OPERATION FINESSE & FORTITUDE

by Norsebard

Contact: norsebarddk@gmail.com

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DISCLAIMERS:

This slice-of-life dramedy with several humorous and a few thrillerish elements is to be categorized as an Uber. All characters are created by me, though some of them may remind you of someone.

The story contains some profanity. Readers who are easily offended by bad language may wish to read something other than this story.

All characters depicted, names used, and incidents portrayed in this story are fictitious. No identification with actual persons is intended nor should be inferred. Any resemblance of the characters portrayed to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

The registered trademarks mentioned in this story are © of their respective owners. No infringement of their rights is intended, and no profit is gained.

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NOTES FROM THE AUTHOR:

Written: August 10th - 31st, 2023

This is the eighteenth story about Wynne Donohue and Mandy Jalinski - all stories are available at the website of the Royal Academy of Bards.

- Thank you very much for your help, Phineas Redux! :D

As usual, I'd like to say a great, big THANK YOU to my mates at AUSXIP Talking Xena, especially to the gals and guys in Subtext Central. I really appreciate your support - Thanks, everybody! :D

Description: The desert town of Goldsboro, Nevada once again finds itself under siege by an invading force: a large-scale FBI field exercise that proves a great deal more difficult to handle for Wynne Donohue and Sheriff Mandy Jalinski than even the zombie cannibals, space aliens and vampiric ghouls that have all tried to conquer the long-suffering residents in the past. Federal Agent Hamilton Lydecker and the chaos he brings with him tests everyone's patience, but stressful situations can sometimes provoke brilliant responses…

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CHAPTER 1

Saturday, January 29th, 3:27 AM

One of the residents of the small trailer park eight miles south of Goldsboro, Nevada lay wide awake and simply stared at the ceiling. It wasn't Brenda Travers, her husband Vaughn, the passionate hunter Diego Benitez, Diego's Rottweiler Freddie, better known as The Hellbeast Of Rattler Gulch, or even the carpenter who had moved into Ernie Bradberry's old trailer on a temporary basis while he worked on renovating the floors for the next owners. Furthermore, it was neither little Renee Tooley nor her overworked, underpaid mother Estelle whose alarm clock would not send out its shrill warning for another 33 minutes.

That all left the sad, forlorn figure of Wynne Donohue, also known as The Last Original Cowpoke, as the person with the problem. At present, her nickname might as well have been The Last Original Raccoon because the dark circles around her bright-blue eyes proved it wasn't the first fitful night she had suffered through recently - it was in fact the third in a row. Her 52nd birthday loomed in the middle distance, but after the three miserable nights, she had a hunch she might need to put 92 candles on her birthday cake as a representation of the deep fatigue she felt inside.

All alone in her queen-sized bed, she shuffled onto her left side. No sleep there. Onto her right side. No sleep there. Onto her back. No sleep there. Onto her stomach. No sleep there.

When even the universal remedy of burying her face in the pillow on Mandy's side of the bed gave her nothing in return, all hope was lost. Growling, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and rubbed her face repeatedly. An ache that shot up from her lower back made her pull open the drawer of her bedside table and find a jar of Pain-B-Gone.

"Shoot… gosh darn'it almighty… three-twentah-nine in da dang-blasted morn'!" she mumbled as she dug up a glob of ointment, lifted her sleeping T-shirt and applied the solution to her lower back - it only needed a couple of rubs to soak into the skin and work its magic. Once she had wiped her fingers on a paper tissue, she put the jar back into the drawer and shut it with her knee.

A long sigh escaped her as she sat there in darkness. "Mah sweet, li'l Mandy ain't gonn' be back fer anothah… lemme see… shoot… mah melon don't be workin' too fine this he' early… awwww-crap, she ain't gonn' be back fer anothah forty hou'ahs!"

A muted Woof? and a gentle clawing on the sliding door between the sleeping area and the narrow corridor at the kitchenette made Wynne get up from the bed and stick her bare twinkletoes into a pair of wool-lined slippers. A warm, long-sleeved housecoat was soon put over the over-sized T-shirt she used at bedtime.

Shuffling over to the sliding door, she cracked it ajar and looked down at the black German Shepherd who had made the noises. "Howdy, Blackie," Wynne said in a quiet tone so she wouldn't disturb her other dog, the Golden Retriever Goldie, who was still fast asleep in the doggy-basket she shared with her best canine-pal Blackie. "I sure could use some comp'ny. Y'all wanna chew da fat fer a while?"

Woof!

"Gladda hear it… okeh," Wynne said and tip-toed out of the sleeping area. A thought came to her when she went past one of the kitchen cabinets, and she stopped to get a pack of fresh beef jerky for herself and her dog. 3:33 in the morning was a little too early for a beer, even for Wynne Donohue, so she grabbed a can of lemon-flavored iced tea from the refrigerator instead.

Navigating around a sleeping dog and a very active one wasn't easy wearing slippers, but she managed to get back to the kitchen sink without tripping over anything. There, she had a quick peek through the shades to see what the desert looked like at that time of night - 'pitch-black' was the short but definitive answer. There didn't seem to be any monsters, ghouls or even UFOs lurking in the vicinity, but with Goldsboro and the surrounding areas being the Calamity Capital of the World, the critters might just be warming up for a dawn raid. Shrugging, Wynne stepped back from the window and went about her business.

Once in the living area of her trailer, she switched on a reading lamp and let herself bump down into the old couch that had been there for half an eternity already - the threadbare armrests bore the unmistakable evidence of thousands of elbows resting on them.

The low coffee table in front of the couch was getting old and scratched as well. Beer-rings had popped up in several places like indoor crop circles, but since she was the person responsible for every single one of them, she really had no one to blame but herself and the fellow who invented condensation and had the erroneous notion that it was the best thing ever.

Her electric LazyBoy armchair was newer and still in a solid condition, but the same couldn't be said about the two sideboards and the special rack that held her DVD-player, the TV and her old, well-used VCR. Underneath it all, the carpet the furniture stood on had seen better days as well.

The fierce Blackie climbed up onto the couch and made herself comfortable. She kept the unopened pack of jerky under close observation for a few seconds before she used a paw to nudge her owner into action.

"Haw, yuh… I plum fergot," Wynne said and tore open the pack. Blackie was soon busy licking and gnawing on one of the delicious sticks; Wynne took it easier but still enjoyed the salty, beefy taste. The can was soon opened without the familiar Psssshhhht! as the iced tea wasn't carbonated - a long swig followed regardless of how it was made.

"Who'da thunk I woudda gotten in this he' state jus' because mah sweet, li'l Mandy be off ta that there poh-leese conference-thing ovah yondah in San Cristobal?  Shoot, I be a foo' in love. Ya know what, Blackie?"

Woof?

"When she done asked me if I wanted ta come with her, I shoudda said Hell-yeah, darlin'!  But I didden. An' y'all know whah I didden?"

Woof…?

"I didden 'cos I done reckoned them poh-leese folks woudden do nuttin' but tawk, tawk, tawk fer all o' them fo'ah days that there conference-thing gonn' last, yuh?  Thursdy, Frahdy, Satahrdy an' Sundy. Well, girl, mah melon sure ain't built fer all that yakkin' so I knew it would exploah-de if I hadda lissen ta all them speeches. Yuh?"

Woof!

"Yuh… an' then Mandy done sent me them there photos where all them poh-leese folks be at a mar-shul arts exhibi-shun an' the shootin' range an' doin' practical trackin' trainin' in them woods bah themselves an' with hounddawgs an' ev'rythin'!  Looked like they done hadda a blast, too. I woulda loved that. Shoot, they wus even at a restaurant las'nite, all expenses paid!  An' whadda I have fer suppah?  Yuh, that's right… I done chowed down a nuked bowl'a oatmeal that wus all lumpy an' hadda aftahtaste like dang-blasted wallpapah glue or som'tin. Dang!"

Wooooof….

"Lawwwwwwwrdie, this only be Satahrdy mornin' an' Mandy ain't gonna come back until Sundy late!"

Blackie had no woofing comeback to that, so she settled for chewing on her stick of jerky.

---

Ten minutes of noisy chewing and subdued slurping later, Wynne was no closer to feeling sleepy. Even Goldie's snores out in the corridor didn't give her anything. "Naw," she said as she reached for the TV-remote. "Gotta be doin' som'tin or I'mma-gonn' go soft in mah noggin. Lessee what's on this he' teevee he'…"

Click - Infomercial - Click - Infomercial - Click - Infomercial - Click - "Buy a copy of Jesus Our Savior's personal prayer book. The signature edition!  Call today!  Yours for only $139.95" - Click - Infomercial - Click - Infomercial - Click - Infomercial - Click - "And the Lord sayeth, blessed be the one who-" - Click - Infomercial - Click - Infomercial - Click - Infomercial - Click - "Sing with me, my friends!  Now we gather at the riv-" - Click - Infomercial - Click - Infomercial - Click - Infomercial - Click - "Visit the Virgin Tower and listen to Reverend-"

"Ohhhhh-fer cryin' out loud!" Wynne said and pressed the Mute button as fast as she could. "I swear, them Virgin Towah folks are all ovah the dang-blasted place… shoot, ain't no escapin' 'em. Whah, jus' the othah day, one o' them there mis-shun-naries done tried ta yak me up fer five dang minutes- haw, y'all wus there, Blackie… I plum fergot."

Woof.

"Yuh. Okeh, no teevee. Tell ya what we gonn' do. We gonn' watch an ol' Nascah-r race, yessirree," Wynne said and got up from the couch. Once she stood up, she rubbed her posterior and looked back down at the seat. "Haw, I reckon one o' them there springs done worked itself loose or som'tin… that darn thing done poah-ked mah buhhhhh-tt the whole dang-blasted time…"

Woof?

"Yuh. Anyhows. Lookin' through mah stash the othah day, I done found an ol' Tallah'degga race from ninety-fo'ah… yuh, not the awesome Winston Cup spring race but one o' them there Busch Grand Na-shunnal events, yuh?  The second division o' them stock cahhhhh-rs. I done watched the first five minnits an' it wus okeh. Jus' the thing fer fo'ah in the dog-gone mornin'."

Blackie scratched her neck with a paw - she knew from personal experience that whenever her owner began talking about that, it was better just to go with the flow and let things unfold. Performing a doggy-shrug, she returned to her stick of jerky.

Over by the rack that held the TV, the DVD player and the VCR, Wynne leaned down to press the little click-lock that would open the extravagant glass door. The video tape featuring the 1994 running of the BGN Fram Filters 500 kilometer race at Talladega, Alabama was soon pushed into the old machine. Taking the second remote, Wynne shuffled back to the couch where Blackie, her can of lemon-flavored iced tea, the stick of jerky and the poking spring awaited her return.

Thirty seconds into the playback, the sound that all owners of VCRs dreaded more than anything was suddenly heard loud and clear: videotape crumbling and wrapping itself around the various doodads, thing-a-ma-ding-dongs and whatsits underneath the metal shield.

Even lighting the proverbial afterburners couldn't propel Wynne over there fast enough. Though it only took her two point one seconds to accelerate from a flat zero to five-hundred miles per hour - well, perhaps the speed wasn't quite that high - she was too slow to save the tape from utter destruction.

Worse, the VCR made yet another mess of it when it followed its standard emergency procedure and tried to eject the stuck tape. A Sproing-g-g-g-g! was heard when the videotape itself snapped in two and the cassette was finally able to get spewed out of the machine.

