile was hurtling itself directly at me, tires spinning and squealing in protest. I leaped off to one side, throwing myself headfirst into the wooded area by the road. I tumbled forward and managed to get back on my feet and look back at the car that had tried to run me down.

After plowing through the soft shoulder of the highway, it had spun out into the middle of the road. The driver's side of the car opened and out jumped Stan Bradshaw with gun in hand. Inside the car was a woman who looked a lot like Cheryl Slatterson, but I couldn't be sure.

Bradshaw figured correctly that I had run into the woods for cover. As he looked into the dark, searching for any sign of me, I instinctively grabbed for my old trusty .38. It was then that I realized, in cold sobering detail, that I had checked my gun in at the Sheriff's office and had failed to get it back when I had abruptly made my exit.

Bradshaw yelled at the woman to get the hell out of there before another car came by. He'd call her at her home after he finished the job. He then came crashing into the woods after me.

I made an instantaneous evaluation of the situation and decide that the only option for me was blind panic.

I ran, screaming, deeper into the woods.

There's a lot to be said for the physical benefits of being scared shitless. Your heart pumps faster which in turn gets more oxygen to the muscles and reduces fatigue. Adrenaline is flooded throughout your system, which greatly enhances both voluntary and involuntary reflexes. Reaction times are thereby dramatically reduced, which results in the individual's ability to avoid sudden obstacles, like tree branches and stumps. I also personally feel that one's night vision improves in such situations, but I don't think there are any scientific studies to back me up on this one. It probably has something to do with bulging eye effect that is created when absolute terror is induced.

I ran like this for more than a few minutes, crashing through the woods as fast as I could, give no thought to stealth or hiding. Eventually, sheer physical exhaustion snapped me back into reality. I stopped behind a tree to catch my breath and rest before having another go at it. As I stood there and tried to get my gasping for air under control, I listened for any hint of Bradshaw following in my wake and at the same time, figure out in which direction to run.

I'd been running without rhyme or reason through the woods and not giving any thought to direction. Now that I had some of my wits back about me, I knew that I had to make my way, somehow, to Cherryburg and civilization. There lay safety.

Luckily, the glow in the sky told me that Cherryburg was in the direction I'd been fleeing. I was about to start heading that way when I heard Bradshaw trudging away in the woods behind me. I froze against the tree I was leaning against and listened, praying that he'd keep walking and miss me.

Bradshaw kept slogging towards me, and then he stopped. Except for the wind and occasional groan of a tree trunk swaying, it was silent.

" _Dafoe!_ " Bradshaw's yell pierced the air. "You couldn't leave it alone, could you?"

I just stood there, waiting. I heard Bradshaw take a few more steps, then stop.

"First that Baylor bitch fucked things up, got greedy, and had to be taken care of," he shouted, "then you had to play hero and save Sonny."

I could tell he was getting nearer. I knew what he was doing. He didn't have a clue as to where I was at and was trying to draw me out, get me to say something.

"Then you had to go find out about my dear— _Mother_ ," you could hear the venom in his voice when he mentioned her.

"This was supposed to be the payback for me, Dafoe, to make up for the past. It was her idea, you know."

He was getting closer and I found myself holding my breath, to keep him from hearing me breathe.

"Sonny was to get it all, and she wasn't about to stand by and let that happen. She'd kept in touch with me, always promised it'd be mine—and hers. Five years we've been planning this, and I've been waiting for twenty."

He was not more than ten yards from me and getting closer. I could just make out his silhouette.

"I know you left your gun back at the office. Time for you to die, Dafoe—come' on, let's get it over," he growled.

Bradshaw was so close that I could almost have touched him. I knew where he was, but he didn't know where I was hiding. A braver man would have suddenly charged him, used the element of surprise to attempt to overpower him, take his gun.

I just prayed he'd keep on walking and not see me. I thought he had when suddenly he turned and started to walk straight at me, gun ready.

He hadn't seen me yet, but he was only a split second from being able to make out my form against the tree trunk.

It forced my hand.

I bent over and flung myself at him, football tackle style, and knocked him to the ground. He grunted in surprise and pain, then his gun exploded above my head. I think I knocked the wind out of him, but I didn't take the time to ask. He was strong and was quickly rolling away from me. In a flash, I was on my feet and running towards the town.

I heard his gun crack behind me after I had run about thirty yards, but I just kept on running. It was a footrace now, with my only chance of survival being getting into town or somewhere with people.

