George (Twenty)

It was 1 of em old churches. I could hear each step I took on stone steps. Looked down, it was a bunch of different shapes mortared together. Someone on their hands and knees spent a lot of time putting it together. Stone everywhere, lot of it smoothed down over the years.

Inside, big stained glass windows, all the stations of the cross. The old pews, scratched wood, but none of them kneeling brackets, no cushions on the seats. You came here, you were uncomfortable, you came to worship God almighty.

Up front near a table full of lit candles, a nun kept praying in front of the crucifix, whispering just loud enough I couldn't understand what she was praying for. Looked around, she was the only person anywhere nearby, except maybe in the confessional.

Walked inside the confessional, shut the door. A screen slid open. I asked the shadowy father on the other side for forgiveness. It'd been at least 6 or 7 months since the last time I confessed. Figured it wasn't too necessary, cause I beat myself up over them sins. Mostly fighting and drinking, not too bad in terms of the big sins. Felt like I'd done enough of both for a lifetime. Kinda felt lost in there.

He told me to do 15 rosaries and 15 Hale Maries for penance. Then I asked him if he talked to anyone just now, like the guy came in before me. Real simple, real slow voice, he told me whatever the guy said was between him and God almighty.

Slipped out of the confessional. Nun was still praying up front when she made the sign of the cross. She stood up, turned back, smiled at me. Little older, cheeks starting to sag, thin lips made for praying, but green eyes real clear.

I walked up to the nun, asked her how she was doing. She said she was fine, smiled back at me. I asked about Viktor, and she showed a small smile. Sister Tasha, she said he'd come by once a week. Never had time for church on Sundays, so he came on Wednesdays. Still counted, cause it was more than most slobs did, like me.

We sat down in the front pew, staring up at the pale Jesus. Real nice paint job, crown of thorns and blood trickling down his face. I asked what Viktor did for those Wednesdays, and she said they'd pray and talk, and then he'd confess his sins in the confessional. All she knew was that he was trying to make things better, said he was trying to do better. She said she was kinda proud of what he'd become, how he'd never forgotten her after all these years.

Told her I was investigating him, that any help she could give would help me. Thing is, she didn't have anything to say but good.

I asked her how long she'd known him, and she said they grew up together. Crunched my fedora in my hand, asked who she was. She told me Viktor was her brother.

Kept asking questions, but it was pointless. Really stuck up for him. Didn't know about much besides God almighty and what Viktor would tell her. It was obvious, when I mentioned his business, she sighed, looked at the ground, said she wished she could go out more. Said occasionally, she just wanted to see the world.

I asked her if she missed speculator life [Secular life. -Dara]. She said every once and a while, but this was all she'd known since she was 16.

Asked why she ended up here so young, what happened in school. Sister Tanya looked up at the crucifix again, crossed her hands in her lap. High school was a different lifetime. She was different. Got pregnant, and her parents forced her here.

She turned back to me, smiled faint like she was tired of thinking about all that. She was just a wide eyed girl then, and he was the star point guard on the basketball team. Sister Tanya rubbed a bead on her rosary, wondered whatever happened to George.

George (Nineteen)

I watched what Dara saw while she left. Funny how much more boring it was watching when it wasn't you. Then she got to the ground floor, stood in front of the woman's bathroom, tapped the button twice and told me to close the laptop. I did.

Dara came out to the car 20 minutes later, so I figure she was probably in the bathroom about 10 [Trace, thank you so much for all these details. Why did you feel it necessary to mention how long I was in the bathroom? -Dara]. We called up George, asked if he knew Viktor. He paused a while, said he didn't, but it was one of them real pauses, not a fake pause where his voice changed. I asked him to think harder, but nothing was coming up. Said he knew a Vik Chenmar, they lost touch. We told George that it seemed like this guy was behind it, but we wanted to make sure.

Dara drove, tried to teach me how to use the internets to do an internets search. Didn't work so well [Somehow, Trace managed to delete every shortcut on my desktop and erase every saved bookmark on my browser. -Dara].

Figured that Viktor was just as hard to find as anyone, covered his tracks real well. Figured we'd have to trail him a while. We went back to the building, into the garage, drove around to see if maybe we could find his car.

Wasn't hard to find it, the one sleek as a camera flash. Just parked a bit away and waited. When he came down and started driving, he tore away like the devil was chasing him. Bunch of twists and turns till it ended up at a church out in the country. Stayed about an hour, then he got out and left. Told Dara to chase after him, while I went inside. Had to talk to the almighty anyways.

[Viktor stopped at Pearlescent for dinner, ordering a wedge salad. I just kept getting water and breadsticks, pretending my date stood me up. Not that anyone would really believe it, but the waiter gave me his number just in case. At one point, Viktor pointed outside and passed a few dollar bills to the waiter. Later on, his waiter handed a vagrant two plastic bags, sagging at the handles, packed full of food.

When he left, he drove off to his penthouse apartment building. Try as I might, I couldn't find a way past the front doorman. At this point, any possible answers were up to Trace to find. -Dara]

George (Eighteen)

Problem is, I wasn't sending Dara into some dodgy situation by herself. She said she'd be fine. I just pointed to my old mug and said that's what happens when you think everything's gonna be fine. She said we had to get in there to get to the bottom of things. I told her no chance it was happening, till we didn't have any other options.

She took me to her computer, did an internets search, nothing came up. Said that the info from the government said nothing. Dara said we could stake it out, that skyscraper with all the people coming and going all day long, not knowing who to go after, or she could go in and get some info firsthand [What I hadn't informed Trace was that I created a local copy of the search results, removed all reference to Primary Services, Inc., and just navigated directly there. Based on what I'd found, it seemed safe enough. -Dara].

Dara broke out this crazy contraption in a jacket button, a mini video camera. It hooked up to her laptop, so I could see what she saw. Still didn't like it, but we needed to get a move on. I loaded Joan full, showed Dara how to shoot. Told her it was only for emergencies. All she had to do was get in, get info, get out.

Let me tell you, waiting in the car 2 blocks away in a parking garage while Dara was alone, I didn't like it [And while the camera was off, I had a chance to examine Joan. Trace etched a small heart on the handle, inscribing “T.L. + J.L.” inside. Where is Joan today, and how would I get Trace to open up? -Dara]. When she finally turned on the camera, everything looked fisheyed, but I was seeing what she was seeing, hearing what she heard. Kinda weird, being a woman like that. It wasn't right.

Dara sweettalked her way up to the top floor real easy. Figured she was winking while she talked. Real big area, lots of skylights, everything real shiny and new. Figured it probably was new, probably woulda bankrupted me for life if I rented it for a year.

Dara walked right up to the secretary, showed her resume and her computer skills, asked for a job. The slob, he was looking right at the button camera the whole time. Did I say that she put it on her shirt around chest level?

She saw a foosball table, pointed it out, walked right on in. With that weird fishbowl look, I could barely see their faces, but I could tell that they saw hers. She made sure to stop at every cubicle, look at the name plates. Dara said she was recording, so we'd be able to catch em later.

After playing a few rounds with the slobs, some guy with bushy eyebrows and thick shoulders asked what was going on. Dara apologized, said she couldn't resist foosball. Slob threw off his suit jacket, rolled up his sleeves, said it was job interview time, if she could answer his questions and beat him, he'd bring her back for an interview. Viktor Lubchenko, that was his name.