"Ya didden bust mah tape!" Wynne roared and smacked a clenched fist onto the metal shield. The ruined tape that reached halfway out of the slot on the front of the VCR almost looked like a tongue that had fallen out of a dead critter's mouth. "Awwwwwwwww- ya sure did, ya rotten, low-down son-of-a-skunk!  Whah, I oughttah take y'all out back an' shootcha!"

All Wynne's shouting had alerted the dogs, and both acted according to their natural instincts: where Blackie had jumped into an offensive position that saw her ears down flat and her lips drawn back to flash her fierce canines to the world, the scaredy-dog Goldie had jumped out of her doggy-basket and run into the sleeping area where she had thrown herself under the queen-sized bed.

Wynne's volcanic eruption didn't last long. A couple of seconds after going through the roof, she let out a sigh and moved down to sit cross-legged on the floor in front of the evil VCR. The ruined tape was turned over a couple of times to see if it was worth her bother to attempt a fix.

She had often performed surgery on tapes that needed some TLC back in the day when VCRs had been commonplace, but the screws holding the cassette together seemed to have gotten a lot smaller since then - even holding the videocassette up to her nose didn't help much.

Another sigh escaped her. "Naw, it ain't no use. This he' race be gone. Lawrdie, I didden even getta watch mo' than five minnits offit or nuttin'… dang."

A muted Woof? was heard from Blackie who had jumped off the couch to come to her owner's rescue.

"Yuh, much obliged, girl," Wynne said and pulled her beloved dog in for a sideways hug-and-rub. "Mah dear friend Ernie done gave me this he' tape when he moved down ta Cavva-naw Creek… an' now I done wrecked it. Snakes Alive."

Woof…

"Yuh, mebbe I oughttah trah that there sleepin' thing ag'in. Yuh." Nodding to herself, Wynne clambered to her feet. She glanced at the tape again before she threw it onto the couch for later. The can of iced tea was soon drained before she shuffled back into the sleeping area where Goldie waited for her trembling like a leaf.

Plenty of fur-rubbing and whispered sweet nothings took care of that problem before Wynne took off the housecoat, kicked off her slippers and made herself comfortable under the covers.

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Five hours later, Wynne still hadn't fully recovered from the fraught night. She had needed to do something with her hands to take her mind off the ruined tape and the fact that Mandy wouldn't come back from San Cristobal for another day and a half, so she had donned a filthy coverall, a neutral baseball cap, bubble-goggles, safety boots and her sturdy work gloves to literally get down and dirty underneath her old 1979 Chevrolet K10 truck that she had bought as a restoration project.

The rear-end assembly had been de-greased and looked as good as new. The leaf springs and the brackets they were attached to had been too rusty to save, so two new sets had been ordered through her friend Bengt 'Fat-Butt' Swenson, the chief mechanic of the Bang 'n Beatin' Body Shop up north in Goldsboro.

Blackie and Goldie had relocated to the lawn between the trailers while their owner worked on the old truck. They rested on a blanket not too far from where all the action took place, but at a safe distance from sparks, flying tools and howled cuss words. The morning was on the chilly side although the sun was out, so the dogs snuggled up tight.

Wynne would normally have her telephone tuned to the Down-Home Ol' Country Shack radio station that broadcast out of Lansingburg further south, but Saturday mornings were wall-to-wall religious and/or so-called 'inspirational' shows that did nothing but bore her to tears. There were plenty of other radio stations out there she could have listened to instead, but Soul, Rhythm & Blues or Rock'n'Roll didn't work for her at that time of the day, and Gospel did nothing for her, full stop - therefore, the only sounds heard were tools, or her knuckles, striking various metal surfaces.

The next item on her lengthy work sheet was to change the leaky oil pan - and since she didn't have an engine crane to lift the 350cui lump out of the bay, she needed to do it from the downside-up. Thus, she wheeled the rolling board in under the front of the Chevrolet and made herself as comfortable as she could possibly get with a plastic bucket placed on her chest.

The rusty oil pan was held in place by four torque screws, one in each corner. Her electric screwdriver took care of the first, the second and the third with no problems. A small amount of oil seeped from the gap that had developed, but her careful plan worked and the oil was caught by the bucket.

Everything went well and she enjoyed herself. That alone should have been a big, old red flag fluttering in the breeze.

When the fourth screw had been released, Wynne put her gloved fingers onto the pan to pull it down gently. Unfortunately, it was too slick for her to get a decent grip. The brownish-black surge that spewed out from all around the gap covered her gloves, arms, upper chest, lower face and just about everywhere else above a certain point of her body - one or two drops even went into the collector bucket.

A mumbled "Yuh… okeh. Whah'da-hell not," escaped Wynne who looked as if she had been dipped in molasses or melted chocolate.

Her bubble-goggles had been completely coated which left her cut off from the rest of the world on a visual basis. Reaching up - or down, as the Z-axis had shifted following the oil bath - she put the bucket onto the ground next to her before she began to groan, grunt and grind to get the rolling board to actually roll away from the mess.

When she thought she was in the clear, she reached up for a second time to test the proverbial waters so she wouldn't end up having a bow-tie embedded on her forehead like the last time. Nothing was up there which meant she was in the clear. Sitting up, she promptly smacked her brow against the underside of the radiator. The baseball cap caught the worst of it, but the unexpected impact mashed the hat down into the oily mess on her goggles.

Blackie and Goldie looked at each other - both abstained from making any kind of doggy-comment.

Wynne fell down flat on her back and let out a deep, long sigh. Lying there doing nothing but dripping, she made a quick ten-count before she clicked her bootheels three times and wished time would speed up so Mandy came home sooner. Then she grunted and groaned a little more while she coaxed the rolling board into allowing her to escape the underside of the Chevrolet.

---

Thirty minutes, one shower and 400 ferocious scrubs later, Wynne stepped out of the small bathroom in her trailer. Wrapping a bath towel around herself, she made a beeline for her ringing telephone that she had left on the kitchen counter while it charged.

"Wa-hey!  Fih-nally some good news, yessirree!" she cried when she noticed the caller-ID said Mandy. After pressing the Connect bar, she put the phone to her ear. "Howdy there, darlin'!  Y'all got tha one an' only Wynne Donnah-hew on da horn!  Mercy Sakes, it sure is goooood ta he'ah ya voice an' all!"

'I haven't even said anything yet, hon!' Sheriff Mandy Jalinski said at the other end of the connection. 'Did you sleep any better-'

"Naw. Naw, I sure didden. Ack-chew-ly, I reckon I done slept worse than the night befo' last. Yuh. I hadda get up at three-thirty or som'tin sh-toopid or else I woudda gone insane. Me an' ol' Blackie wanted ta watch a Nascahhh-r race but the darn vee-cee-arr done wrecked the tape!"

'Oh… I'm sorry to hear that. Was it one of the important races?'

"Naw, it wussen really, but still…"

'Yeah…'

"An' then mah ol' truck done barfed oil all ovah me. Lawrdie, I looked like som'tin outta a monstah mooh-vie, yes Ma'am. It sure ain't been mah day so far. I reckon I need ta think twice about usin' that there microwave for nukin' mah lunch, haw?  With mah luck, the durn thing prolly gonn' blow up or som'tin. Or expose me ta radia-shun so I transform inta da She-Hulk or somebodda."

'I wouldn't want that…'

"Naw, me neithah. Green sure ain't mah colah. Anyhows. Wotcha been doin', darlin'?  What's on that there ske-dewle fer taday?"

'We're moving into the auditorium today. We'll have a full day of lectures on the current state of affairs regarding illegal immigration, the fight against drugs and the threat of domestic and foreign terrorists. There'll be speakers from the DEA, the ATF, the FBI, the CSA, the State Police, the Highway Patrol, the City Police precincts and the Sheriff's Department.'

"Lawwwwwwr-die, that sure does sound drah an' dull… an' I mean deathly dull!"

'Actually, I'm looking forward to it.'

"Yuh… okeh," Wynne said and scratched her neck. "Anyhows, are ya sure y'all can't sneak out da back an' head hoah-me ta li'l, ol' me ahead o' time, Sheriff Mandy?  'Cos I sure be missin' ou'ah kissin'…"

'I'm afraid I can't, hon. I'm one of the contributors tomorrow afternoon, remember?'

Wynne smacked her forehead. "Aw-shoot… I plum fergot!  Dad-gummit, I been fergettin' a whole lot lately. I ain't worth a dang when I ain't sleepin'."

Movement outside the trailer made Wynne inch closer to the window above the kitchen sink to take a gander. The movement turned out to be their friendly neighbor Brenda Travers who jogged past wearing an insulated vest over a tight Lycra outfit. Blackie and Goldie were outside frolicking in the desert, and they came over to greet the sporty lady.

'Listen, hon… I need to go. The coffee break's almost over.'

"D'awwww-shoot, alreddy?" Wynne said and moved back from the window to lean her rear end against the counter. "Hell, I s'pose there ain't nuttin' we can do 'bout that, no Ma'am. But I sure be countin' them hou'ahs until y'all return tamorrah evenin' an' all."

'Bye, Wynne. Love you.'

"Lyv ya dubbel, darlin'!  Tawk ta ya latah… bah-bah!"

Once the conversation was over, Wynne let out a long sigh before she shuffled off into the sleeping area to get dressed.

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Five minutes later, The Last Original Cowpoke emerged from the bedroom in her full denim glory: Wynne wore her favorite decorated cowboy boots, the sturdy winter blue-jeans that were warm and comfy for the chilly season, a lined denim jacket with a collar made of genuine wool, her pale-brown sheepskin gloves and, of course, her beloved cowboy hat that had more dents than a car in a demolition derby, and more stains than the carpet at the buffet line at the Silver Crown Casino up in Barton City.

As she strolled over to the refrigerator to get herself a can of H.E. Fenwyck's Double-Zero non-alcohol beer, it was revealed that the trademark red bandanna peeked out of her left-rear pants pocket like Cowpoke fashion dictated it should.

Psshhhht! - Glug, glug, glug… "Ahhhhhh," she said after a great deal of the golden contents had been transferred from the can to her innards. Arranging her hat, she strolled over to the inner door and swung that and the screen door aside to venture outside for the second time that day.

Wynne had barely set foot on her crooked porch before Brenda came jogging past all over again - the spirited lady let out a long, good-humored cat call at the Cowpoke. Grinning, Wynne tipped her cowboy hat before she drained the rest of the beer in a single swig.

The third time Brenda appeared, she ended her energetic exercises by jogging over to Wynne who had taken to one of the chairs in the meantime. The fit, late-thirty-something blonde with the bright eyes and even brighter demeanor had tied her curly locks into a tight ponytail that poked through the rear-side hole of her ball cap. She continued to jog in place for a short minute longer before she leaned forward to loosen up and stretch her limbs. "Good morning, Wynne. Did you have a good night this time around?"

"Howdy, Brendah… naw, I didden. Done woke up at three-thirty an' hardly slept a dang wink aftah that. I be missin' mah sweet, li'l Mandy. Ain't nuttin mo' to it than that."

"Awwww, that's so cute," Brenda said with a grin before she leaned over to pat Wynne's denim-clad arm. "I obviously miss Vaughn whenever we're apart on business, but nothing like that. Your connection runs really deep."

"Yuh. That it does, Brendah. Sure ain't no lie. Y'all ain't workin' now?"

"Well, not right now, but Vaughn and I are working on a project. We're stress-testing the firewalls of one of the big banking corporations. They wanted a company they hadn't worked with before to make sure their in-house cyber-security department wouldn't get too complacent."