I kept pushing myself to run as fast as I could. Once or twice I stumbled over the undergrowth and was constantly weaving in and around the trees, but I knew that Bradshaw was close behind me, and that kept me moving. I think I gained a bit of ground on him, but I couldn't be sure.

Off in the distance ahead, I saw what looked like a car cross my vision from left to right.

_A road_ , I thought to myself.

I was getting near town, and with a burst of speed powered by renewed hope, I picked up the pace.

After a minute or two, I ran out of the woods and found myself standing on a two-lane blacktop, across from an open field. I looked to my left and saw only more fields. I could tell that the town was about a half a mile down the road. In my condition, it might as well have been a hundred miles.

I was exhausted. My legs felt like lead. I was laboring for breath, and I could tell by the noise that Bradshaw was nearby. I had a sinking feeling that not only was he bigger and stronger than me; he was also in a lot better shape.

Then I heard the music.

It was coming from my right, and I looked over that way. There, not more than 200 yards away, was a large church next to the road. The lights were on, and I could faintly hear the sounds of an organ and singing coming from it.

Sanctuary.

Suddenly, a hundred yards or so to my left, I saw Bradshaw lurch out of the woods.

I launched myself towards the church, and not a moment too soon. As I sped down the road, my feet slapping against the payment, I heard the crack and the "zing" of a bullet as it whizzed by my head. It gave me the boost of adrenaline I needed to get me to the church before Bradshaw could run me down and get a clean shot.

It was a Thursday night, and I remember fleetingly thinking that choir practice must be going on, since churches around here only gather for services on Sunday mornings and Wednesday nights. However, as I got nearer, I realized that the parking lot was jam-packed and that something else must be taking place.

That suited me just fine. The more people the better as far as I was concerned. The name on the sign in the front of the church read _Evangelical Assembly of God_. It was a fairly large church and looked prosperous.

I raced to the front of the church, ran up the steps and got to one of the front doors. As I wrenched it opened I looked over my shoulder to see where Bradshaw was.

He was bent over in the middle of the road. He had his gun in hand and was trying to catch his breath. I went inside the church.

I found myself in the front vestibule. I could hear the sounds of singing coming from behind both sets of swinging double doors before me. I knew I had only a few moments before Bradshaw got there, so I went to the doors on the right, swung them open and entered the church sanctuary.

Inside, there were close to a thousand white people standing up, singing, stomping their feet and getting all worked up with the Holy Spirit. There were a few in the aisles jumping up and down, and I saw one man drop to knees and start howling at the ceiling like a man possessed. All the while, the organ was belching out Hymn #235, _Holy, Holy, Holy_ at a beat about twice as fast as it was originally written. Everything was horribly off key, and no one really had the right rhythm going except for a few kids in the choir—who did look a tad bit dusky to me, if you catch my drift.

On the elevated dais at the front of the church sat a man, no doubt the preacher. Behind him was the choir, decked out in aquamarine robes with white collars trimmed in gold. Up behind and above the choir stretched a white banner and printed on it in bold, red letters were the words _Repent and be Saved_.

I'd stumbled into an old-fashioned, full-throated, evangelical Holy Roller revival, and I was about to become the star attraction.

## Chapter 20

Now for those of you that are under the impression all revivals are like something out of a Billy Graham special, let me set you straight. A real revival is about cutting loose, shoutin' and singing. It is about putting the cares of the world behind you for a few precious minutes and tapping into the primeval stuff that exists in all of us. At its best, a revival is pure escapism from an otherwise dull and drab life that most people live, whether it be in a city or on a farm.

It's show business, folks.

And like all show business, its primary purpose is to turn a profit so the show can go on. In the church's case, the local preacher has decided he needs to expand his customer base in order to garner more donations. The quickest and surest way to accomplish this is through a revival, so with great fanfare and much hoopla, he puts out the word one Sunday morning that he feels the need to "revitalize" the congregation, and he's calling a revival, which will take place a month or so hence—got to have time to advertise, you know. Typically, it will be held for five nights in a row, starting on a Monday.

Now the preacher knows that a revival has got to be special, so he needs to juice up his game plan. This almost always means calling in a hired gun to come in and be featured as the guest preacher. While this costs money, preachers all over the world have crunched the numbers and have come to the conclusion that it's worth it. It gives the congregation (customers) something fresh and new and increases the overall effectiveness of the advertisements in the community ("Here for a Limited engagement!", "One Week Only!" and other such phrases). Better advertisement means more new customers and more new customers mean more donations in the future.