Lot of crazy computer talk I didn't need, didn't care about, but she seemed like she knew what he was saying. They pulled even at 7 when she started asking him about the company. Turned out Viktor started it from nothing, it was his baby. Smile got real big. Had a slight Russian accent, really made his words sound hard. But the way he boomed his words, the way he forced Dara into a loss, and him posing after showed me he was real proud, the kind of person didn't take to disrespect well.

Viktor shook her hand, looked her in the eye, said he'd call to set up an interview. Meanwhile, I knew we had to figure out what George did to Viktor, and how he could make it right.

George (Seventeen)

I call Dara, tell her she's got work to do, tell her to meet me at the office cause I found Ghost. Tell Dara what Ghost told me, how that'll lead us to whoever's behind it, but it sounds like a whole lot of work. I hear her type type typing in the background, leave her to that.

Go back to the Vanguard to update George, tell him to hold out a little longer. Problem is, end of the month is coming, bills are due, he won't have much choice any way. Cause I couldn't do nothing else, I went back to the Vanguard to stand watch. Figured it was the only thing wouldn't make me completely useless.

[Four construction companies were currently improving the five blocks surrounding the Vanguard. A veritable host of real estate companies held deed on the associated real estate. Atop that, business had proliferated throughout the area due to the gentrification efforts.

At first, they all appeared independent of each other, merely the byproduct of a healthy capitalist economy. However, further inspection revealed not all of the businesses were quite as independent of each other as I'd suspected. Several holding companies held significant stakes in perhaps half of the business entities, including those bidding on the Vanguard.

For each of those holding companies, public records revealed intricate ownership structures, in addition to various anonymous entities, private individuals and private corporations. I leveraged some lax security measures implemented through the local government website to try and locate those anonymous identities, but someone had covered their tracks well. However, patterns tended towards one particular group, Mann and McShine.

It seemed that Mann and McShine ran this whole venture, but I eventually found that, somehow, it was set up in such a way that the legal entity owned itself, much as a sole proprietor owned his sole proprietorship.

A further analysis exposed Mann and McShine as controlling another entity, which appeared to hold significant sway. The Patrician group, some organization that barely existed digitally, had some controlling and voting stake in Mann and McShine's actions.

The organization structure of the Patrician group pointed towards their CEO, Robert Barker, controlling the entire scheme. I nearly called Trace to inform him, when I noticed that Dick Dawson was their CTO. CFO, Patrick Sajak. Their entire roster has more experience hosting game shows than shadowy shell companies.

Only a contractor, Primary Services, Inc., showed any hint of being true. It existed, so I had to assume this was the controlling individual. At the very least, it was the only lead we had. I got the street address, called Trace to let him know. -Dara].

Dara called me up around 5 AM. She told me what she got. Address sounded real familiar. Took me a few before I could remember why. Same building where Casper Johns got me thrown out on my duff.

George (Sixteen)

It ain't guaranteed that she's Ghost, but I gotta be real surprised if it ain't her. Can't believe a mother's behind everything, but I seen crazier. Problem is, there's kids in there. She doesn't seem like the kinda person gonna have time to screw around. I knock on the door again.

She comes out in a t-shirt, and she's kinda leaking, 2 wet spots on her chest. Cassandra's got her hand over the phone, asks what I want. I just say Hi, Ghost. She doesn't bat an eye, just tells the person on the phone she'll call them back. Snaps the phone shut, invites me in.

Kid's clothes everywhere, like the clothes hadn't moved where someone dropped it. Food smeared on the walls, a couple muddy handprints the size of my palm. There's a cracked lamp unplugged in the dining room. Computer's set up on the dining room table, but there's papers and checks all over.

We sit across from each other. She asks if I want anything to drink, they got water and milk. I look down at her shirt, say no thanks.

She wonders who sold her out, and I tell her I got my ways, that no one sold her out. Cassandra smoothes her bristly hair back, puts her face in her hands, sighs. Says she can't take much more. She points upstairs, and her third kid is standing there in a blue shirt reaches down to her ankles, sucking her thumbs. Cass hasn't slept more than 4 hours in a row for 6 months now. She goes on about how she loves em, but she just needs a break. Her eyes get glassy, and she starts staring off over my shoulder, like there's a paradise or something just outside where she can't get to it.

She blanks out a while. I clear my throat a few times, snaps her back to conscience [Conscious. -Dara]. She wonders what prison's gonna be like if they convict her, even though she was just the go between. Just passing information, that's all. Cass hopes they'll let the kids visit, somehow, hopes they give her some solitary time.

I tell her she might be able to strike a deal with the cops if she helps em. She looks up, sniffling, asks if I ain't a cop, what am I. I tell her I'm a PI, then start talking about the Vanguard and George and how it all started.

Cass sits up straight, cracks her neck, says I got nothing without the badge. I say maybe I don't, but I got Sgt. Miller's ear, and I can get him to go over her house top to bottom. And it doesn't matter if they find nothing, no one will ever call her again cause she'll be tainted.

She glares, says she don't like me. There's a real weary ache in her voice. Asks if I want money to keep quiet, and says I should be ashamed of what I'm doing. I throw it right back on her, tell her there's nothing honest about what she's pulling here.

I tell her it's all real simple. All she's gotta do is tell me who's ordering the graffiti and I'll disappear. Problem is, them wet spots on her shirt been spreading, and I can't stop staring. When I talk to her now, I'm staring down at them dark circles. She looks down, throws her arm acrost her chest, slaps me real hard. Does that whisper-yell dames do, tells me I shoulda been real ashamed of what I done. I apologize, but she doesn't want none of that.

Cass grabs a Tennessee sweatshirt off a pile, throws it on, all orange and too big. Purses her lips till there's nothing but a thin line, pale and scary. Tells me if I trace the businesses buying up all the property near the Vanguard, it'll all lead back to 1 source. Says I never talked to her, and that I need to keep looking even after I think I find the source, till there's nowhere else to go.

There's another cry from upstairs. Cass says I can let myself out, then rushes upstairs to feed her child.

George (Fifteen)

I get the Boy Donut special, 3 glazed and a cup of coffee for 5 bones. Kinda hurts to sit there, after the beating I took, but it ain't as bad as it would've hurt if I didn't have the donuts. Dara just sat there, watched me eat [It was after nine at night, and everything they sold would have wrecked my diet. Trace couldn't name a single reason for me to have a donut that late. -Dara]. We had a bunch of cops swarming the joint on moss, getting their donuts and leaving [En masse. Trace's response once I explained the term: “So, it's got nothing to do with rolling stones?” -Dara]. Meanwhile, Casper Wong's running around behind the counter like someone electrified the floor. It can't be him, he's got too good a deal here, and he's way too busy. I try to talk to him, and I get nothing. I talk to the kid at the register, and it turns out CW lives and breathes this place. He even has a cot upstairs. Can't be him.

I sneak some bourbon into the coffee, and it tastes about 1000 times better. All the Caspers accounted for except the kid, and seeing how I dealt with his dad, I didn't think it would work out any better. Better not to push that one. Couldn't figure out what was going on. I told Dara the slob told me the name Cass, and it sounded legit. Figured we might have to go see Wilder again, see if he had anything else.

Dara gets one of em funny looks on her face. Asks me what if it was Cassandra or Cassidy. I pound my last donut into crumbs. I'm such a dumb slob. Shoulda known better. Not everyone makes it obvious when they pick a nickname. Especially if it's a dame might wanna keep people from knowing she's a woman.

We get back a lot more Cassidys and Cassandras from the internets, plus a whole buncha other names started with Cass. We gotta toss a lot of em. Ain't no 6 year old running everything behind the scenes. When all that's done, we got a list of 5 more possible Ghosts.