The distant look in Wynne's eyes proved that Brenda had lost her around the fourth word of her lengthy statement. "Izzat a fact?  Yuh. Okeh. Good fer y'all."

"What are you doing today, Wynne?"

"Aw, ain't nuttin' spe-shul. Jus' contemplatin'. Drinkin' beer and killin' time. Waitin' fer mah sweet li'l Mandy ta come hoah-me tamorrah evenin'. Say, Brendah… y'all woudden happen to know som'tin 'bout them old vee cee arrs, wouldcha?"

"VCRs?  Gosh no, Wynne!" Brenda said and put her hands on her shapely hips. "I haven't even seen one of those for… oh… fifteen years. Do people really still use VCRs?"

"Well, I wus… then it gone and wrecked one o' mah racin' tapes early this he' morn'. Now I reckon it be busted fer good. It ain't comin' on when I press da button."

Brenda hurried over to Wynne and put a supportive hand on the Cowpoke's denim-clad shoulder. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that… was it an important race?"

"It wussen one o' tha real biggies, but still…"

"Did you check Youtube to see if someone has uploaded it?"

Wynne narrowed her eyes. A moment later, she let out a grunt as she dug into her jacket pocket to find her telephone. "Naw, I didden… nevah even crossed mah mind…" she said as she began to fumble around in her smartphone's various menus. "Shoot… I seem ta be havin' one o' them there Old Wynne moments… Lawrdie, I plum ferget how ta find that there-"

"Let me help you," Brenda said and quickly pulled the second porch chair over to be at Wynne's side. Getting the smartphone, her slender fingers zipped from one spot to the next and had soon accessed the proper site. "What was the race called, Wynne?"

"Haw… uh… the nineteen-ninety-four Busch Grand Na-shunnal Tallah'degga Fram Filtahs five-hundred K."

"Yikes, that's a mouthful… K?  K what?"

"Kilometers… it be that there second divi-shun an' all, an' they wus racin' shortah events with dif'rent sponsahs an' dif'rent numbahs an' all, yuh?  Them cah-rs wus perdy much identical ta them Winston Cup stockahs but they wus usin' six-cylindah engines back then instead o' them reg'lar vee-eights."

The puzzled look in Brenda's eyes proved that Wynne had lost her around the fourth word of her lengthy statement. "Uh-huh?" she said before she concentrated on typing the race's name in the search field.

It didn't even take three seconds before she grinned and held up the telephone to present the results. The race existed in no less than four different versions of varying running time indicating that they had been taped from different local stations broadcasting it.

"Lawrdie… haw!" Wynne said as she stared at the display. "Much obliged, Brendah!  I owe y'all a beer or som'tin. Lookie there, some fellah even done uploaded that there raw version. Dang, I really need-a write down how I'mma-gonn' work that there darn thing…"

"Oh, there's nothing to it," Brenda said with a grin. "Tell you what, I'll make you a hi-gloss how-to guide if you promise that you and Mandy come over for dinner on Valentine's Day weekend."

"Whah, that sure be a deal, there, Brendah!" Wynne said and tipped her cowboy hat. Once it was back on her dark locks, she stored the results of the search in the minibrowser's favorites so she wouldn't have to go through all that trouble again.

"Psst?"

Grinning, Wynne put the telephone into her jacket pocket before she turned to her neighbor. "Yuh?"

"What's a raw version?  Is that, like, uncensored or something?"

"Haw!  Naw, it sure ain't, Brendah. It means it wus recorded straight off the satellite feed. All them commer-shuals we see in them broadcasts are added bah the local sta-shuns, yuh?  Them produc-shun trucks at them race tracks upload a raw, or clean if ya will, program so them there affiliates can add their own commer-shual blocks, yuh?  That be whah them commentatahs say 'a word from ou'ah sponsahs an' yer local sta-shuns' when they go ta break. Y'all ain't nevah done heard that?"

Two seconds went by before Brenda leaned her head back and let out a loud laugh. "Can't say that I have, no. Raw and cooked… we use those terms in the data processing world so I should have known what they meant."

"Aw, I sure ain't gonn' hold it ag'inst y'all or nuttin'," Wynne said with a grin as she pushed her cowboy hat back from her brow. "Tell ya what, if y'all wussen plannin' on doin' much taday, anyhows, could I persuade y'all ta head up ta Goldsborah with me an' them dawggies?  Lunch is on me… even if y'all ordah one o' them there bean-sprout salads."

Brenda started nodding even before Wynne had finished speaking. "Deal!" she said and got up on tip-toes to place a brief, chaste kiss on Wynne's cheek. "I need to shower and slip into something more comfortable… fifteen minutes, tops."

"Aw, ya betcha. Jus' enuff time fer me ta grab anothah Dubbel-Zerah… an' mebbe watch a li'l o' that there race y'all jus' done found fer me!" Wynne said and got up from the chair.

-*-*-*-

Goldsboro hadn't changed a bit since Wynne had been there the day before - that wasn't a surprise as only a few insignificant details had changed since Josiah Goldsboro founded the town in 1881. It had been a tiny, unimportant hamlet in the middle of absolutely nowhere back then, and that hadn't changed either.

The big city folks intent on degrading the small rural communities said that nothing ever changed out there but the time, but more than one stuck clock and forgotten flip-over calendar would contest even that argument. In short, Goldsboro was Goldsboro and it would forever remain thus - or at least until yet another cosmic calamity would strike somewhere close to the town or the trailer park down south.

The city limits sign at the southern entrance to town read Pop. 419. A larger sign close to it proclaimed that the town was a place Where Magical Things Happen!  Trigger-happy locals and visitors had added their own punctuation by shooting the signs full of holes.

As always, Wynne snorted in disgust when she, Brenda and the dogs drove past the sign in her matte-black Chevrolet Silverado Trail Boss Midnight Edition. She knew exactly how much the Goldsboro Town Council had paid for the two signs at the northern and southern end of town - the five-figure sum could have gone into keeping the tiny society's proverbial wheels running, but the Council had always insisted that the larger goal of attracting tourists had far more weight than merely supporting the local, privately-owned businesses.

Main Street remained straight as an arrow as it ran past all the familiar landmarks and stores: the southern transformer substation that had suffered no less than two complete meltdowns in the past few years alone, Grant Lafferty's Beer & Liquor Imports, Moira MacKay's Bar & Grill, the office and adjacent jailhouse of the MacLean County Sheriff's Department, veteran veterinarian Doctor Byron Gibbs' clinic and surgery for animals of all sizes, the Chicky Kingz takeout parlor, 'Friendly' Sam McCabe's gun shop, Derrike Iverson's infamous bar that always attracted plenty of unsavory characters, Holly Lorenzen's Homey Hair & Nails Salon, Cathy Pearson's Tack & Saddle leathergoods store and Dorothy Tyler's Yarn Spinners that was still the number one go-to hub for all knitting and sewing enthusiasts in all of MacLean County.

Wyatt Elliott's hardware store was just around the corner on Second Street, but Main Street continued with Mrs. Peabody's boarding house, the Spartan Wings sports equipment store, the Goldsboro Town Museum run by Tabitha Hayward, Abraham Rosenthal's movie theater where Wynne's horror Western had made its world premiere in December, and finally Otto Kulick the Third's Bang 'n Beatin' Body Shop where the hefty Bengt 'Fat-Butt' Swenson took care of all the hard labor while the suave Cletus Browne was the man in charge of buying and selling used vehicles.

The latest storeowner to try his luck in Goldsboro was Keshawn Williams who had recently moved into an empty building up near the body shop. His Second-Hand Treasures thrift-store was coming along well, but it had yet to open to the public as the old building required more work than he had initially planned for.

Blackie and Goldie were in the back of the Silverado's crew cab as always. The proud German Shepherd sat high and mighty on the back seat so she could look out - her canine companion Goldie had rolled herself into a golden furball down in the footwell to fend off all the evil beings that would undoubtedly find them and gnaw on their bones.

Wynne continued to wear her standard Cowpoke blues, but Brenda had changed into a pair of ankle boots, black jeans and a white button-down cotton shirt that she wore underneath a double-layered, powder-blue winter jacket. She had kept the ponytail she had used when she jogged and had even applied a little makeup to enhance her features - not that they needed any kind of artificial enhancing.

The speed was soon reduced to a safe and unspectacular twenty miles per hour as Wynne got ready to reverse into the alley next to Moira's famous bar and grill. Before they could make it there, Brenda let out a grunt and pointed ahead of the black truck.

"Look… what's Beatrice doing?"

Wynne narrowed her eyes as she watched Deputy Sheriff Beatrice Reilly step out onto Main Street with one hand in the air and the other resting on her service firearm. The Deputy's free hand was soon used to point at the curb in front of the sheriff's office.

"Haw… I reckon she be pullin' us ovah… what in the wohhhhhhhhhh-rld?  Haw, she bettah not pull that crusty ol' shit ag'in," Wynne mumbled as she complied with the long arm of the law and drove over to the curb.

In the back, Goldie let out a whimper while Blackie echoed her owner's sentiments with a puzzled Wooooooof?

After rolling down the driver's side window, Wynne turned off the engine so nobody needed to shout to be heard. She put her elbow on the windowsill and glanced out at the Deputy whom she had nicknamed Quick Draw because of her fast gun hand and jumpy disposition.

Wynne cocked an eyebrow as she thought back to the previous summer's age-long legal dispute between herself and the over-ambitious, over-achieving Deputy. The matter with the traffic violation had been resolved amicably, but the conflict had threatened to sour many a close relationship in the small town. The look upon Reilly's face was all-business but not exactly unfriendly as she walked around the black Chevrolet - in short, Wynne didn't know what to expect.

"Good morning, Miss Donohue. Mrs. Travers," Beatrice Reilly said once she made it to the driver's side window. Her bright, intense eyes scrutinized Wynne and Brenda for several long seconds before she opened a pouch on her utility belt and pulled out a small item wrapped in plastic.

The late-twenty-something Junior Deputy of Goldsboro's sheriff's office was, as always, dressed to the nines in a pristine black-and-gray uniform that appeared tailor-made on her fit frame. The knot on her regulatory necktie was perfect, and the lower end of the tie was tucked in between the third and fourth buttons as the uniform code dictated. A lint-free Mountie hat that sat atop her short locks completed the professional look.

"Howdy, De-per-ty," Wynne said and tipped her cowboy hat. "Yuh, it sure be a fine morn', that ain't no lie."

"Do you know why I pulled you over, Miss?"

"Naw. I be dyin' ta find out, tho'."

Beatrice glanced up and down Main Street a couple of times before she leaned into the cab and spoke in a hushed voice: "I'm going to be evaluated all of next month. Presentation, professionalism, the quality of my reporting, my efficiency on patrol and ability to improvise when needed… things like that."

"Aw… sure does sound nasty."

"I'm hoping to advance my rank so it's a necessary evil. With Sheriff Jalinski away on official business, I thought I'd do a dry run to knock off some rust… and you happened to be the first into town this morning."

"Haw, yuh… well… okeh. Me an' Brendah an' mah dawggies he' wus jus' goin' ovah ta Moira's anyhows, so I reckon we can give y'all a helpin' hand," Wynne said, grinning. "Y'all fine with that, Brendah?"

Brenda matched the grin as she offered Beatrice a thumbs-up. "Works for me. No problem!  What do you want us to do, Bea?  Oh, I'm sorry… Deputy Reilly."