For the guest reverend, it means a bit more money in his pocket and a chance to try out some new and improved routines on the road, before bringing it home to his own church. If you're going to flop, better in front of a bunch of relative strangers than the home crowd. However, he's got to deliver, or else word will spread among his fellow preachers that he's a bad risk, and he won't be invited (hired) to preach at any more revivals. On the other hand, if he turns out to be a real crowd pleaser, he'll be swamped with offers.

It's up to the local preacher (promoter) to lay all the groundwork and handle the logistics. The new choir robes for the occasion, the improved sound system, the associated luncheons and picnics and the advertisements are all his responsibility. The guest preacher's responsibility is to save souls, and his effectiveness is judged by one standard and one standard only—volume sales.

As with used-car dealers and street hookers, it ain't the quality of the product being sold, but the quantity. The more people that can be converted or brought back into the fold, the better chance the local church has of keeping some of them as regular, paying customers. Everyone involved knows that most of those who come forward to be "saved" are swept up in the fever and emotion of the moment. Most, in the cold gray dawn of the next morning, will regret—or forget—their conversion to the righteous path. Like drunks swearing off booze, few very rarely succeed in sticking with the program, but it's a statistical certainty that the more that try means there will be more that succeed. So the goal is bulk sales and the best way to achieve that goal is to get the assembled crowd to throw reason to wind and whip'em into a frenzy.

It was such a frenzy that I had stumbled into. Any chance I had of getting a relatively sane or responsible person to listen to or help me would have to wait until things calmed down.

I hurriedly made my way down the right aisle to one of the middle pews. The hymn was just finishing up, and people were slowly beginning to sit down. The guy who had been howling at the ceiling had stopped and was gently rocking back and forth on his knees, mumbling with his eyes shut. No one tried to stop or quiet him.

Just part of the show.

I sat down and began to catch my breath. I began to look around in order to get my bearings, when the doors that were on the left aisle swung open and Bradshaw slowly came in.

He'd put his gun away and was scanning the congregation, no doubt looking for me. I slunk lower in my seat, trying to avoid his gaze. No such luck. He saw me sitting on the other side of the Sanctuary. He turned and exited. In a few seconds, he came through the doors on the right aisle and was walking towards me. About this time, the preacher stood up in front and started speaking.

Bradshaw, not wanting to draw attention to himself, squeezed himself into the pew right across the aisle from mine and sat down. He looked at me a second then turned his head to stare straight ahead as the preacher kept talking.

My mind was racing. What the hell was I supposed to do now? As the preacher upfront was beseeching the crowd to come forward in order to be saved and avoid hell, it dawned on me that I was as good as halfway there already.

Right then, I was the only one that knew about the connection between Bradshaw and his mom. There was no way he could afford to let that information be known. The moment this service was over Bradshaw was going to shoot me. If he or his mother had any hopes of getting away with their scheme, I had to die before I could talk to someone. The second I did that, it was all over for them.

No, I had to die, and it had to be before I talked.

I could see the whole scenario flash before my eyes. The second the revival was over for the night, he would waste me. He'd then flash his badge—never mind he's out of his jurisdiction—and say he's a cop chasing a dangerous suspect, and it appeared the suspect was getting ready to do mischief. I bet he even had a "throw down" gun to place next to me to make it look like I was armed. Yeah, the circumstances would stink around my death, but there was a good chance he could get away with it, especially if he had his mom paying the legal bills. The alternative was my living and spilling the beans on him and his mother. Then he'd have no chance.

I should have never stopped running.

The awful truth of the matter washed over me, and I looked over at Bradshaw. He was still staring straight ahead, but the color had drained out of his face, leaving it pasty white. His eyes had taken on that shark-like black flatness again, and he was starting to breathe rapidly. His mouth was slightly open, and I could see his chest rising and falling. He was panting like a dog.

Cold fear slammed into my gut. I realized Bradshaw had come to the same conclusion about me having to die and was getting up the nerve to blow me away.

It's one thing to kill an unarmed man, alone in the dark of the night. It was quite another to do it in front of over a thousand witnesses and in a church no less.

By now, the preacher up front was bellowing from behind into the podium microphone, exhorting the faithful to avoid damnation and be saved. I wildly began to look about, knowing that my time left on this earth could be measured in seconds. I was about to give in to panic, when, for some damn reason—divine intervention?—I recognized the man preaching up front.