Before I take the Cassandras, I go by the Vanguard. George takes me upstairs to his office, limping all the way. I give him a rundown, tell him about the Diablos and Ramon and Wilder and how we were trying to catch Ghost, cut the whole thing off at the head.

George twirls a mostly browned basketball on his index finger. Keeps spinning for over a minute, and he just sits there and stares. Goes and shows me more polaroids of the graffiti, and him scrubbing the walls. Says he's got a couple offers on the table, above market value. Says he'd been dreaming of this place since high school, when his knee wasn't shredded and he was going to do everything he didn't want to regret not doing now. He sighs, and the basketball drops off his fingers, dribbles to a sad stop. Says the Diablos are scaring business away.

I ask what if 1 of them construction companies is behind it. He says they been in a bidding war, and he ain't got them to stop. If it was just one of em, they'da lowballed him or just stopped bidding it so high. Told George we'd keep searching. Asked him if there might be anyone targeting him, but he just shrugged his shoulders. Guy'd never done no one wrong in his life, near as he could remember.

From the Vanguard, I took the metro out to Woodside. First on my list, Cassandra Wilkens. Housewife out in the burbs. Figured I'd cross her off the list right quick and move on to Cassandra Cabot, CEO of Pontoon Privatized. Sounded like she had the flush behind all this.

Walk up to a simple 2 story, nothing flashy, just brick and aluminum siding. Buncha kid's toys in the yard, little scooter missing a back wheel, couple of dolls, dump truck. Bush out front is all drooped over, no one's pruned it in a while.

I knock on the door. Woman's voice screams out that she'll be right there. After a bit, this woman with short blonde hair, a mean frown, 5 foot nothing opens the door. She's holding a cell phone in 1 hand, nursing a baby with the other, yelling at me to tell her right now what it is I want. I'm trying to ask her for directions, the only thing Dara figured I could ask without giving myself away, but Cass's hissing into the phone, telling that poor slob it's a waste of everyone's time, maybe he should do the talking himself if he wants something done. Kid's still feeding. I take a look at her phone. Don't know much about them phones, but it's real shiny and new. She finally clamps it shut, tosses it over her shoulder. Apologizes for snapping at me, and I tell her her towel moved to the left. She covers her breast like nothing while I'm just staring up at the sky.

There's another ring from her pocket. She pulls out another phone, looks just the same as the first, says she's real busy, asks if it can wait. I just nod like an idiot as she slams the door shut, starts going full-on dame on the second phone. Most people don't carry 2 of the same cell phone like that. Least, not people working on the up-and-up.

George (Fourteen)

I found Casper John's office downtown. Big glass building with a front desk. They made me check Joan. I didn't like it, but I had to let her go. I hate letting go [All of my searches yielded nothing on a Joan Lowell. I've had to start looking for all Joans in the area within the past fifty years, a monumental effort. There is no guarantee that she is any different from Trace and his nonexistent digital footprint. -Dara]. Counted to 60 waiting for the elevator to make it downstairs, so I could get on it and go to the top floor.

Real dame secretary, her lip curled soon as I walked in them big glass doors. Asked if she could help me, using the tone of voice people use when they talk about picking up rotten cantaloupes. I told her I needed to talk to Mr. Johns. She said he was busy, so I walked right on in. Could tell already I ain't never gonna get this close again, and I gotta take a risk. Some days, I love my job.

CJ's corner office door was opened, and I stepped on in. Dame followed, apologizing nonstop for the contusion [Intrusion. The contusions usually come later with Trace. -Dara]. CJ's sitting there, phone in each hand, third one on his cedar desk. He waves at us, screams into all 3 phones 1 after the other, slams them all down, then sneers at us. There's a vein across his forehead looks ready to burst out his skin and crawl away. Even when he's just talking instead of yelling, his cheeks shake too much. He looks like Santa Claus came to town with coal instead of presents.

He's screaming at her for letting me in, hasn't even looked at me yet. Asks why this homeless bum come into his office, starts throwing stuff from his desk at me. Stapler, picture frame, organizer, whatever he's got his hands on. That stuff I can deal with, but then he says something about my momma. Something not nice, something you'd say to a lady of the night.

I push CJ's secretary out the office, slam the door closed, one of them real thick, heavy wood with metal core doors. Wedge one of his nice chairs between the knob and the floor. Don't wanna think about how much this thing cost, probably more than a month's rent. Any rate, I ain't gonna get answers from him without some prodding. I don't wanna be nice no more. I just want what I want. Figure the guards downstairs, they were as pear shaped as the slobs on the phone up here. It was gonna take them a while to hoof it up here. I had 3 or 4 minutes before they came up here.

CJ's on his feet, gone all red, even his hands. Starts throwing words I need a dictionary to even spell, forget about what they mean. Big thing is he's threatening to sue me, far as I can tell. I point at my clothes, and say the 2 magic words that shut him up quick: judgment proof. He ain't the only 1 can throw around fancy terms.

I tell him I'll leave him alone if he answers some questions. I ask him about Wilder, the Diablos.

CJ's shaky, but he rolls his cuffs up. He plays dumb, says he doesn't know nothing.

There's some banging behind me, they're trying to get in, but the door's holding. Not for long, though.

I lean over the desk, get in his face. His breath smells like hot dogs with extra kraut and mustard. I ask if he's behind the graffiti. It's just 1 big fat confused look on his face. He's so thrown off, and not the fake kind. He has no clue what I'm asking. It's not him. Then I tell him he should say sorry for what he said about my mother.

They bust down the door, then knock me around. Show me that when you got enough money, nobody gets close to you without getting theirs. I curl in a ball and take it. One of them kicks my kidney, and I blank out a second when everything goes white.

They ask if he wants to press charges. I look up at him from what I think are bloodshot eyes. I taste some salt from somewhere.

He tells em not to press charges. Then, he leans real close to me, whispers “You don't threaten me, I threaten you.”

They take me back downstairs, throw me out on my duff. Like I said, you don't go looking for enemies. They'll come find you.

George (Thirteen)

Kinda made sense, Cass the Ghost, like Casper the Friendly Ghost. Thank God almighty it ain't a common name. Called Dara, told her to search the internets for Caspers, while I thumbed through the phone books. Before I made it past Alexander Aarvo, Dara found 4 Caspers in 50 miles. One of em was a 2 year old, Casper the 3^rd. His dad was still in play, Casper Johns 2, an investment banker. One Casper Wong owned a donut shop, might be a perfect cover. Caspar Rondell taught at Dara's old college. I went after the banker. Dara went back to her old stomping grounds. Once we got done, we'd meet up for a donut. Told her if she finished first, to get me a glazed and a coffee.

[No doubt, the donut, coffee and a shot of bourbon would constitute the entirety of Trace's dinner. His food pyramid consists of sweets, breads, red meat and cheese, along with liberal doses of vitamin B: bourbon.

I'd never taken a course with the professor. Basic internet research revealed nothing of relevance. Tenured astronomy professor, making ninety four thousand dollars last year. More than enough to fund side ventures.

Professor Rondell occupied a perch within the astronomy department observatory. What struck me about him were his sky blue eyes, clear and lucid, not something you would expect from a seventy-year-old man, much less one that spent the majority of his time stargazing.

Before visiting during office hours, I braided my hair into pigtails, on the off chance it might make me appear younger, or at least more vulnerable. Not that I couldn't pass for a twenty-two-year-old, but it never hurts to be safe.