Squaring her shoulders to appear more authoritarian, Beatrice took a step back from the black truck. She winked at Wynne before she said: "Step out the vehicle, Miss Donohue. Miss Travers, please remain seated," in a harsh, no-nonsense voice.

Blackie and Goldie hadn't fully understood the interaction between their owner and the uniformed Human, but Blackie certainly understood the harshness of the voice. She let out a strong bark that meant 'You better not be trying anything stupid or you'll have trouble sitting down for two weeks!' - Goldie just whimpered and curled herself into an even tighter doggy-ball.

Chuckling, Wynne turned around in the seat to pat Blackie's fur. "Dontcha worry none, girl. This he' only be a game, yuh?  Like when we play Catch Da Crittah out in tha desert. 'Membah?"

Woof-woof-woof… woof?

"Naw-naw, trus' me. It sure is!"

Another puzzled Woof? escaped Blackie before she seemed to perform a shrug and settled for looking at the odd scene through the window. Down in the footwell, Goldie didn't care about the explanation - the stream of whimpers proved she would much rather be at home where she could have a snack or two, or play beauty parlor with little Renee Tooley, her owners' neighbor.

Wynne climbed down and shut the door behind her. While she and Blackie had spoken, Beatrice had unwrapped the breathalyzer she had taken from the pouch on her belt. "Haw, De-per-ty, y'all don't hafta say nuttin'. I know tha drill 'cos I done this plenty alreddy," Wynne said and took the offered electronic tool. After taking the world's deepest breath, she blew into the reed for so long that she grew cross-eyed. As expected, the needle on the electronic gauge never moved out of the green zone.

While that had been going on, Beatrice had drawn a line on the blacktop with a piece of chalk. She hurriedly jotted down the information provided by the readout on the electronic tool before she pointed at the starting point of the line of chalk. "Miss Donohue, although the breathalyzer has determined there is no alcohol in your system, it has been known to provide false negatives. Therefore, you are required to walk along this straight line. Keep your feet directly on the line. As you walk, I want you to count down from ten to zero."

"Whah, cert'inly, De-per-ty," Wynne said and put a cowboy boot at the start of the line. "Okeh, I be reddy ta let 'em roll, dontchaknow. Now?"

"Yes, Miss. Go ahead."

"Okeh… boogity-boogity-boogity!  He' we go, y'all… ten… nih-ne… eight… seven… six… fih-ve… fo'ah… three… which is mah favorite numbah, bah the way… two… aaaaaan' one. Y'all want me ta do it in revurh-se or som'tin, De-per-ty?"

"That won't be necessary," Beatrice said and jotted down the results of the sobriety test. While she continued to look at her notepad, she said: "Who was the sixteenth President of the United States, Miss Donohue?"

"Haw?!  Lawwwr-die, I ain't got a dang-blasted clue!" Wynne said and threw her arms out wide. "Dang, y'all gonn' send me up da rivah fer not knowin' who them Presidents wus?  How 'bout askin' me som'tin simple like who won da Winston Cup in nineteen-eighty-fo'ah or som'tin?  Hell, that woudden take me but half a second ta answah!"

Beatrice stopped writing to shoot Wynne a puzzled look. "The what?"

"Nevah mind!  Awww-them kids these days… haw!  It wus 'Texas Terry' Labonte."

"Never heard of him."

Wynne needed to clamp down on her cowboy hat to stop it from taking off on its own. "Whaddindahell?  Them almost be fightin' words, De-per-ty!  Mebbe I needa show y'all a-cuppel-a them there online videos or som'tin. I bet I could find a good 'un-"

"No, thank you. I'm not interested in golf."

Several seconds went by in a stunned stupor before Wynne re-arranged her hat, scratched her neck, wiped her nose, re-arranged her hat for a second time and finally let out a half-mumbled "Gaw-lf?  Yuh… okeh."

"All right," Beatrice continued, "you have successfully passed two of the three tests. However, they cannot determine if you have taken illegal substances like cannabis or stronger recreational drugs. Therefore, I need to examine your pupils."

"Haw, be mah guest, De-per-ty," Wynne said and opened her eyes wide. Chuckling, she needed to crouch down slightly to allow the shorter Beatrice to get a closer look. "Satisfah'd?"

"Yes, Miss. Thank you," Beatrice said as she made a note of the latest discovery. Once everything had been committed to paper, she closed the notepad and put it into one of her uniform shirt's pockets. "Your eyes are really bloodshot, Wynne. Late night?" she said in a friendlier tone of voice.

"Naw. Crappy sleep an' way-early mornin's. Mandy bein' away an' all…"

"Oh… right. Well, the MacLean County Sheriff's Office thanks you for your co-operation, Miss Donohue. You and Mrs. Travers are free to go about your business," Beatrice said as she took a step back to have room to offer the prominent citizen a proper salute.

"Y'all be welcome an' all, De-per-ty Quick Draw," Wynne said and tipped her hat. "Me an' ol' Brendah an' them dawggies be goin' ovah ta Moira's now fer some chow an' mebbe a round of pool, so if y'all need mo' co-opera-shun, jus' swing bah, yuh?"

Beatrice smiled. "Will do, Miss Donohue. Thank you."

Climbing up into the Silverado, Wynne suddenly spotted Senior Deputy Rodolfo Gonzalez observing the unfolding events through the large windows of the sheriff's office. He waved at her and she waved back before twisting the ignition key - the U-turn took no time and she was soon reversing into the narrow alley that ran next to Moira's Bar & Grill.

-*-*-*-

When Brenda, Wynne and the dogs stepped out onto the sidewalk, they were treated to the unusual sight of the gangly teenager Richard 'Ritchie' Lee walking toward them carrying an over-the-shoulders sandwich-sign. The double-sided billboard advertised Goldsboro's newest shop - Keshawn's Second-Hand Treasures - that would open soon and offer Thousands Of Items For Sale From $3.95 And Up!

"Howdy there, Ritchie," Wynne said, tipping her hat. "Makin' a quick buck, yuh?"

Blackie and Goldie didn't think the acne-riddled eighteen-year-old with the boorish features and the semi-poor fashion sense was worth their time, so they coaxed Brenda into opening the door to Moira's by nudging her shins with their shoulders and pointing their muzzles at the door until she complied.

"Hello, Miss Donohue," Ritchie said while sporting a mild grin and the deep blush that always appeared when he spoke to people of the female kind. He wore tennis shoes, jeans and a thick jacket that could withstand the weight of the sandwich-sign without tearing or crumpling too badly. Up top, his Barton City Bulldogs ball-cap did a poor job of hiding his shock-red locks. "Yep!  All I gotta do is to walk up and down Main Street until five this afternoon. It's not boring or anything 'cos I have plenty of music and some podcasts on my telephone. Once I'm done, Mr. Williams is gonna buy me supper from the Chicky Kingz."

"Whah, that sure ain't no bad deal, son. Them there Mystery Boxes always be mighty fine, yessirree," Wynne said with a grin. She looked around for Ritchie's best pal Kenny Tobin but was unable to see the other teenager anywhere. "Dontcha be tellin' me ol' K.T. done desuhrted ya, Ritchie?"

"No, he's over at the sheriff's office," Ritchie said, extending an arm past the edge of the sandwich-sign so he could point across the street.

Wynne scratched her neck and looked toward the row of Dodge Durangos parked at the curb; then she glanced at the office's large windows overlooking Main Street without seeing anything that could explain the connection. "Haw?  Whaddinda-wohhhhh-rld he be doin' ovah there?"

"He's helping Deputy Reilly with her… something. I didn't catch what it was."

"Her evalua-shuns?"

"Probably."

"Yuh, okeh," Wynne said and looked across the street once more. Just when she lost interest in the passive scene, the eighteen-year-old heartthrob Kenny Tobin came out of the office with Beatrice Reilly in tow. "Haw, there they be."

Ritchie Lee hid a snicker as he leaned in toward Wynne - a task made difficult by the square, cumbersome sandwich-sign. "I think K.T. has a crush on the deputy. He says he likes older women…"

"Haw?!  A crush?  On De-per-ty Quick Draw?" Wynne said and let out a resounding guffaw. The loud laugh turned into a string of chuckles and eventually a frown until it ended in a mumbled: "Darn, if he done thinks Quick Draw is old, whaddahell does that make me?  A petrified mummy or som'tin?"

Across the street, Kenny pretended to run away from Beatrice after she had pretended to arrest him. She held up her right hand with her thumb and index finger pretending to be her firearm. "Bang!  Warning shot!" she roared which made Kenny come to a stop. "Hands where I can see them!  Get on your knees!  Down on the ground!  Arms out wide!" Beatrice roared as she went through the regular procedure of putting a knee on the suspect's lower back before she took his arms and cuffed them.

"Yuh," Wynne said and pushed her hat back from her brow. "Ol' Quick Draw sure always been effective an' all. Haw, now I ain't be needin' ta watch no cop shows this he' week… anyhows, tawk ta y'all later, Ritchie. Tell K.T. Howdy from me, yuh?"

"Will do," Ritchie said with a timid smile before he pulled up the cumbersome sandwich-sign and carried on moving south on Main Street.

Wynne shuffled over to the door to Moira's where she turned around to cast a final glance at Beatrice and Kenny Tobin. It seemed the exercise was over as she gave him a pat on the shoulder and what appeared to be a gift certificate for his bother.

Chuckling, Wynne stepped inside everyone's number one favorite eatery in all of MacLean County. It was high time to shoot some pool, chew the fat with her friends, get something to eat and - of course - wet her whistle.

*
*

CHAPTER 2

Sunday, January 30th - noon.

The large-scale convention hall of the four-star Farnsworth-Imperial hotel in San Cristobal buzzed with the constant murmurs created by hundreds of voices. Forty round tables had been decked out expertly with white tablecloths, fine porcelain tableware, silver cutlery and top-of-the-line tumblers and fine wine flutes. Elaborate flower arrangements had been put at the center of each table to offset the monochrome nature of the settings - cloth napkins matching the color palette of the flowers added another much-needed splash of life.

The hall itself was utilitarian and nondescript so it wouldn't steal the thunder of the conventions or conferences taking place there. Even the carpet was a plain, dull, dark-gray affair designed so it would neither create reflections on photographs nor deaden the amplified speeches.

A dais had been constructed at the far end of the hall that featured a rostrum equipped with two wireless microphones so the speakers didn't need to shout to be heard. Next to the rostrum, an advanced computer had been set up that could stream static images or film clips onto a digital display behind the dais in the vein of a slide projector of old. An operator sat ready at the computer to assist those of the speakers who had prepared a visual presentation.

Each of the round tables seated six and all seats were taken - thus, the convention hall and the hotel itself were the temporary quarters of no less than 240 high-ranking members of various branches of law enforcement. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the officers and agents present had chosen to sit with their branch colleagues which created lakes of similar colors throughout the hall.

The dark-blue uniforms of the city police precincts in San Cristobal, Barton City, Cavanaugh Creek and even as far away as Mariana near the north-eastern border to Utah were easy to spot, as were the brownish tones of the state police. The Sheriffs and Senior Deputies of the various counties wore a fifty-fifty split of browns and grays with the odd sighting of paler blue here and there. The plainclothes members of the ATF, the FBI, the DEA and the CSA - the Central Security Agency - all wore their customary no-nonsense business suits that were nearly always held in subdued tones like black, charcoal and gunmetal gray.