It was none other than the Right Reverend Leo P. McLardy. By the way he was jumping up and down shouting, he seemed to have fully recovered from the bullet wound to his left buttock.

That was when my special gift kicked into overdrive. In a blink of an eye, I knew what I had to do if I wanted even a chance of staying alive.

I threw myself into the middle of the aisle, did a couple of somersaults—to dodge bullets in case Bradshaw opened up with his gun—and ran to the front of the church.

" _Jesus, Joseph and Mary_!" I hollered at the top of my lungs. " _Good God Almighty, I've seen the light and been saved_!"

I jumped up on the table that was placed at the foot of the dais. There were a bunch of brass collection plates stacked on it, and some noisily crashed to floor. I then leaped on to the dais itself, right next to the speaker's podium and McLardy.

Bradshaw just sat there in the pew, my sudden actions stunning him into immobility. As I looked at him from the podium, I saw the energy drain out of him and he bent his head over, defeated.

To this day, I don't know why he didn't follow me and shoot me before I said another word. I guess you just can't kill a man who's in the middle of finding religion.

Something to do with _Hamlet_ , I think.

People were up and shouting now, mostly yelling "Hallelujah!","Lord be praised!" and a few "Who the hell is this?"

I grabbed McLardy by the shoulders and spun him around so his back was to the audience. I whispered into his ear, "Listen, McLardy, let me talk, or I'll tell everyone here about your getting shot in the ass."

I looked at the good Reverend in the eyes, and I saw that he now recognized me. For a moment fear and hate flashed across his face.

"Why should I trust you?" he hissed.

"I'll pay you a grand and anyway, what choice have you?" I said.

I'll say this for old Leo, he didn't miss a beat. He turned to the congregation and motioned for quiet.

"I know this man!" he intoned. "I personally have been trying to put him on the path to Jesus for a long time now. God be praised, he has seen the light!"

The crowd murmured its gratitude, and a few more shouts of "Hallelujah" broke forth.

"He wants to bear witness now and confess his sins, and by all means we must hear him."

With that McLardy turned to me and motioned for me to step up to the microphone. He moved off to one side.

I stood before the expectant crowd. It might have been cool outside, but inside the church, it was warm and the smell of sweat and anticipation hung over the people sitting in the church pews. I looked at Bradshaw. He still had his head bowed, staring at the floor.

"My name is Jay Dafoe. I made my living spying on people, snooping into other people's affairs. I'd work for whoever would pay me. If the devil had money and needed a private detective, I was your man!"

I heard the gasps of horror from the crowd, saw the shaking of heads and people giving each other knowing looks— _Yep, that damn Satan again. You might have known._

"But today, I come before you all, to confess all to Jesus, to denounce the devil and his ways. I come to you alone, unafraid and—unarmed."

With that last statement, I opened up my jacket and let everyone get a good look at my empty holster. Now if Bradshaw tried to kill me, it'd at least be—without a doubt—cold-blooded murder.

"Oohs" and "aahs' were heard as the congregation eyed my empty gun holster, and all were suitably impressed.

"I'm here to tell you a story, my friends. A story of two sons gone astray, one tempted by money, the other, by the ways of the flesh. I'm here to tell you a story of harlots and jezebels, of greed and lies. Finally, I'm here to tell you a story of death and betrayal."

All eyes were on me now, the only sound in the great room coming from the man still on his knees, rocking and praying, obviously lost somewhere in a world of his own creation.

I started telling everyone there the story of Susan Bowman and Sonny Slatterson, ("He'd have been better off to commit the sins of Onan than sleep with that wanton woman!") and a father's love of his prodigal son. I told the story of the wife with the hidden past whom "unlike Mary Magdalene" never repented of her wicked ways. The only other story that I could think of at the time was the one about Jonah and the whale, and it didn't really relate.

But I had the crowd hooked. I wasn't pulling punches here, and I was naming names. I wanted everything out in the open, and I wanted to make it clear to Bradshaw sitting over there in aisle fourteen that it was over. I figured the surest way to guarantee my safety was to let everyone in on the story.

And I did.

And they ate it up.

They had come for a show and by damn, I was giving them their money's worth.

The Slatterson family was well-known in these parts, and everyone was thrilled to hear about their dirty laundry. The women enjoyed it more than the men, especially the part about the all high-and-mighty Cheryl Slatterson being a former madam and whore.