I kept him there, babbling on and on about Star Trek and the stars and anything I could think of. After a while, the professor excused himself to go to the bathroom. While he was gone, I checked every pocket on his great coat, flipped through each desk drawer. Nothing hinted at any sort of criminal mastermind, which made sense. No self-respecting criminal mastermind would leave any evidence to corroborate that status.

When he returned, I asked if we could continue our conversation over dinner. He seemed perplexed, but accepted. We ate across from the Vanguard, then watched a movie. His hands wandered around my shoulder, but I let them stay.

At the end of the night, he tried to kiss me, but I told him that he'd gotten the wrong idea. Besides, I needed someone going somewhere, someone with power. Professor Rondell told me he'd head the astronomy department within five years, but I laughed, waved his idea off, and told him I needed someone that lived dangerously. He looked somewhat saddened, but nodded his head, asked that I not mention any of this to his colleagues.

I called Trace, let him know that Rondell wasn't our Ghost. Somehow, he was on his way to the donut shop, and I agreed to meet him there. -Dara]

George (Twelve)

Probably 1 of the only places these days I don't look too out of place, more working class stiff than anything. Lot of dressy characters, long bars along each wall, fake wood paneled radios done up like they came straight out of the factory from the 30s. Playing that satellite radio, the 30s channel. Bartenders wearing tuxes, handing out lots of martini glasses. Even smells kinda like it was older, fresher.

Real low ceilings, nearly busted my noggin open on one of them low hanging green lamp lights. Paid my 20 bones for a bourbon. Too bad the prices weren't throwbacks.

Tried talking with the bartender, but he knows me, wasn't too happy. I always get 1 or 2 drinks, treat em like they're sick, and I'm trying to nurse em back to health.

Phone started ringing, but I figured it was just Dara, couldn'ta been too important. They don't like it in Nostalgia when you break their game, wanna keep it as real as they can. Problem was, it kept ringing, and I couldn't remember what to do to shut it off. Kept hitting all the buttons in my pocket. Probably looked like I just hit puberty and found out what else I could use that for. It finally stopped, but then she called me again. Dames.

Finally, when it stopped the 2^nd time, I got up to mingle. Kinda hate it. I gotta play nice, not make people mad, get a real fake smile on my face, just like I see on their faces. Like a buncha empty faced mirrors are grinning like fake idiots. Out on the street, you know they'd shoot each other in a heartbeat.

Mostly, I made em squirm and look away. It's not like they know me, it's just something in me makes em feel wrong. I wanna say it's because they feel me being sorta on the side of Johnny Law, but it's probably cause my mug is all busted up and sewn back together.

Had to wait a while till I found my mark. Young guy, striped blue tie, skinny, already loose at the knot, waltzing around, same as me, offering drinks to anyone pay him a scrap of attention. Real baby face, but a big mouth on him, never shutting up. Married into the mob, or someone's babied son. Nothing else, figured I might get a drink off him.

Worked better than I thought. Alone, each of us was creepy. Together, we were still creepy, but at least we were social. Wasn't completely dangerous to come towards us. Plus, slob was getting plastered quick. I could apologize for him, replace drinks he spilled with his money, start talking to the fine suits and evening gowns.

Took a while, musta cost him a fortune, but around 3 AM, I get my name: Cass. Of course, Hercules over here ain't ready for the night to end. Name like Hercules, I wasn't surprised he normally didn't drink much. I had to lug him out of Nostalgia, toss him in a cab, hand the cabbie one of Hercules' 50s.

Watching them taillights fade, I think I shoulda got something for myself from Hercules' pocket, but then I figure he got me 8 shots of bourbon and the name. More than most people get for me. If that ain't a friend, I don't know what is.

George (Eleven)

Around this point, I started worrying it mighta been 1 of the mob families behind it, especially when he told me how much he was getting to tell the Diablos what to do. Felt like I was playing football 1 on 11. Mighta gotten lucky and scored once and a while, but most of the time, they were gonna pancake block me into the ground, and I probably wasn't gonna get up.

Thing is, he had a name and a phone number. Problem was, that's all he had. Wilder's boss called himself Ghost, gave real simple directions on what the kids were supposed to paint, then disappeared. I kinda liked the idea, but I woulda liked it more if he left a forwarding address.

Wilder gave us the phone number Ghost used last, and told us he called around 9 PM. Wasn't much to go on, but it was more than we got usually.

Dara dropped me off at the metro stop, then went back to the office. She sorta had to at this point. I'm near useless with computers and the internets, and she can't have much bourbon without going full-on dame and crying [Trace needs an excuse to leave me behind. Not all of us have hardened our lives with over thirty years' experience drinking and fighting.

We should have anticipated the difficulty in tracking down Ghost. Ghost utilized the finest in disposable technology, prepaid cell phones. So long as you could afford it, you could keep the personal information to a minimum. What records existed for the number ultimately traced back to a grave inhabited by one Lester Goldstein, 13 years interred and counting. Seeing as how we weren't willing to buy Lester rising from the dead and manipulating a gang, we assumed it was a cover.

Another clue we could work with, there were scant few calls from the phone, but the first one came about a month ago. I assumed that meant Ghost purchased the phone fairly recently. With some more work, I was able to find the point of sale, a Radio Shack in Derry Mall.

I called Trace to update him, but he steadfastly refused to answer his phone. Either that, or he was talking into the closed clamshell and wondering why I wasn't talking back. -Dara].

Someone with that much flush, that secret, had to be a high class kinda criminal. Kind that got someone to shoot you, instead of doing it themselves. Probably mob connections, which meant Nostalgia, the club downtown where they all hung out.

It's such a classy joint, it's the kinda place where they'd never call themselves a classy joint. Real 30s feel, like Prohibition's back in swing. Got that sliding window in the door up front. I passed 2 large through when the beady eyes asked for the password through that tiny window. Sure enough, door opened and I passed inside. Most the other clubs, I been in fights, they'll throw me out and ban me. In Nostalgia, you get in a fight, they'll end it quick. You might get buried at sea, if you're lucky. No one ever tells us what happens when you're unlucky.

George (Ten)

Place smelled like mothballs and antiseptic. Racks of worn clothing, kind you'd find in a third rate department store, set up all over the place without any pattern. One woman dragged 2 toddlers behind her, and she had a pile of kids' clothing over her arm, sorting through a cardboard box and pulling out more.

Checked the address. This was it, goodwill store between 17^th and 18^th. Ramon was getting the money here, stashing it at the station. They'd been saving up a few months, but it didn't explain how this joint could afford to fund that. So, what were they fronting for?

Soon as we stepped in, Dara got hypnotized, wandered off to start walking through the aisles, picking at clothes [I was merely searching for evidence of a money laundering scheme. They may have been sewing excess funds into clothing and transferring clean bills that way. Besides, I found a cute pink top for five dollars. -Dara].

I walked past the trench coats, all fur-lined and shoulder pads. Found the slob just like Ramon described, bent glassses, thinning hair dyed orange, lot of flannel. Luke Wilder, everyone called him Wilder.

Heard him talking to someone, and he peppered his talk with “dude” and “bro”. Kinda like he never grew up, never wanted to grow up. When they finished, he tried one of them crazy 7 part handshakes. Wasn't the kind anyone woulda tried 30 years ago, when he was a kid.

Started talking to him, told him Ramon said hello. He got all excited, clapped me on the back, asked how Ramon was doing. I told him Ramon was fine, had some questions about the last tutoring session. Wilder ran his hand through his thin hair, shook it out like he just pulled off a skateboard helmet. Told me we should talk about it back in the storeroom. Kept calling me “bro”.