Everyone carried their regulatory service sidearm in spite of the Farnsworth-Imperial hotel chain's strict policies of not allowing firearms anywhere on their property. Someone had joked that the amount of firepower and ammunition present would be more than enough to invade a small country if the need arose, but the joke had fallen flat when members of the San Cristobal Major Crime Task Force had casually mentioned the number of shooting incidents that took place each and every weekend in the downtown neighborhoods of their not-particularly-fair city.

Up at the dais, the officer assigned to act as the MC turned the microphones back on signalling the end of the small break. His voice was soon heard booming from the countless loudspeakers installed in the ceiling and along the walls: 'Ladies and Gentlemen, we are back with the next group of contributors. Please give Sheriff Jalinski of MacLean County a warm welcome.'

239 pairs of eyes darted around the convention hall to spot and gawk at the next speaker. An easy murmur rippled through the law enforcement personnel present who were excited to get on with the next part of the agenda. The 240th pair of eyes obviously belonged to Mandy who let the attention slide off her like water off a goose.

As a strong round of applause echoed through the hall, Mandy - who shared table seventeen with four other Sheriffs and a Senior Deputy from rural counties - pushed her chair back and strode across the monochrome carpet to get to the dais. A standard folder stuck under her arm contained her speech and the cues for the images the computer operator had already uploaded for her.

On the cusp of turning the big corner and heading into the five-oh age-bracket, Mandy continued to present a formidable figure. Compact and athletic as always, she had splashed out on a haircut at Holly Lorenzen's hair salon back home in Goldsboro so her dusty-blonde mop-top would look neat and professional for the important event. She maintained a neutral expression and kept her greenish eyes focused straight ahead to keep up appearances despite knowing that her colleagues all stared at her.

Her uniform jacket and the expensive Mountie hat had been left up in her hotel room, but the rest of her uniform followed the code down to the last comma: she had spent an hour buffing the boots that shone like mirrors. The creases on her dark-gray pants were sharp enough to slice a baloney, and there wasn't a single speck of dust or lint on her dark-gray shirt that featured pale-gray pockets and shoulder straps. The lower end of her pale-gray necktie had been pushed in between the shirt's third and fourth button like the uniform dress code dictated. Finally, the golden tag on her right breast pocket identified her by name, and the Star embroidered onto the shirt at the left breast pocket displayed her rank and affiliation.

She hadn't brought her real utility belt along for the conference as she figured - or hoped - there would be little use for her night stick, the handcuffs or the can of pepper spray, so the fabric holster that held her sidearm had been attached to her regular waist-belt.

Once the applause died down, its place in the aural environment was taken by the inevitable shifting of chairs, muted coughs, blowing of noses, murmuring voices and that unmistakable sound of plastic bags containing snacks or candy being torn open.

Mandy eventually made it up to the dais. After climbing a short flight of stairs, she reached the rostrum in no time and spread out the pages of her brief speech that Beatrice Reilly had helped her type on their highly advanced - and completely incomprehensible for all but the initiated - electronic typewriter back home in the sheriff's office.

When she was ready to proceed, she glanced at the computer operator who offered her a smile and a thumbs-up in return to indicate that the media files she had provided had been cued.

A deep breath later, Mandy opened her speech with an improvised segment: "My esteemed colleagues. I'm sure we all agree it's been a fascinating conference so far. We've been introduced to several technological marvels that will undoubtedly help us fight the war on drugs and at least hinder the people profiting from human trafficking, but there are practical as well as logistic stumbling blocks that should not be overlooked. My presentation will hopefully shed some light on issues that you may not even be aware exist."

Mandy moved away from the microphones and leaned to the side. "Display item number one, please," she said to the computer operator.

A high-definition video file of the endless, ancient desert surrounding Goldsboro began playing on the digital screen on the wall behind the rostrum. She had recorded the video clip herself and had made sure to hold the camera at eye-level so the point of view represented how the desert really looked at the exact halfway point between the town and the small trailer park.

"The desert, Ladies and Gentlemen," Mandy said as the video clip continued to play - she turned around to keep track of the clip. After a handful of seconds or so, the camera performed a slow 360-degree pan to reveal the vast, deep-blue sky and countless miles of sandy-brownish desert in all directions.

"As you can see," she said as she turned back to look at her colleagues, "the rural counties create their own unique challenges. My deputies and I occasionally find things out there that date as far back as the last years of the nineteenth century. Covered wagons that had broken down. Leather harnesses that were still strapped onto the skeletal remains of beasts of burden. We find hulks of automobiles from the nineteen-twenties that were perhaps abandoned by their owners because they couldn't afford gas during the Great Depression. Once, we found a crashed two-seater propeller plane that nobody knew anything about. And yes, we've recovered human skeletal remains that, most likely, were already there when Teddy Roosevelt was the President of the United States."

The video clip came to an end up on the digital screen. Mandy leaned down toward the operator to cue the first of the static images. "Item number two, please."

Standing up straight, Mandy waited for the inevitable ripple of murmurs to die down. "Speaking of my deputies, here they are," she said into the microphone as the photo showing Rodolfo Gonzalez, Barry Simms - whose wide-open mouth suggested he was chewing on a piece of nicotine gum - and Beatrice Reilly standing outside the sheriff's office on Main Street was displayed behind her.

"This is a candid of my Deputy Sheriffs. And let me stress, this is my entire crew. Not just those who happened to be on duty when I took the photo. No, this is it, Ladies and Gentlemen. These three deputies and I cover the central town of Goldsboro and every square inch of the desert that lie between Brandford Ridge, Jarrod City and North Greenville to the west, Haddersfield Pass to the south, Rattler Gulch and Maynard Canyon to the east and Barton City to the north."

A far stronger murmur rippled through the law enforcement people at the tables. Many of those who were in the exact same situation elsewhere in the state's many thinly populated counties nodded in agreement with Mandy's message, while quite a few who worked in the more densely populated or metropolitan areas shifted around uneasily.

"Please note," Mandy continued, "that law enforcement departments in the rural counties aren't obdurate, leathery coonhounds who are resistant to change like the stereotypes we see in Hollywood productions and on TV."

As she spoke, a promotional photo of some of the members of the cast from the legendary TV show The Dukes Of Hazzard was shown on the digital display - Wynne had helped her select that one.

The comments and the picture drew laughter and even some applause like Mandy had hoped. She broke out in a brief smile before she returned to her speech: "Far from it. We welcome technological advances with open arms. Drones equipped with heat-sensitive cameras. New tools for analysis that can detect traces of cannabis in a simple exhalation. Increased electronic sharing of information regarding suspects and instant access to that data. That will all come in very handy. That said, it's vital that everyone recognizes the logistical aspects of those advances. The training courses to qualify for controlling the heat-sensitive drones may only last a week or ten days, but I and many other rural Sheriffs simply cannot afford to lose a Deputy for that long."

Mandy paused and let her eyes roam over the amassed group of interested spectators. "In an unfortunate sequence of events, my esteemed colleagues, law enforcement itself is actually the main antagonist here. The crime rates go down in most places because we get persistently better in tracking and apprehending the criminals. The judicial system has received plenty of funding over the past decade to speed up the court processes, and the jails, prisons and penitentiaries have been expanded to have room for all those extra convicts. So where's the snag?"

She let the question hang for a moment while she flipped the pages. A quick look at the spectators proved she still had their attention. "The politicians, Ladies and Gentlemen. Or in the case of the rural counties, the local town councils. The demand for funding requested by the rural Sheriff's Departments has never been higher. The actual budgets provided by the town councils have never been lower. Why?  Because they're under siege from all sides. Citizens have grown impatient and thus far more outspoken about local issues in recent times, and with the advent of social media, there's direct access to the mayors and local politicians around the clock."

The statement made another murmur ripple through the law enforcement personnel in the convention hall. "They can't ignore the citizens or the press will roast them. If they accept the demands of one group of citizens, the following day will see five groups shouting even louder. And we, Ladies and Gentlemen, are stuck in the firing line. Our budgets are neglected year-in, year-out and yet everyone expects… no, demands, that we increase our efficiency and local involvement while held to greater and greater accountability for issues that are often far beyond our control. This, my esteemed colleagues, is a recipe for disaster in the rural areas."

While the bad news sunk in and the spectators shifted around once more, Mandy leaned down toward the operator. "Item number four, please. It's the last one," she said in a quiet voice.

The image was a candid of seven rugged, outdoorsy Goldsborians of the heavily-armed, facial-haired, rebel-flag-waving, army-hats-and-camouflaged-outfits kind that had received enough bad publicity on an international level to make even more chairs shift around among the law enforcement personnel present.

The people in the photo had been made anonymous by blurring out their faces, but Mandy didn't need to see any details to recognize disgraced former Sheriff Artie Rains, his second-in-command J.D. Burdette and the bar owner Derrike Iverson among the seven men.

"Yes," she said into the microphone, "local militia groups pose a clear and serious threat in the rural counties. These gentlemen are part of the nationwide J-Six, January Sixth, Brigade that celebrate the insurrection in Washington D.C. Well, my three deputies and I obviously keep a close eye on them whenever we have a moment to spare. Which is every other week or so… if we're lucky."

Mandy tapped the pages containing her speech into order. Her closing punch line continued to reverberate around the large room like the final echoes of an uncomfortable thunderclap. "Thank you for your time, Ladies and Gentlemen. I hope it didn't come across as a filibuster, but things needed to be said," she said and stepped down from the rostrum.

A large round of applause broke out from the hall as the computer operator handed her the USB-dongle where the images and the film clip were stored. Mandy offered him a brief smile before she went down the short flight of stairs and crossed the floor in her customary stride.

Pulling out the chair and sitting down, she noted that the applause continued to roll in from one group in particular: that of her fellow rural sheriffs. She let her eyes move around the convention hall to look as many colleagues in the eye as she could while the attention was still on her - she received several nods and smiles in return along with one or two embarrassed glances.

Once her moment in the spotlight had waned, two combatants competed for top honors on her immediate agenda. The first was to get something to drink. The second was to get fresh air under her super-heated collar.

It proved difficult to find something to drink as all the cans of soda and mineral water present on the table had already been emptied, so getting some air won the day: she loosened her necktie and undid the top button at once. A few beads of sweat that had appeared at her hairline were quickly dealt with by dabbing a handkerchief along the golden roots.

The MC soon returned to the dais to introduce the next speaker. Mandy applauded DEA Agent Jake Someone-or-other before she dabbed her forehead again. She kept a vigilant lookout for something to drink, but her search was in vain. A muted chuckle escaped her just thinking about how Wynne would have reacted in such a situation - it would have been spectacular, that was an undeniable fact.

-*-*-*-

The speech by the DEA Agent was on the topic of recognizing false identification papers that had been issued by certain South American-based drug lords. Though the presentation was quite dry and thus garnered very little response from the audience compared to Mandy's contribution, the themes covered were too serious for Mandy and everyone else to zone out and think of going home.

She had at least managed to find something to drink, but she had needed to walk four tables down the line to find an unopened can of Frizzie's Diet Raspberry Fizz. That particular flavor couldn't be counted among her favorite soft drinks, but it was one of those take it or leave it and stay thirsty-deals, so she had taken it.

A brand new notepad was used to jot down the key points of the speeches she had listened to: she had already used more than 40 pages for her copious note-taking, and there were still three guest speakers left.

Up on the dais, the MC announced it was time for the 45-minute break that everyone had waited for. The words had barely left his mouth before roughly 200 of the 240 law enforcement officers present rose as one to head for the restrooms out in the lobby.