By the time I came to the end of my tale, I had the crowd in the palm of my hand. There was even one good-looking young lady looking at me from the front pew, all dreamy eyed. I gave her a wink and looked over at McLardy. He was starting to act a bit put off because, after all, he was supposed to be the star of the show and now was merely the warm-up act for yours truly.

At the end, I was a hopping and skipping all over the place, shouting and spilling my guts for all to hear. I finally came to a stop and looked at Bradshaw. He'd raised his head now, and I could see tears of anguish streaming down his face.

It was over, and he knew it.

I pointed at him.

"There he is, folks!" I shouted. "He gave his soul to Satan and that wanton harlot he calls his mother. But it's not too late, Stan Bradshaw, it's not too late is it, folks?"

Shouts of "Amen" rang out and many began to urge Bradshaw to step up take responsibility for his crimes. The choirmaster, who obviously knew his stuff and how to milk a moment, had now gotten the choir to start softly singing _How Great Thou Art_ in the background.

I went for the kill.

My mouth now was next to the podium microphone, and I spoke in my best stage whisper.

"Stan, it's over. Satan has failed—all that matters now is for you save your immortal soul. Come down to the front, confess your sins to Jesus and ask for his holy forgiveness. Do it now, man, now, before it's too late!"

With that, I stepped to one side of the podium, and stuck my hand out to him, like a man does to a drowning victim, ready to lend assistance in his time of need. With a look of expectancy and mercy on my face, I began to motion for him to step forward.

Bradshaw looked at me, tears coating his face, and slowly came to his feet. A few in the church murmured "Praise Jesus" as he stepped into the aisle and stiffly began to come forward, as if a greater power than man was behind him, pushing him on.

Silence reigned as he got to the end of the aisle and stood, mute and trembling.

Then, he threw his head back and from the back of his throat came a moan that morphed into an anguished yowl. Suddenly, as quick as lightning, he reached under his arm, pulled out his gun and started to point it at me.

" _Holy Shit!_ " screamed McLardy and he dove to one side. I managed to crouch behind the podium before the gun went off. It shuddered as the bullet struck and went through it.

Redemption be damned, Bradshaw had decided to go ahead and have the satisfaction of killing me.

Pandemonium now erupted and everyone was ducking or running for cover. I was trying to hide as best I could behind the podium, when Bradshaw jumped up next to the podium and came after me, gun in hand.

I rolled off the dais and onto the table that held the brass collection plates. I kept rolling until I hit the floor. In a flash, I stood up holding one of the plates.

At that same instant, Stan Bradshaw leapt off the dais and landed on his feet in front of the first pew. He was not more than twenty feet from me and was pointing his gun at my head.

I was a dead man and we both knew it.

Then, the miracle happened.

A little girl, not more than six or seven, had been pushed under the front pew when the gunplay had erupted. Her mother was covering her for protection, but she failed to notice the little girl had her right arm and hand sticking out. Bradshaw didn't notice it either, because he took one step forward in order to get a better shot at me and stepped on the girl's fingers.

Like a knife, her high decibel scream pierced the air, causing Bradshaw to suddenly look down. It was the break I needed.

I flung the brass collection plate at him, hoping to catch him off guard and give me a chance to run.

He never saw it coming.

The plate spun at him like a flying saucer and caught him in the throat as he looked up from the screaming girl. His gun went off as soon as it hit him, and I felt a hammer blow to my shoulder.

I was spun sideways and knocked to my knees. The world went askew for a few seconds then my vision snapped back to normal. I saw blood gathering on the floor beneath me. It took a second or two for me to realize it was coming from the hole in my shoulder, which was now numb with shock. I couldn't get my left hand to work. I looked up in dreaded anticipation—sure Bradshaw was getting ready to deliver the coup de grace to my head.

Instead, he lay sprawled on his back, his gun on the floor to his right. He was grasping his throat with one hand and beating the floor with the other as he thrashed about in agony.

I staggered to my feet, only to fall to my knees. I then crawled my way next to Bradshaw and grabbed his gun with my good hand. I was going to plug the bastard right there but when I looked at him, I knew immediately that it'd be unnecessary.

His face was blue, and he wasn't thrashing around as much. The collection plate had crushed his windpipe, and he was suffocating to death.

I sat there and watched the light of life slowly go out of his eyes. It was a horrible, painful death, and it was too good for him as far as I was concerned.