In the back, he told a couple high school kids to go out front, man the registers. They ran out, high fived him. Both girls rolled their eyes as they ran past him.

Once the storeroom door closed, he pulled a desert eagle from his waistband, pointed it right at my heart. Slob was so skinny, I figured even if he fired, the gun would just knock him into 1 of the shelves, or onto his can. He was real calm, gun hardly shook.

Wilder said he couldn't believe that “dude played me like that. We was friends, bro, and he played me like that.” I told him to stop embarrassing both of us, and act his age. Smile gone, eyes hard, he stood up straighter. Told me it was good to stretch, and he was tired of having to be the cool guy to get along with the kids. Couldn't figure out if he was serious.

I had my arms above my head, could feel the sweat rolling down my arms, tickling my armpits like a snail was crawling down there. Told him he could tell me who he was working for and I could just walk away.

Slob asked what made me think he wasn't in charge. I told him it was the orange hair. He fell back into his altar ego [Alter ego, not of the priesthood. -Dara]. Slob held his arms up, cried out “Dude”.

I slapped the gun from his hand, slapped the 80s out of his mouth. Emptied the desert eagle of its ammo, then threw the gun back into the clothes bins. Figured they mighta gotten a few bucks for it.

Funny how different someone is when they're holding a gun, versus when you hold a revolver to their temple. He went all dame on me, couldn't shut him up. Told me all about his boss. Didn't try to pretend we were “bros” anymore.

George (Nine)

I walked up to the fence, looked them dogs in the eye, gave em that look said I was in charge. They kept barking, but I held it a few more seconds, spoke to em like they was kids, told em everything was gonna be OK, we were gonna be friends.

They barked less, sprayed less, finally just laid back down. I opened the gate, petted them, walked to the door [He can barely talk to me, yet he gets these dogs to roll over and eat out of his hand. Amazing. -Dara].

Some kid answered, wearing slacks, button down blue shirt, a navy blue sweater with some fancy symbol. Hair parted to the right. Spoke all polite. Didn't matter, cause you can't just step into a new body. Skinny body, a little too skinny. I looked at his hips, and they definitely couldnt'a held up size 50 pants for too long. Told him I had his jeans. Didn't fit me, so I asked if he wanted them back.

Give him credit, he didn't run. Then again, where was he gonna go, behind mommy's apron? Kid flushed, told me to keep it down. I asked him what his game was. He told me to hush. Yelled back inside to his mother, said his tutor was here, and we was gonna study calculus. Kid's mom yelled back to have fun.

Kid laid his eyes on Dara, got that stupid moonfaced look. I put my hand on his shoulder, squeezed, told him he didn't have a chance. Pointed him outside, and we went for a little walk.

Ramon, he was real composed. No matter what I said, he just kept calm, always waited a few seconds before he answered. Didn't slouch over, walked real straight, like he knew he was king, just didn't have to show it off. I asked about the money, he paused like he did, then said he's been saving his allowance, money from odd jobs. Told him it was real unusual, getting that sort of flush. Ramon, he just stared into my eyes, said he could account for every last bit.

I asked what he was doing, why he was trying to ruin such a good thing. He didn't need the money. He paused again, and then told me if he had to explain, I wouldn't understand. I told him I knew what it was like to trust people, know that they got my back. Know what it was to walk through fire for someone, turn around and do it again.

Dara walked real close, batted her eyes, started going all dame on him. Said she'd be real grateful if he helped us, and she said it kinda slow. Kid stumbled, but I gotta give him credit, he kept walking. Swallowed real hard. She touched his shoulder, and he damn near fell over. Also said we could stop, there wasn't anything we could do to make him give up his source. We could tell his parents, tell the whole world what he did, and it wouldn't matter.

About this time, we looped around the housing complex. Back at the gate, he smiled real big, teeth all white and straight. Looked like he coulda come from a clothing catalog. All preppy and clean and perfect. That's when I knew what he wanted.

Told Dara to stall Ramon while I went back to the car [I asked him what he was studying, and even though he actually tried to name a subject, it was clear all he was interested in were my breasts. -Dara]. Came back with my camera, started snapping shots of him. Finally broke his cool, and he started going full-on dame, hollering up a storm and trying to grab the camera. I tossed it to Dara and she clicked off a few more shots. Then, before he could do anything else, she slipped the memory card into her bra. He tried to grab for it, but I put my hand on his shoulder, shook my head no. Told him I was gonna make some fliers, post them pictures of him being a rich kid, slumming it. He mighta stayed a Diablo, but ain't no way anyone was gonna respect him. We got his attention.

Ramon's mom came out, holding her hands over her head and yelling at us, trying to get us to tell her what we were doing to her baby. Ramon put his arm around my shoulders, I did the same. Ramon told his mom he was just embarrassed to take pictures.

Wouldn't you know it, she saw the camera, her eyes get real bright. Introduced herself as Rose. She asked Dara to take everyone's picture, cause he wouldn't never sit for them. She slipped the memory card back in the camera, and Rose gave her a funny look, but went with it. If that kid smiled any faker, his face woulda cracked open.

We promised we'd give her the digital copies once we got some touchup on them, and she stepped light going back inside. I turned to Ramon, asked him one more time what he knew about the money.

George (Eight)

I had 2 shots of bourbon to celebrate. Woulda had 1, but it always gets lonely by itself. Went back to the office around closing time. Dara and me traded notes like I was some slob college kid and we were in some study group [I'm so pleased I've had such an effect on Trace's anti-intellectualism. When he handed me the spray paint and keys, I suspected he may well have not sobered up from his overnight surveillance. Most of the fingerprints had smeared, but I managed to retrieve a few clear partial prints from the spray can.

My laptop sports a rudimentary biometric reader, which matches my fingerprint against the stored master, in theory. In practice, it locks me out for hours on end. However, the camera does capture fairly high-resolution images of fingerprints. After some work, I was able to use it to image most of the clear prints. Comparing Trace's scanned print to the pulled images revealed all but one were his doing.

After some judicial use of common passwords, I found myself able to access the police department's database of stored fingerprints. A search proved pointless, but we at least had a valid print.

As for the house key, I contacted Tara for a consult. I drove to her shop and handed her the key. She wolf-whistled, then stuck it under a magnifying glass. A few more minutes of whistling, and Tara pointed out a slight bulge beneath the metal, a RFID chip.

Tara returned the key with an air of reverence. The only location she knew where these locks were in use was the Evergreen Gardens gated community. -Dara].

We went to Evergreen Gardens. Dara called Oscar, asked if he'd let us in. It'd been a while since we talked, and I saw rings on his and Paul's hands. Congratulated them on their marriage. They tried to hug me, but I just shook their hands.

Evergreen Gardens had another 43 houses to go through, aside from Oscar's and Paul's. We went around, Dara asking if they'd lost keys, cause we'd found em around the way. Most of em gave me the evil eye, upturned nose, but I just gave it right back.

We came to a house with a fence, sign that said “No Solicitators”, and 2 rottweilers lying there, waiting till we got close. They barked up a storm like we were the Grim Reaper.

Dara turned milk-white, worse than normal [Hilarious. - Dara]. She shoved the key in my hand, told me to go on in. Them dogs, they were clawing at the fence, barking and spraying dog spit every which way.