The mass exodus left the convention hall on the semi-empty side, but Mandy didn't complain as the constant din produced by the many people had given her a headache. She complained even less when hotel staffers wheeled food carts around that offered high-quality open-faced sandwiches and a wide selection of Frizzie's and H.E. Fenwyck's Summer Dreamz soft drinks - they even had a couple of cans of the Slurrpy! brand that had proven very popular with the residents of Bay City out on the Pacific Coast.

Fully equipped with a pile of sandwiches and two cans of soda, Mandy pulled out her telephone and turned it on. It had barely finished booting when a message of 1 Missed Call was written on the display - a wide grin spread over her face when the caller-ID said Wynne. The connection was quickly established in more ways than one. A warm "Hello, hon!" was soon delivered with a smile.

'Howdy, darlin'!  Lawwwwwwwwwr-die, I sure been missin' y'all!"

"I've missed you too."

'Shoot, I ain't too sure I'mma-gonn' survive the day, he'… how many hou'ahs ta go?'

"Oh, still a few."

'Durn!'

"It's not too bad," Mandy said as she used an ivory-handled spatula to move a shrimp-salad sandwich over to her own plate. "It's the drive home that annoys me the most. I have a car reserved for me at the rental company, but pulling a three-hour drive at night after such a long day isn't conducive for road safety-"

'Naw, it sure ain't…'

"No, but the hotel's regular prices are extortionate. A regular room for one night costs as much as renting the honeymoon suite for a week in your Bed and Breakfast, Wynne. That's borderline daylight robbery if you ask me."

'Yuh. Whah, a week in that there suite there sure would be one helluva honeymoon, haw?  Yuh… so… anyhows, wotcha doin' right now, darlin'?'

"Eating a late lunch. A shrimp-salad open sandwich to be exact."

'Haw!  I be eatin' as well!  Yessirree, I be havin' a-cuppel-a Dubbel Zerahs an' one o' them there mystery boxes from them Chicky Kingz. I didden feel like nukin' nuttin' so… haw, an' would ya bah-lieve, that there first can o' Dubbel-Zerah had done lost all its fizz!  Yuh, sure had!  It wus jus' like drinkin' yella watah or som'tin… weird. It done happened befo', but not fer a verrrrry long time. The can wussen even too old or had been knocked around or nuttin'. I guess som'tin shitty done happened ta it somewhe' from tha fact'ry ta mah table.'

"It happens."

'Yuh. Now that there mystery box, yuh?  It done had a-cuppel-a drumsticks an' some white meat an' plentah o' good stuff in it, but Lawrdie, it sure ain't no fun when I don't got nobodda ta share them there goodies with, yuh?  An' I hadda open the last o' them jars o' hawt sawce that dear ol' Ernie done made fer me when we wus there fer the New Year an' all.'

"Already?  Did we really blaze through four jars of triple-chili hot sauce in five weeks?"

'We sure did. Luv me some hawt sawce, y'all know that. I wus hopin' it done meant we could visit Ernie an' the Rev'rend Berna-deene an' their darlin' li'l Christ-eene Frances some time soon. Mebbe fer Val- shoot, naw, that ain't gonn' work, darlin', 'cos ol' Brendah done invited us ovah fer suppah the weekend followin' Valentine's Day.'

"I'll make a note of it," Mandy said before she pinned the telephone between her shoulder and her cheek so she could get a bite to eat before the break ended. At the other end of the connection, Wynne set off on a lengthy run-through of her day that involved washing and sorting their undies, viewing a funny 'dancing dog' video on Youtube that had Goldie in stitches, hosing down the Silverado, adjusting the satellite dish on the trailer's roof and several other highlights that didn't require any kind of input on Mandy's part save for the occasional "Oh," "I see," or "All right."

The tables around her began to fill up as the various law enforcement officers returned from the restrooms - or had given up ever getting to them. As the convention hall slowly returned to full capacity, the waiters whizzed around with their food carts delivering plenty of sandwiches and beverages.

Three of the five officers Mandy shared her table with had returned and were discussing the latest doodad in electronic surveillance. She had just cut off the next bite of the shrimp-salad sandwich when the remaining two returned as well. "Listen, hon," she said at a lower volume than earlier, "I'm afraid I can't talk much longer. We're running a tight schedule here and the next item on the agenda isn't too far off."

'Yuh, tell me 'bout it… so when ya reckon ya be comin' hoah-me?'

"Well, the conference ends at a quarter past eight, but then I need to check out and walk over to the rental car company… and then drive home, of course. I'm afraid I won't be home until long after midnight."

'Awwwww-shoot!  Haw!  Okeh, I s'pose there ain't nuttin' nobodda can do 'bout that or nuttin'… Lawrdie. I'mma-gonn' wait up fer y'all. I might as well 'cos there sure ain't gonn' be much sleepin' fer me tanight until y'all come hoah-me, anyhows.'

"We can tuck each other in," Mandy said with a grin.

'Now that there be the best dang-blasted ideah I done heard in a looooong while!  Yes, Ma'am!  Okeh, I bettah hang up now or y'all gonn' have trubbel with them poh-leese folks 'round ya, yuh?  Bah-bah, darlin'. Luv ya madly an' catch ya latah!'

"Love you too, hon. Bye," Mandy said and closed the connection. Once the telephone was silent, she turned it off once more so it wouldn't interrupt the next segment of the big conference. Sighing, she finished off the shrimp salad and went for an open-faced sandwich that featured thick slices of baloney, several onion rings and a fair layer of pureed horseradish.

-*-*-*-

After the next three speakers had finished their presentations related to their fields of expertise, Mandy jotted down the final pieces of information that were relevant to her before adding her own comments and thoughts on the topics.

The item of most importance to her was a study in the next generation of synthetic drugs as presented by a DEA agent who had worked undercover in a drug lab just north of Miami. The other two presentations had been fascinating but ultimately not too relevant: A Fish & Game Ranger from one of the national parks had offered a harrowing eye-witness account of how visitors would routinely risk their lives to get the perfect motive for selfies, and a thirty-year veteran of the Highway Patrol had given everyone the shivers with a gruesome slideshow that portrayed the inevitable aftermath of people's egoism and recklessness on the roads.

The MC was warming up to make a closing statement or two, but in the meanwhile, everyone moved around the tables, mingling, networking and exchanging business cards. A few had been by to shake Mandy's hand and to offer their thoughts and support for the plight of the rural counties, but none had any magical solutions ready.

A large shadow fell over Mandy's notepad just as she crossed the T's and dotted the I's. Looking up, a broad, genuine smile burst onto her face as she clapped eyes on the unmistakable figure of Sheriff George Washington Tenney.

'Dubya,' who was now in his late forties, was as tall, wide and mighty as ever. A few streaks of gray had entered his short hair, but they added a distinguished air rather than making him appear old. The third-term Sheriff of Brandford Ridge wore a smart uniform that consisted of black ankle boots, dark-blue pants, a black belt and a pale-blue, short-sleeved shirt. Tenney and his deputies wore no necktie of any kind which was unusual among the sheriff's departments located in the rural counties - instead, their uniform shirts had a unique, three-inch-deep V-neck that offered a glimpse of their regulatory white undershirts.

The African-American put out his right hand in an invitation for the traditional greeting. "Hello, Sheriff Jalinski. Really nice to see you," he said in his customary baritone.

Getting up at once, Mandy noticed that G.W. Tenney continued to nurse his left arm that had suffered multiple fractures in a violent road accident on the same night when she had met Wynne for the very first time. Typical of the curse of weirdness that seemed to loom over Goldsboro like the Sword of Damocles, the accident had occurred when a hunter UFO had used G.W.'s Dodge Durango as target practice for its incinerator-ray.

"Likewise, Sheriff Tenney!" Mandy said and pumped G.W.'s good arm up and down a couple of times. "How are things going in Brandford Ridge?"

"Oh, just fine, thank you. The usual. And Goldsboro?"

"The usual. Strange and only getting stranger."

"Why did I even ask?" G.W. said and broke out in a laugh. The chair next to Mandy's was vacant so he pulled it out and sat down. "Tell me, how's Wynne?"

"Oh, she's doing great. We spoke not too long ago," Mandy said and patted the pocket where she kept the smartphone.

"That's good to know. Tell her I said hi."

Mandy closed the notepad and stuck it into her other breast pocket. "Will do," she said with a grin.

"And speaking of telling someone… I need to tell you that your speech was the damned best of the bunch. You really opened a few eyes around here with that candid report from the wild frontier."

"Thanks. It's about time someone hears of our concerns. I know the big cities have plenty of problems of their own, but since the politicians are here, they're confronted with those problems on a daily basis. Nobody has a second to spare for us out in the sticks," Mandy said and crossed her legs to sit more comfortably.

G.W. nodded somberly. "Ain't that the truth… a few months ago, we called HQ up in Barton City to ask what the hell we could do about a couple of those J-Six Brigade looney tunes. They'd rented an old shack that they used as a base for spreading their garbage. You know, your average racist knuckleheads."

"Yeah."

"Well, HQ downplayed our concerns. Said the J-Six bunch weren't organized enough for us to use the RICO anti-racketeering legislature against them. Guess what happened?  One night, their office was torched by a few left-wing activists. Burned to the ground. Toast. All that remained was a stone chimney."

As G.W. spoke, he thumped a clenched fist onto the table to illustrate how the site of the fire had looked - the heavy hit made the flower arrangement and several other items dance about. "The knuckleheads left town, all right, so that was a positive outcome… but then we were forced to spend weeks trying to get to the bottom of an arson case that everyone kept stonewalling us about!  We never did find out who set the fire. And get this, not only did it cost us confidence points among the residents because we had to lean on them, it counted against us when HQ evaluated our efforts at the turn of the year because it was marked as a stalled investigation!"

Mandy shook her head in sympathy. "That's exactly what I was trying to convey, G.W. We can't rely on getting help, and when we draw our own conclusions or make our own decisions on something regardless of the type of case we're working on, we're reined in and told to toe the line. You know… as frightening as it may sound… Artie Rains said the exact same thing the other year when I first ran for Sheriff. He told me I'd come to regret my decision. I don't know if I have, but the bureaucracy is far more frustrating than I had expected."

"Yeah… man, that may be the only time in the history of the world that Rains said something that actually made sense…" G.W. said and fell silent - the distant look in his eyes proved he revisited the bad, old days when he had been one of Artie Rains' fellow deputies under Sheriff Pershing.

The mental images from the past made him reach over to his weak arm and give it a few rubs and squeezes. He had tried to come back to active duty at the conclusion of his rehabilitation period, but Rains had been elected Sheriff in the meantime and had become far more aggressive and tyrannical than he had ever been as Lionel Pershing's Senior Deputy - and that had rarely been a joyous era to begin with. "Yeah," G.W. said after a short while. "Anyway. So does that mean you won't run for your second term this year?"

Mandy shook her head once more. "I haven't decided yet. It's complicated. I know for a fact I'm not stepping down to Senior Deputy. No way. My current Senior, Rodolfo Gonzalez… you remember Rodolfo, right?"

"Oh, sure!  He was just a baby when he came to Goldsboro. Wow, Senior Deputy… I guess it means the rest of us are gettin' older, huh?" G.W. said and let out a booming laugh.

"In any case, Rodolfo is a solid Deputy Sheriff, but he has a tendency to lose focus. He's an excellent communicator and works wonders with the public, but his clerical skills are still lacking. He's not ready to wear the Star which means we'll have to get someone from out of town. But no other towns have Senior Deputies who are ready to move up, which means we'll have to look at a complete outsider… and such a figure won't have the voters' support because they won't know anything about them. Dammit, G.W… it's complicated!"