Once I was sure Bradshaw was dead, I allowed myself to collapse on the floor next to him. By now, those still in the church realized that it was all over and began to gather around Bradshaw's body and me.

I heard someone shout to call for an ambulance and the cops. Some of the more devout grabbed Reverend McLardy who was hiding behind the organ and insisted that he heal me at once.

The good Reverend had to explain to them that his healing specialty was limited to rheumatoid arthritis and the hard-of-hearing. The spontaneous curing of gunshot wounds was limited to the practices of Jesus and the twelve apostles—excepting Judas, of course. When someone pointed out that they didn't have guns during the time of Jesus, McLardy, that slick bastard, quickly pointed out that guns were in the same category as knife and sword wounds, and they did have those weapons back then, especially those damned Romans. A few grumbled about suing McLardy for malpractice, but most bought into this. Then some smart-ass teenager brought up the subject of Paul and shouldn't he have the same healing rights as the apostles—excepting Judas, of course. This sparked another round of arguments.

I just lay there and listened to all this as I continued to bleed all over the floor. Eventually, I realized that I was in way up over my head, theologically speaking and decided to pass out as I waited for the ambulance.

## Chapter 21

The next few hours were a hazy blur. I vaguely remember being wheeled into the emergency room at the local hospital, but my first real clear recollection was coming awake the next morning in the intensive care unit after they had successfully pulled Bradshaw's slug out of my shoulder.

After assuring myself I still had two arms, hands and legs, I managed to find the call button and summon a nurse. A middle aged broad in surgical scrubs answered the buzzer.

She gave me the once-over and then picked up the phone next to my bed and paged for the doctor who operated on me. A few minutes later, the Doc was in my room, checking out my shoulder and asking me to move the fingers on my left hand.

I could.

Satisfied, he said that he'd allow me to have a visitor for a few minutes, but no longer. He motioned to the nurse, and she stuck her head outside the door and called. A minute later, I was treated to the sight of Ernie limping into my room, lime green polyester suit and all. He leered at the nurse as she and the doctor left my hospital room.

"Well, kid, they say that other than losing a bit of blood and being a bit stiff for a while, that you're going to be okay. I heard about the little speech you gave at the church and so have the cops."

"What about Cheryl Slatterson?" I asked. "Last thing I want is for her to waltz in here and blow me away."

"Don't worry, kid, I already got Sandy Milton working on it."

"Damn it, have they got her under arrest or what?"

"Oh, they got her alright, but keeping her in the slammer depends a lot on you, or should we say, your memory."

"I don't get it," I said. "She's the one that killed the Bowman broad, and she blew away her own husband and son for Christ's sake. She's one mean bitch, and I don't want her running around free."

"Don't worry. I got it under control. You got to do just one thing until I get things worked out, and that is don't talk to the cops or press until I give you the go ahead. I got the Doc to agree to say you're in no condition to talk to anyone but close relatives for the next day or two, and I hope to have things all worked out by tomorrow morning. Now just go to sleep."

I was too beat up to argue with him and didn't try. The drugs were working on me, and I slept the rest of the day away.

It was mid-afternoon the following day before I was awake and alert enough to have visitors. It was Ernie again and this time Sandy Milton accompanied him. I smelled a deal in the air, and I was right.

Sandy brought me up to speed as to what had transpired while I was recuperating.

Stan Bradshaw's apartment had been searched, and a small supply of cocaine and heroin had been found. By the looks of it, Bradshaw had been stealing drugs that had been confiscated by the Sheriff's department in earlier drug busts and then mailed the drugs to Susan Bowman to use on Sonny Slatterson.

The police figured the Bowman woman had been hired with the express purpose of corrupting Sonny and making him an unfit heir to the Slatterson textile empire. This would have opened up a window of opportunity for Bradshaw once the elder Slatterson passed on and left everything to Mrs. Slatterson.

The consensus was that the Bowman woman got greedy, threatened to talk and was bumped off to keep her quiet. Whether or not Sonny was purposely given an overdose was debatable and probably would never be known now that both Sonny and Susan Bowman were dead.

I always felt that last minute switch from cocaine to heroin was meant to trick Sonny into an overdose.

Cheryl Slatterson, through her lawyers, was denying any involvement in the scheme and was laying the whole mess at the feet of her now dead son, Stan. She admitted she was Stan's mother. With her husband's blessing, She had helped him after he left the orphanage, sending him to college and helping him get a job with the local Sheriff. However, that was all she did.