George (Seven)

Glanced at Broken Nose, still napping. Looked at Skinny Punk. Promised him no one would hear if he told me where their leader went. About this time, some random slob rounded the corner with a cup of coffee and a folded paper under his arm. I glared at him, told him the lockers were under repair. He looked at all of us, backed away right quick.

Skinny Punk said the key was his. I looked at his twitching eyelids. He was lying. Problem was, I never saw the slob's face when he was running from me that night. Didn't know if he was lying about being there.

I picked him up and turned him around. He looked too skinny to be the guy. Turned him back, told him that he could help me, or take his chances when the cops got there. He got real confused, asked if I was a cop. I told him I worked for a living.

Broken Nose started blinking and wheezing. Skinny Punk told him to keep his fat mouth shut, cause I was just a bounty hunter or something, wasn't official. Broken Nose couldn't believe they had bounties on their heads. They hit the big time.

I asked Broken Nose about the money in the satchel. He glared at me, then at Skinny Punk, asked if there was really money in there. Skinny Punk told Broken nose to shut up again. Neither of em said nothing till the cops rolled up half an hour later, all late to the dance.

It was Grayson and Tarver showed up. Soon as they saw me, Tarver sighed and shook his head. Grayson pulled his multitool and slit the zip ties, told me I couldn't keep binding people against their wills.

I told em as much of the story as they needed, but the cops weren't paying attention, just looking everywhere like poor old Grandpa lost his mind. Course, when they started interrogating Broken Nose and Skinny Punk, the two slobs were all “Sir” and “Thank you” and all that. Then them slobs started talking for real. But they didn't say nothing about the flush in the locker. At least with me, they had a chance to get it back.

Grayson took me aside while Tarver took the slobs to the squad car. Shook his head, told me I was getting too old for this, needed to stop playing their game. I told him once they started doing their job, I could stop doing it and retire.

George (Six)

Broken Nose was out, probably dreaming of how he clocked me good. Took me a long while to shove him off me. Problem was, with 2 slobs squirming under me, it took a lot longer than it shoulda.

Once I got up, I picked up the first one by his Clemson sweatshirt, asked him what he was doing. Like a dame, he just kept whining I busted his chest. I told him I didn't feel anything crackle when I landed. He said he was gonna sue me. I shook him a few times, reminded him he came at me with a bat, told him I lived by eye for an eye. Asked him what he thought a bat would feel like.

He said they did what George wanted. I asked why George would ruin his own theater, and the slob blubbered they spray painted nothing but the theater. When I asked him what was really going on, he clammed up.

I asked who was paying them, but he just kept right on being stupid. Threw him down on his belly, zip tied his hands, then zip tied Broken Nose. The third punk ran. I was too tired to chase him, and I still had some questions for the Skinny Punk.

He kept frowning at me, throwing a temper tantrum with his eyes. That and his throaty voice made him look like one of those high schoolers had to repeat the 10^th grade a couple times.

I dangled the key in front of him like a carrot on a stick. Asked him if he knew what was in the locker. He stretched his neck to try to grab the key. He knew.

Asked him if he was there that night, and he said we didn't have any evidence he painted the logo. I reminded him I never said what I was talking about. He hawked a wet one in my face, said I was playing tricks. I wiped it off.

George (Five)

Busted Nose, he swung real wide, barely missed me, almost hit the lockers. I felt the Bubble come up as I slipped underneath his swing, gave him a 1-2 to his gut. I felt it more than he did. He tried bringing both his elbows down on my head, but I stepped back, jabbed his chin, followed with a left hook to his temple, a right to his jaw that knocked his slick hair forward.

He staggered, so I turned around. Punks were coming at me side by side. Real scrawny, but the corridor was too narrow. They both couldn't swing their bats.

Busted Nose, he wrapped me up with arms like a bear, hugged me off the ground like he was gonna love me to death. Slobs came in with their bats high. I kicked my feet off the ground, then kicked them both in their chests while Busted Nose still had me. They dropped their bats, and them bats hitting the ground sounded like a car engine cooling off.

Meanwhile, punk behind me kept squeezing, and I started seeing pinpoints of light. Threw my bald head back, felt his jaw smash closed, felt a tooth carve into me. He just pulled tighter. Tried again, and this time his nose smushed and crackled. He bent his back now so my feet left the ground. I laid into him a third time. This time, I really felt it, and my brain felt like it was caught in a dishwasher.

He dropped me on my can, just when the slobs in front of me scrambled to their feet. Now they came one behind the other, and I felt kinda like Bruce Lee. Why them slobs he fought never all went at him at the same time, I don't know. It's Bruce Lee, you gotta outnumber him to beat him. All I knew was that it was gonna be fun.

First one tried to use his bat like a pool cue, poking at me. I swatted it aside, 2 jabs to the face followed by a gut punch. He sounded like he was gonna dry heave, so I popped him in the chest. He fell back, collapsed into the other punk. They were wailing like babies.

Then Broken Nose wanted to dance. Blood draining from his nose like an open faucet, his shirt looked like he'd been doing back alley surgery. He was huffing through his mouth, which sounded a whole bunch better than his nose wheezing.

I reached back, wiped his blood off my head, flung it at him. Told him he might want some back, since he was losing so much.

He rushed, like every other slob would. I got in an orthodox stance, cocked my fist, stepped forward and crashed an overhand right into his face.

Not sure when he passed out, but you don't stop that much meat on a dime. Runaway mack truck, he bombed into me. We fell backwards onto the punks, and then they really learned what it was like to go full-on dame and started crying.

George (Four)

Stumbled back to the Vanguard, huffing and puffing and sweating like a slob. The Diablo's logo was full on the wall and still wet. Some point, when I went after the one slob, second set of punks snuck back, finished the job. Stupid, stupid old man, let them get away with it.

Picked up the can by the bottom. I figured it mighta had some kinda prints I could pull, maybe run it past the cops, see if a match came back in 4 to 6 weeks. Maybe I could pay em off to speed it up, if I had the kind of flush they wanted to see. A five spot probably wasn't gonna do it.

I waited up till the sun decided to join me. Took a couple sponges to the logo while it was still kinda fresh, came off real nice. Runoff looked like dog puke.

Went back to the office. I gave Dara her present, them jeans [We discovered I could fit both my legs into one of those pants legs. -Dara]. I set the spray can and the key ring on her desk, real careful like. Gave her the rundown. She looked at me like I was drunk [A fair assumption with Trace. - Dara].

Laid in bed for an hour, but the coffee and being sober did the trick. Got up, walked over to her, her desk covered in powder. She told me the keys didn't have any clean prints on em. By this point, she'd had the spray can coated in black powder, pulled off a few partials with some masking tape. I slipped the locker key off the ring, told Dara I was going out. I left her my prints, in case I was too much of a slob picking it all up.

City's got 4 main Amtrak stops that'll take you out of the city. All near metro stops. Figured I'd play the odds, hit the one closest to the Vanguard, work my way outwards. Only took me three hours to find my way to Larson Central Station, 15 blocks away.

Closest to the city edge, there was a stupid amount of lockers, like a middle school in there. You could walk up and down all the rows and get lost. But sure enough, found 3917 on the ground, far corner. Slid the key and it popped open. Fresh duffel bag, there was a plastic bit in the strap where someone ripped off the price tag. Unzipped it, looked inside, and a buncha President Jacksons stared back. Just a whole bunch of flush.

Closed the locker door real slow, before I had a chance to get stupid greedy and try to steal all that flush. Put the key back in my pocket.