"No kidding," G.W. said with a smile that soon faded as he reminisced a little more. "The only reason why the people of Brandford Ridge supported me the first time I ran was because my mother lived there. I was seen as a local tho' I had transferred to Goldsboro and worked there for years. Say… that gives me an idea. How would you feel about transferring up to HQ in Barton City to work in an administrative position?"

Mandy rubbed her chin. "Yeah, the thought has crossed my mind, but… well, three hours' worth of commuting five days a week?  That's a ton of time spent on the road day-in, day-out. Frankly, I'm not the world's most patient woman. There's almost zero chance of ever getting Wynne to move away from Goldsboro, either. Even if I could persuade her to come up to Barton City, she would be miserable in the concrete jungle. No, that wouldn't last long. But on the other hand, the hours would be steady. No more shifts ending at three AM. Eh… it's complicated."

Before G.W. Tenney had time to answer, the MC turned on the microphones to ask the hotel's ushers to bring everyone back inside for the final segment of the conference. "Well, I better get back to my own table, Mandy. It was great seeing you again," G.W. said with a broad grin as he stuck out his large hand.

"And you, G.W. Let's stay in touch this time, okay?" Mandy said, matching not only the grin but the handshake as well.

Sheriff Tenney continued to smile as he briefly pointed at Mandy. A "You betcha!" was uttered in his familiar baritone before he got up and walked back to join his colleagues from Brandford Ridge.

-*-*-*-

Mandy's telephone showed 8:13 PM as she walked through the opulent lobby of the four-star Farnsworth-Imperial hotel. Her check-out process had been automated and thus mercifully hassle-free. A glance at the forty-strong line of increasingly frustrated law enforcement officers at the manned check-out desk made her let out a sigh of relief and send a silent Thank You to Brenda Travers who had helped with the online booking. The trip through the revolving doors took no time and she soon found herself on the sidewalk.

Back in her street clothes - Navy-blue slacks and a three-quarter-length winter coat in a matching shade - she surveyed the sea of humanity that moved around like the rolling tide in front of the hotel's grand marquee.

It seemed that ninety percent of all taxi cabs in San Cristobal had shown up in the hope of picking up fares to another neighborhood, or to the central train station across town, or perhaps even all the way out to the international airport a few miles west. Cabs in all colors from all the garages lined up two or three deep at the curb and on the street that ran in front of the hotel.

The hotel's ushers and doormen tried to keep up with demand by whistling for cabs and directing the waiting fares over to them, but the inevitable chaos and anarchy soon broke out among the esteemed members of various law enforcement agencies who all wanted to be the first away so they wouldn't get stuck in a traffic jam for the next thirty minutes.

Chuckling, Mandy pulled her travel bag - that contained her uniform and her overnight items - further up her shoulder before she set off for the car rental company that was located a short mile down the street.

She wasn't the only one who walked toward the rental company, but she kept to herself and simply enjoyed the evening's relative peace and quiet. The headache and the fatigue that had developed from spending the past four days in the company of more people than she would meet in two years back home in Goldsboro ganged up on her and made her yawn.

Striding along, she couldn't help but think back to the years she had spent in San Cristobal's besieged inner-city precinct. Everyone knew the blue uniforms and blue-and-white cruisers of the city police, but few had knowledge of the fact that the major city had a Sheriff's Department as well. Located in the stationhouse of the city police's 3rd Precinct, its jurisdiction only covered various crimes that had taken place in Coleman County itself, but the Deputy Sheriffs could, and would, support the regular police units when the knives were out or the lead started flying - and it often did in the garbage-filled, overpopulated inner-city neighborhoods.

Even in the noble hotel district, San Cristobal sounded and smelled the same as it always had. The hum of traffic peppered by the occasional electronic siren from an emergency vehicle was a constant presence in the middle distance, and the exhaust fumes, general waste and carbon-rich emissions from the power plants on the northern outskirts of the city continued to tickle everyone's nostrils.

The sidewalk around her filled up at regular intervals as she strode past the next few hotels, but she wasn't about to let it slow her down. A somewhat dissatisfied "Hmmm!" escaped her as she studied the over-designed, overly opulent facades of the various hotel chains. It seemed there was an arms race going on between the billion-dollar corporations that demanded an ever-increasing use of golden arches, crimson carpeting, chrome pillars and huge panes of facet-cut colored glass. Similarly, the doormen wore garish, overly pompous uniforms that wouldn't have looked out of place in circuses or on top of a wedding cake.

Mandy needed to wait for a couple of delivery vans to drive by before she jogged across the four-lane street to get to the other side. Once there, she resumed striding along at her customary brisk pace.

It wasn't long before her sixth sense alerted her that something might be brewing close by. A quick glance over her shoulder proved that she was alone on the sidewalk on that side of the street, and that she seemed to be followed by a dark truck or van that rolled along at low speed some forty yards behind her. The vehicle's four headlights shone so brightly they made it impossible to pick out any details.

"I don't frickin' believe this!  Welcome back to San Crappy Cristobal," Mandy growled as she upped her tempo. The perfect opportunity to investigate further came when she arrived at the next side street. Hurrying around the corner, she pulled her bag off her shoulder and unzipped it. The fabric holster carrying her service sidearm was soon found and opened. As she wrapped her fingers around the pistol's grip, she peeked around the corner to see how far along the street her potential stalker had come in the meantime.

At that exact moment, her telephone rang. A groan escaped her as she fumbled with the winter coat's large pockets - another groan followed when she noticed the caller-ID said Wynne.

A quick glance up and down the side street proved that she had time to take the call, so she pressed the bar and put the telephone to her ear.

'Howdy, darlin'!  Whe'dahell y'all go?  Dontcha recognize who this is, come back!'

Mandy scrunched up her face and stared at the telephone in sheer disbelief. "What?  I didn't get a word of that-"

'I jus' done spotted ya stridin' along an' then ya flew 'round that there cornah there like a bat outta hell or som'tin!  Lemme honk atcha so y'all know where I be at, yuh?'

When two honks were heard loud and clear from the dark vehicle out on the four-lane street, Mandy let out a deep sigh that soon turned into disbelieving laughter. Shaking her head, she crouched down to put the firearm back into its holster. "Hi, hon!" she said into the telephone. "Okay, I get the picture. I can't believe you're here!"

'Well, I woudda gone stark-ravin' insane if I hadda wait a minnit longah ta see y'all. I jus' hadda come bah, yuh?'

"I appreciate it… I'll be right out," Mandy continued as she zipped her travel bag and pulled it back up onto her shoulder. Shaking her head in disbelief, she strode back around the corner and onto the wide sidewalk that ran alongside the four-lane street.

Up close, it was obvious it was Wynne's matte-black Chevrolet Silverado with the self-designed gray vinyl stripes along the lower edges of the doors, the stylized W on the door itself and the words Wynne's Truck on the panels on each side of the flatbed.

The Last Original Cowpoke sat behind the steering wheel in all her denim glory. A ten-mile-wide smile exploded onto her face as Mandy made it back to the truck. "Howdy, darlin'!  Lawwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwr-die, it sure be good ta see ya in person an' all!  Snakes Alive, I been starin' so hard at them photos I done took o' y'all that I reckon I done burned a hole in 'em!"

Grinning, Mandy opened the narrow rear door to the crew cab and deposited her travel bag down in the footwell. The heating feature of the air-conditioning unit was going at full blast which had made the cab nice and toasty during the long trip to San Cristobal. It meant there was no need for her winter coat, so she took it off and put it across the rear seat.

The list of tasks was completed when she closed one door, opened the other and climbed up into the cab. One second later, the first kiss in four days ate up all the oxygen and added so much heat that the A/C unit temporarily switched to its cold setting.

"Good flip almighty, I needed that… an' I reckon y'all did, too!  Yowzahs!" Wynne said once her lips could be used for things other than kissing.

Mandy let out a long sigh as she moved back to the passenger-side seat and pulled out the seat belt. "Yeah… I can't believe you drove all this way, hon. Now we have to drive all the way back!"

"Easy-peasy-chicky-breezy, darlin'. This he' ol' Chev an' this he' ol' Cowpoah-ke can take on any road any time," Wynne said before she craned her neck to look over her shoulder. Though the four-lane street was a No U-Turn zone, Wynne pretended she hadn't seen the sign and crossed over all four lanes before anyone could make any objections.

---

Few words were spoken as they drove through the busy streets of San Cristobal. Though their surroundings were hectic and colorful, tranquility reigned in the cab as the simple fact they were back together meant more than even an endless stream of words could.

Wynne reached up to adjust the A/C unit to compensate for the second person in the cab, but she and Mandy soon held hands once more. The traffic lights turned red at a major intersection just as the black Chevrolet approached it. Coming to a halt, Wynne nodded at the brightly lit gas station across the street. "I done filled it up ovah yondah when I got he'. The cashier or night clerk or whutevah them folks he' call 'em wus sittin' in a glass box. The po'ah fellah coudden even get out ta take a leak without callin' fer assistance first!  I mean, whaddahell?"

"That's San Cristobal in a nutshell, hon. Well, I suppose all major cities are like that now."

"Dang… 'membah when I wus takin' care o' da night shift up at that there Gas 'n Go! sta-shun up in them hills south o' Goldsborah a-cuppel-a years ago?  I sure as stink-on-shoot wussen sittin' in no glass box or nuttin'. Nosirree. Is crime really that dog-gone bad he'?"

Mandy shrugged. "Yes," was all she needed to say.

"Snakes Alive, I be gettin' happiah bah the day that we live where we do, yuh?  Okay, we got a li'l crime like them foo's blastin' holes in them Welcome Ta Goldsborah signs, yuh?  An' we sure got plenty o' weird shit goin' on, too, but… nobodda be needin' ta sit in no dang-blasted glass box jus' ta do their job or nuttin'."

"That's true-"

"Haw!  I jus' done thunk'a som'tin!"

When nothing further came out of Wynne save for a long snicker, Mandy gave the long digits a little squeeze to coax the rest of the message out of her. "You can't stop there!  What did you think of?"

"Well, we do got that there nice lady there who done sits in da box office up at that there mooh-vie theatah, yuh?  She be sittin' in a glass box!"

"Oh… yeah," Mandy said and let out a chuckle that matched Wynne's snicker.

Silence fell between them once more when the traffic lights turned green and the line of cars moved ahead. They drove past another handful of intersections before Wynne moved the Silverado into the turning lane and activated the signal. The traffic on the intersecting street was too heavy for her to blend in, so she kept waiting at the line.

"We gonn' be headin' out in that there real darkness befo' long, darlin'. Y'all wanna listen ta some music or som'tin?  The Down-Home Ol' Country Shack don't reach all the way out he' so I brought a buncha CDs. Well, I reckon there be local radio sta-shuns he' in San Cristobal as well if y'all wanna listen ta the evenin' news or som'tin."

"Oh, you know… " - The traffic eased off while Mandy collected her thoughts, so Wynne turned right to head onto the six-lane street that would eventually take them to the State Route. Another few moments went by before Mandy said: "My head's buzzing enough already. I just want to talk a little for now."

"Tawkin' be mah third-best favorite of them things we do tagethah, darlin'! Aftah kissin' an' holdin' hands, obvi'sly."

Mandy studied Wynne's profile for a little while before an impish grin spread over her features. She reached across the center console to claw Wynne's long thigh. "Just curious… where does making love fit onto-"

Naught-point-four seconds went by before Wynne broke out in a loud: "Mercy Sakes!  Y'all got mah permis-shun ta tickle me silly with a pink feathah dustah!  Whaddinda-wohhhhhhh-rld wus I thinkin'?!  Jumpin' Jehoshaphat, darlin', makin' luv is numbah one through ten on a list all bah itself!"