No one really believed her protestations of innocence, but it was becoming increasingly and uncomfortably clear that it was going to be difficult to prove her guilt in a court of law. The defendant had money to burn on high-powered lawyers, and all the key players in this melodrama were now dead, so the whole case was dependent on circumstantial evidence.

Both the District Attorney and the Sheriff were anxious to see this whole mess go away. D.A. Anderson had no desire for it to become common knowledge that he'd been tight with Stan Bradshaw and Sheriff Crump just wanted to retire quietly.

On top of that, many of the local citizens were more concerned about the economic viability of the area's biggest industrial engine rather than seeing justice served. Times were getting tight and people were worried about their jobs.

After Sandy was finished talking, he looked anxiously over at Ernie and waited. Ernie just looked at me, his eyes shining in anticipation.

Slowly, it dawned on me what was going down. The drugs must have been fogging up my mind not to have seen it coming sooner.

"How big is my cut?" is all I asked.

Sandy let out a sigh of relief, and Ernie just smiled.

"We haven't got the all the details settled out with her lawyers or how the money is going to be paid, but we're thinking it's going to be along the same lines as the Whippy case," said Ernie. "You just got to be sure not to be able to identify Cheryl Slatterson as the person that drove off Bradshaw's car the other night. Everyone else, more or less, is ready to play ball. The press will raise a ruckus for a day or two, but that will pass."

I let my head fall back on my pillow for a minute and shut my eyes.

On one hand, we had a woman who murdered four people. There now wasn't a bit of doubt in my mind that it was two women I heard arguing in Susan Bowman's house that night. That meant it had been Cheryl Slatterson that caved in Bowman's skull with a hand-axe and left Sonny to die of a drug overdose.

I also had no doubt that Cheryl Slatterson, when confronted by her husband and his lawyer over her past, decided the best thing to do was grab her husband's gun and kill them and then finish the job on Sonny.

She'd worked, whored and married her way to a fortune, and by damn, no offspring from her husband's previous marriage was going to rob her of her due. So she called in her own flesh and blood and together, they worked out a plan to have it all, and it'd have succeeded if it hadn't been for yours truly getting involved.

On the other hand, I couldn't prove she was the one in Susan Bowman's house that night, and I damn sure couldn't prove that it was she, and not her drug-addled stepson, who had killed her husband and his lawyer.

As for Cheryl Slatterson being the one who drove off in Bradshaw's car the other night after he bounded into the woods after me, well I was fairly sure it was her, but I couldn't swear.

I raised my head up and looked at Milton, then at Ernie.

"Okay, but I insist on a sixty percent cut on the final amount. I did all the bleeding. You two can fight over the remaining forty percent. I don't give a damn. Now let's get the cops in here so I can tell my version of events and get this thing over with. I want to get out of this damn hospital and go home."

So that's the story of how Cheryl Slatterson got away with four murders.

No charges were brought against her, and the whole thing was quietly laid to rest. Stan Bradshaw was portrayed as the heavy in all of this, with Susan Bowman as his partner in crime and poor Sonny Slatterson as their unwitting and tragic dupe.

Cheryl Slatterson got control over her husband's textile empire, but it was a Pyrrhic victory. It was soon common knowledge around town that she had once run a whorehouse and, unlike quadruple murder, some things just couldn't be forgiven. Most of what passed for high society in those parts shunned her.

Then to make matters worse, the bottom fell out of the double knit polyester market, and the fashion industry began moving back to using cotton and wool. Within two years, the company Cheryl Slatterson had taken over lay in tatters and was bankrupt, never to recover.

She sold what little she could and moved to Huntsville, Alabama. There she lived in a small two-bedroom house on the outskirts of town, a recluse who only ventured out of the house for groceries and booze.

She died, alone and unloved, in 1985. The coroner said she'd been dead a month or so when they found what was left of her body, slumped over in a chair in front of the TV set. Empty vodka and gin bottles were strewn about the house, and her two cats had been gnawing on her body for sustenance during the weeks they were stuck inside the house.

I guess in the end justice was served. For a woman who was once so beautiful, Cheryl Slatterson must have left one ugly corpse.

It probably was still better looking than her soul.

The End

About the Author:

E. R. White, Jr. makes his home in the Florida Panhandle. This novel is his "Plan B"....