Someone yelled out from the side, and I heard the solid ping of metal on metal. It was 2 Diablos, still in orange, now with aluminum baseball bats. They wanted batting practice and right now I musta looked like spring training.

Turned the other way, and a real big Diablo blocked that end. Hair slicked back, veins on his hands, and he breathed real loud through a bent nose never got set properly. He really wanted to show me what it felt like, having a busted nose.

George (Three)

Slob's pants legs were way too big. His arms flailed all wild. He sprinted real good to start, but he didn't have any cardio, and was already slowing down. Just as well, I was getting tired quicker than I thought I would. All that caffeine made me overconfident, and the lack of bourbon took my edge off. Punk rounded a corner into an alley, and I just missed nabbing that hood.

Chain link fence blocked the alley. I watched that slob jump to grab the top of the fence, but he couldn't pull himself up. All sad, dangling there, legs kicking like it was gonna help him. I ran over, grabbed his pants cuff and yanked. His jeans slid straight off, and somehow he kicked me in the face, used that to push himself up and over the fence.

I threw his pants to the side, then heaved myself over that fence. Other side of the alley, he leapt into a blue Celica, passenger side window rolled down. All the Diablo slobs inside laughed, gave me the finger when they drove away. We could try to track the car, without a plate, but chances were by the time we found it, it'd be in pieces in a chop shop, and parts of it would be all over the city.

I went back to the punk's jeans. Size 50 waist, cuffs rolled up, lots of designs and orange spray paint stains. Probably cost more than my month's rent, which I was thinking von Braun was gonna give me guff about next month. I paid last month's, you'd think it'd be good enough, but no, he's gotta keep getting his fix every month. Rent junkie.

Reached into the pocket, sank my arm down to the elbow. Found 5 bucks and a key ring.

Just a few keys on the punks' key rings, but I could play with it. Small red pocketknife, blade was sharpened down to look like a shank. Small metal rose on a chain, small enough to fit on my thumb. Most of the paint had chipped off the rose, it'd been on that chain a long time, even longer than the pocketknife. Couple of house keys. I had to try running them, see if he could help me find the lock.

Then, a locker key, kind you find at bus stops. It said 3917. Handle looked real beat up, and there were a few scratch marks where the key met the ring, like he'd been carrying it a while. How many locker 3917s could there be?

I pocketed the 5. He owed me that much. He made me run.

George (Two)

Sat on the Vanguard's roof, my coat off. Even this early in the morning, it was nice and summery. Moon was a big waxy coin hanging above my head. Since the metro closed a while ago, even the drunks were home, or at least passed out in the gutter. You could hear a few cats once and a while, maybe a car backfiring, but mostly it was real quiet. Kinda like one of em black and white movies when they still cared about story, not special effects.

Thing is, I couldn't just go chasing down a bunch of Diablo slobs, then take em into the precinct. Coulda just been a big joke by another gang, frame the Diablos cause someone went and smacked around someone else's kid brother as a joke. Kids got real smart these days, pulling dame tricks like that.

Every so often, I'd walk around the roof, look over the side. People never look up when they're walking, never look down at your shoes. Never really look left or right either, unless you're a pretty dame. People just walk around without looking, or seeing, or anything.

Didn't notice anything until maybe 3 AM. Heard it first, like a bunch of snakes hissing mad at the snake trainer, and someone playing craps and rolling them over some cardboard. I looked over, and it was a few punks wearing orange sweatshirts, orange sweatpants, spray painted orange shoes. They were giggling, playing around, getting sloppy, slobs in training. If they weren't Diablos, they were doing a great job pretending.

I drew Joan, ran downstairs. Didn't feel quite right, running without my trench coat flapping, but at least I moved faster. You could still hear me, though. Hard for an old slob like me with shot knees and no suttle teas to move quiet [Subtlety. I'm unsurprised he can't spell it, though I am amazed that he would even think to use the word in any fashion. -Dara].

They were still spraying when I came around the corner, pointed my gun in between all of them, told them to stop. One of the punks winged his can at my head. I threw up Joan to block it, and the can bounced off and away. Punks scattered like roaches in the sunlight.

I'd already sank six cups of coffee, and only 2 shots of bourbon a while back. Felt like I was on fire, that it'd be the easiest thing to just chase em. Jackhammer in my chest wanted to crack it's way out of my chest when I started really running.

Went after the punk tried to clock me, his hood flapping behind him like a rabbit's ears. I knew I wanted to grab it, real bad. He was gonna learn what it was like to be the rabbit at the greyhound races.

George (One)

Dara was playing music from her computer, some of the new stuff. I think she said it was the Rolling Stones. I asked what records she had on the jukebox in there. Didn't look that big, so I guessed maybe she had 4 or 5 in the box. Dara laughed and gave me one of her crazy dame stories I stopped paying attention to soon as she got that look in her eye, something about MP5s and mega bites. Then, she clicked a few buttons, started playing Car Men Purina [Trace means Carmina Burina. At least he's reached a point in his life where he knows enough to get the name wrong. -Dara]. It was a dame move, sure, but I had to smile.

It was a case we just finished. George limped in the office, leaning to the right on his old cane. Taller than me, kinda quiet, but he caught Dara's pen before it hit the ground. He had one of them lined, leathery faces, and his lips twitched just enough made it seem like he wanted to go outside and grab a cig. Real thin eyebrows, almost like 2 pencil lines.

He ran the Vanguard Theater. I'd been there a few times, one of them old-timey theaters rebuilt to show movies. Kinda busy the last few years, with all the crime and genderfication [Gentrification. Then again, Trace has probably assigned the city a gender, female, and has probably already created a private naming system for the entire grid. -Dara].

There's been a lot of graffiti down his way. He wanted me to catch whatever punks were painting up the Vanguard. I asked him what made him think there was a single group, and he pulled out some pics. Lots of graffiti, red and orange flames, and the word “Diablos.”

I asked George why he didn't go to the cops. They told him to get a bucket to cry into, and when he was done, he could use that to wash off his building. They had bigger fish to fry.

Dara asked if it was everywhere, and he said it was mostly just his building. Lot of the places around him were going upscale, they could afford private security. Not him, he was barely staying above water.

I asked if anything changed recently. The big difference, everyone was selling out. Property down there was real expensive, and people were cashing in. Vanguard was kinda like an ugly wife, real nice inside, but not much to look at outside. Didn't really fit in anymore, especially among all them new and shiny buildings. Thing was, George couldn't sell. That theater was his baby.

I asked why he didn't just wait up for the Diablos, call the cops himself. He told the cops wouldn't show up till morning, plenty of time for the punks to spray and run, and he wasn't gonna try to stop them himself.

Told him I could start tonight. After he passed me the retainer, I had Dara brew another pot. Dumped out my cup, had to switch to the nonbourbonated stuff. It was gonna be a long night.

Clara (Twenty of Twenty)

All the ways to meet your secretary's new boyfriend, and I had to do it after he pulled 2 slugs outta me. I tried shaking Billy's hand, but couldn't lift mine. He told me I actually took 3 bullets, but he could only find 2 entry wounds. I told him the 3^rd was from someone else. His eyes got big, he started asking me stupid questions. I could tell he wanted to hear more, but I mumbled Dara was safe, and she'd been safe the whole time. Passed out again.

Woke up to Clara holding my hand. Told her she looked good. She nearly cried when she tried to say I looked OK. I told her I looked this bad before all this started, and she started crying. Then she went full-on dame, slumping into me. When her head hit my bandages, I passed out.

Woke up to Mr. and Mrs. Wellington thanking me, telling me they had the medical bills covered, and they were throwing in a bonus. I was gonna get medical insurance for the rest of my life. I couldn't believe that they were willing to pay for a whole year's worth. It was my lucky day. So lucky, I passed out.

Woke up to Sgt. Miller, cap in hand. He asked why we kept meeting in hospitals. I told him he could hire me anytime. It set him off, and he went full-on dame on me. Called me a maverick, irresponsible, brash, all them high-falutin words you couldn't pay me to repeat. I closed my eyes, pretended to pass out. He kept talking, saying he wished I'd be more careful, that this wasn't gonna bring her back, then he left [When I read this while transcribing Trace's blog entry, I left the office and contacted Sgt. Miller. We talked for a bit, and then I inquired about who “she” was. He would only confirm that Trace missed her, and that it wasn't his place to tell me about her. Sgt. Miller said that when Trace was ready, he would talk to me about her. But it was what he didn't say that also proved interesting. Whoever this woman, this Joan, was, it was someone from Trace's far-flung past. Maybe even before boxing and bourbon had addled his mind, when he might have resembled an actual human being. -Dara]

Woke up to Dara. She told me that the small mousey guy was Darvin Timmons, metro engineer. They were gonna use the subway for the drop, and he was gonna get lost in the maintenance tunnels with it. Dara told them where Lissa was, but the cops only found my handcuffs, a safety pin sticking out of the open cuff.

What they told the cops, after Ryan left, Deke overpowered her. She only opened the door cause she thought it was Ryan coming back. They musta been watching her a while, maybe since he got out of prison. They said Lissa masterminded it, brought them together. Figures. We get the small fries, and the big fish gets away. Still, Clara was safe, and that counted for something.

Then Dara told me I owed her a new computer. I told her I'd buy her one if she taught me how to use it to knock people out.

I asked if she had any bourbon. She went full-on dame on me, telling me that we were in a hospital. No way I could even pretend to pass out with her screaming like that.

Clara (Nineteen of Twenty)

We parked a couple blocks away, where we couldn't see the warehouse, but more important, where the warehouse couldn't see us. There wasn't much time, didn't know if Lissa was supposed to check in. Dara had Lissa's phone, and could try to sound real bored like the dame, but we didn't want to risk that. No telling how desperate they were, this close to the drop in half an hour. I left my phone, told Dara to stay put. If I didn't come back in 20 minutes, she should call the cops and drive away.

She grabbed my arm, asked why we didn't just wait for Deke to come out, nab him, get Clara then. I told her we didn't know if he had a car nearby, and if we screwed it up, he'd run back in and use her as a hostage. She went full-on dame on me, but I told her that it was my business, my case, my plan. When she started Dara Leggett Investigations, then she could do it her way. Dara glared at me, but pulled the key out of the ignition. Engine got quiet, just like she did.

I crossed the 2 blocks real careful, keeping out of sight until I could get into the shadows near it. Real dump, broken planks and metal all over. Hard to stay quiet. Couple of beams of light came through holes in the roof, but it made the darkness even darker.

Towards the back, light was coming from a room. I stuck to the walls, trying to see inside, trying not to be seen. I prayed to God almighty my knees wouldn't pop and give me away.

Got closer. I heard a voice. Real deep, more grunts than words. Sounded like the slob was smacking on a sandwich with his mouth open. Tried to guess about where he was in the room, but it sounded like his sound was coming from everywhere in there.

The way the shadows fell, I saw his giant head and jaw working. He was sitting. He was the only shadow. I could see him jawing potato chips into his mouth with his other hand, looked like someone stuffing a turkey. Now or never.

Grabbed Joan by the barrel. I rushed in. He had a second of confusion flash on his giant face before I clocked him in the temple. I followed up by smacking that long scar once, twice. He toppled like a sack of potatoes from his chair.

Jumped on him, got 3 zip ties around his wrists behind his back, then 4 around his ankles. Clara was tied up in the corner, wearing her running shoes, wearing only her running shoes. There was a bedsheet in the corner, real dirtied. The duct tape over her mouth kept moving. She kept honking through her nose, trying to say something. I tore off the tape, removed the sock.

Fireworks went off in my back. I dropped Joan, then dropped to my knees. Clara was just yelling now, no words, just screams.

Felt like I'd been stabbed. She was screaming loud enough to rip my ears away from my head. I turned my head back kinda slow, got another bullet in the ribs for my trouble.

Without the gun, he woulda been a mousey looking guy. Asked me if the Wellingtons sent me, then said it didn't matter. He kicked Joan away, then pistol whipped me in the mouth, cracked a tooth. Told me he was gonna shoot her first so I could watch, then let me bleed out.

I couldn't really move. My body felt like it was tied down with barbed wire, and any move I made would tear me apart. My mouth hurt, and I couldn't speak. Tried mumbling. He took a step forward, leered at Clara, asked me to repeat myself.

That was when Dara clocked him in the back of her head with her purse. He fell on top of me. She took out her computer, smacked him again like it was a golf club. I smiled at her before passing out.

Clara (Eighteen of Twenty)

I had her left arm in cuffs, linked to the AC unit. Gathered up the folders she dropped on the roof when she landed. Deke's stuff and some poems. Asked her why, out of all the stuff she coulda taken, she took them poems. She turned her head, pouting like Tinkerbell. It'd been a long time since I read poetry. Read it outloud, tried to make heads or tails of it, but I was always too much of a slob to get poetry. Better people tried to get me to understand it, couldn't do it.

Lissa was leaning against the AC unit, shaking her head, not saying a word. She kept trying her arm against where I cuffed it to the AC unit. I told her it was time to cut her losses, and she might get a lighter sentence if she told us where Clara was. Nothing.

Dara came up to the roof, yelled over the edge asking if I was OK. I told her I was fine, and she needed to search Lissa's apartment right now. I also yelled the poetry at her, but she didn't get any code out of it.

Went back to Lissa, crouched beside her, told her she had everything to lose and nothing to gain. She still said nothing. I pressed Joan's barrel to her temple, made my voice husky, asked her again where Clara was. She went crosseyed a second, told me to shoot her. We sat there a few seconds before I backed down.

She laughed real bitter, so did I. Lissa asked me what time it was. Figured it was around 12:20. Looked at my watch, showed her it was broke. Said it didn't matter. Besides, I didn't have evidence.

I told her maybe I did, maybe I didn't, but I knew she was forging those reports. She'd get fired at least. Lissa said it was fine, she was tired of dealing with slobs day in and day out. Dame was getting me good and mad. I punched the AC unit and she yelped. Left a dent an inch deep in the side.

I asked her why she did it. She told me she didn't know what I was talking about, she might or might nota done anything, but if she did, it woulda been for money. Lissa said I probably knew what it was like not to have money.

Told her there were times I got tempted, but I didn't get stupid cause I mighta felt greedy. What were you gonna do when the money was gone? Couldn't give in.

She turned her head, said I didn't understand. I didn't tell her I did.

Dara came running back a few minutes later. Said she'd checked Lissa's computer, she had a map to a warehouse, only the map didn't make sense.

Dara yelled at her, said she shoulda cleared her internets cash [Internet browser cache. I'd gone to her browser, checked for the most recent map site, cycled through her various saved maps, and this fit the bill. -Dara].Told Dara to meet me on the ground.

Lissa wailed at me, said the cuff was too tight, and she wasn't gonna go anywhere with her busted ankle. I told her she shoulda thought of that before she jumped. Dames.