Grinning at the enthusiastic response, Mandy clawed the long, denim-clad thigh once more before she shuffled back to the passenger seat and made herself comfortable for the long drive home.

---

Just over an hour and a half into the long drive, the State Route they had used came to an end in a T-section. A large road sign on the opposite side of the intersection was illuminated by the Silverado's strong headlights - the sign announced there were 60 miles north to Goldsboro and 15 miles south to Cavanaugh Creek from that exact spot.

A food truck had parked near the T-section in the hope that hungry travelers would get lured in by the brightly colored positioning lights and the colorful images on its marquee. The vehicle's roll-front shutters had been pulled open and the lights were on indicating it was ready to welcome everyone.

Wynne's stomach let out a growl in anticipation of a late-evening greasy snack or two, but a brief glance at Mandy proved that she was still snoozing like she had done for the past forty minutes or so. They had plenty of food in their kitchen cabinets back home, so Wynne turned north and left the tempting food truck behind.

The northbound State Route - that would eventually run past the trailer park 8 miles south of Goldsboro - was far more familiar to Wynne than the road to San Cristobal, so her right boot made a decision to apply a little more pressure to the gas pedal than it had earlier.

---

The miles flew by as the matte-black Chevrolet raced through the night. When they arrived at the hilly terrain at Haddersfield Pass, Wynne had to slow down and fall in behind a heavily-smoking eighteen-wheeler tanker truck from R.D. Samson Oils & Lubricants that chugg-chugg-chugged up the long, momentum-sapping incline.

Wynne let out a chuckle at the advertisement that had been vinyl-wrapped onto the rear of the oil tanker: R.D. Samson Proudly Sponsors Dirt-Track Stock Car Champion Phyllis O'Connell! - The image below the text showed Wynne's ex Phyllis grinning broadly while giving everyone a big thumbs-up.

"Phyl, there jus' ain't no gettin' away from y'all," Wynne said quietly so she wouldn't disturb the snoozing Mandy.

Once the incline leveled out, Wynne stepped on the gas and zipped past the tanker truck. She had yet to reach the speed limit when she happened to notice a familiar-looking Dodge Durango parked in a pocket on the side of the road. A camera on a tripod had been put up next to the white-and-gold vehicle from the MacLean County Sheriff's Department, so it was obvious it was there on speed trap duty.

It was too dark to see the face of the deputy handling the speed camera, but the lack of the characteristic glowing tip of a cigarette meant it couldn't be Barry Simms, and it probably wouldn't be the Senior Deputy either. "Betcha that be ol' De-per-ty Quick Draw out ta score some points fer that there evalua-shun o' hers," Wynne mumbled as she drove past the vehicle.

She kept going at a steady pace until she knew she would be out of the camera's range - then she planted her boot on the gas to give the Silverado free reins for the last stretch home.

---

The sound of gravel crunching under the truck's tires as it turned off the State Route stirred Mandy awake. Yawning, she glanced out of the windshield and saw the powerful headlights illuminate the dirt road that led to the trailer park. A puzzled grunt escaped her as she caught the time on her smartphone.

A quick glance at Wynne - who couldn't look more innocent and downright angelic if she tried - proved inconclusive. She began counting off on her fingers as if she tried to calculate the age-old mathematical problem of If we drove out of San Cristobal at 8:33 PM and arrived home at 10:48 PM… and the distance is 165 miles, the speed could not have been below an average of 73 miles per hour…

While Mandy performed her calculations, Wynne brought the truck to a halt at the rear of her trailer so the distance to the porch door wouldn't be insurmountable.

"Wynne… aren't we home really early?"

"Naw, it wus perdy much the same length o' time it done took me ta go the othah way, darlin'," Wynne said and took the keys out of the ignition.

"Uh-huh?"

"Yuh."

Wynne and Mandy looked at each other for a few moments before the latter leaned across the seats and slapped a kiss on her partner's lips. "I'll let it slide this time, hon. I can't tell you how grateful I am that you drove all that way to pick me up. I promise I'll chip in on the gas bill-"

"Aw-hell no!  That's not how them wheels be turnin' in this he' household, darlin'!  Naw. An' yer welcome an' all. I jus' coudden sit bah mah lonesome no mo'. Dang'it, even Goldie an' Blackie done got tired o' lookin' at mah hang-dawg face. They be ovah at Diegoh's, bah the way. Ol' Brendah hadda get up early in the morn' so she coudden have 'em tanight. Them dawggies prolly been playin' with big, ol' Freddie this he' whole time."

"Let's find out," Mandy said and pulled the lever to open the door. As the cold desert air struck her, she broke out in a shiver and hurriedly reached for her winter coat on the back seat. Once the travel bag was back on her shoulder, she yawned widely and strode over to the screen door. "Hon, how about I made us some coffee-"

"Ack-chew-ly, how 'bout nukin' us a-cuppel-a cans o' baked beans an' some wienahs or som'tin instead?" Wynne said, coming to a halt on her way over to Diego Benitez' trailer to get the dogs. "Ain't no lie, darlin', I be so dang-blasted hungry I could chew the ass straight off'a bull an' he don't even need-a siddown while I do it."

The colorful imagery made Mandy take a stumbling step onto the crooked porch - then she let out a huge burst of laughter that continued to echo across the desert even after she had hurried back to The Last Original Cowpoke to slap another wet kiss on the enticing lips.

*
*
CHAPTER 3

Two days later - Tuesday, February 1st - 10:15 AM.

Wynne and her matte-black Chevrolet Silverado were once more flying northbound on the State Route. The altitude may have been on the low side, but the spirits were certainly high. The Down-Home Ol' Country Shack took care of the musical entertainment in the shape of C.W. McCall's immortal truck driving anthem Convoy, and Wynne took care of the rest by warbling along to the song's lyrics at the top of her lungs.

Down in the footwell between the rows of seats, Goldie tried to cover her ears with her paws. Blackie sat on the seat behind her owner looking out onto the monochrome landscape as it flew by in a blur. She glanced down at Goldie at regular intervals to make sure the Golden Retriever could handle the assault on her sensitive ears.

Convoy eventually faded out and was replaced by Bradley Gordon's uptempo Lost Them Brakes, another 1970s-era truck driving song that Wynne knew by heart from the good, old days back home in Shallow Pond, Texas. Like a bolt from the blue, she found herself missing her old Citizen's Band radio that she had used to talk to the truckers who drove past the trailer park. The CB had been one of the few connections she'd had with the outside world in the first years after moving in, and she had communicated with a lot of cool people during that time.

Then, during an insane night a frightening number of years ago, the path to the world beyond her screen door the CB had offered had lost a great deal of its importance when she had met a charming woman of the uniformed kind: then-Deputy Sheriff Mandy Jalinski. The rest was history.

On the Down-Home Ol' Country Shack, Lost Them Brakes cross-faded with The Shady Valley Quartet's Guide Me, Lord, a religious spoken-word tune that described how the average cowboy's life on the prairie would take a turn for the better if he would only read the Good Book.

"Yuh, haw?  I reckon fallin' in luv be even bettah than anythin' that piece o' litera-chure done says, but whaddahell do I know," Wynne said as she turned down the volume. The tune had not yet finished by the time she reached the southern city limits sign, so she reached over to turn the infotainment system off altogether.

A long chuckle and a "Hawwww-shittt… not ag'in!" escaped her when she caught a glimpse of the fresh bullet holes in the Town Council's expensive road sign that read Welcome To Goldsboro, NV!  Where Magical Things Happen!

Woof?

"Naw-naw, I ain't tawkin' ta y'all, Blackie!" Wynne said over her shoulder.

Woooooof…

"I bet mah darlin' li'l Mandy done blew her lid when she clapped eyes on that there sign this morn'… Mercy Sakes, them foo's with their guh-ns… they gotta have too much dang time on their hands or som'tin. That po'ah sign."

Woof?

"Yuh, somebodda done plugged da sign. Ag'in!"

Wooof…

"Sure ain't no lie, Blackie. For da fortieth time or som'tin. Been goin' on fer a while now but ain't nobodda knows whodahell be doin' it. It could be Mary-Lou Skinnah fer all we know. Naw, prolly not. It sure ain't me so it sure ain't none o' mah concern, anyhows. Okeh, he' we be, girls!"

The woofing and yapping grew loud and happy as Wynne reversed into the alley adjacent to Moira's Bar & Grill. She had barely climbed down and opened the rear door before the pair of black and golden furballs flew out and began to play Tail Chasers on the sidewalk.

Wynne stopped to take a deep breath of the crisp air. Spring wasn't far off now that the calendar had flipped over to February. Although the ambient temperature hadn't risen yet, the tone of light had already grown brighter from the gloomiest days in mid-January. It was still cool enough for her full denim outfit, so she wrapped the wool-lined jacket closer around her as she carried on toward Moira's.

The trio had just about made it to the main entrance when a strong whistling from across the street made Wynne turn around and stare. The whistler turned out to be Rodolfo Gonzalez who waved his entire arm to get her and the dogs' attention.

"Lawrdie, I do bah-lieve ol' Rodolfoh be eagah ta tell us som'tin… or mebbe show us som'tin… haw. Les'mosey on ovah there an' find out, yuh?  C'mon, girls," Wynne said before she patted her thigh and pointed ahead.

The clever dogs knew to wait for a farm tractor that rumbled past at the same time pulling a trailer loaded with hay, but as soon as the slow-moving vehicle had gone past, they zipped across Main Street and waited by the door to the sheriff's office - Wynne followed at a more sedate pace.

The next stumbling block in life's eternal obstacle course for Wynne was the sticking door. She had to resort to a strong shoulder-block to pry it open, but they were eventually able to get inside.

Blackie and Goldie ran over to the blanket that had been laid out for them just to the left of the door. Someone had filled their water bowl, and they took full advantage of that by engaging in a merry drinking session.

"Yuh, them dawggies sure be mine, awright," Wynne said with a wide grin as she shut the door behind her with a thump to get the warped doorjamb to line up with the frame.

Apart from the new strip lights - that had been the cause of endless trouble, high blood pressure and a lengthy blackout when installed in December - the sheriff's office looked the same as it always had: the brown linoleum floor was cracked in most places, the felt tiles in the ceiling drooped, the furniture was old and only getting older, the Bakelite telephone on the watch desk was even older than that, the maps on the walls were sixty years old and forty years out of date, and the inner door to the holding cells next door was still rusted shut despite everyone's best efforts spraying several cans' worth of DeRuster onto the hinges.

Mandy was out on foot patrol and Barry Simms had yet to show up for work, so Beatrice Reilly and Rodolfo Gonzalez held the fort on their own. Beatrice sat at the watch desk reading a crime drama - the sequel to Maurice Orenbach's A Den Of Thieves called Dying In The City Of Lights - while she waited for something to happen, but she looked up and greeted the visitors with a smile. "Good morning, Miss Donohue."

"Howdy, Quick Draw. Sheriff Mandy out poundin' da beat?" Wynne said as she rested a buttock on the corner of the sheriff's desk.

"That's right."

"Okeh… did y'all notice them vandals done blew holes in tha sign ag'in?"

Beatrice let out a sigh and put down the book. "Yes. I personally gathered photographic evidence of it. The Sheriff has spent all morning speaking to the insurance company."

"Ohhhhhh-boy, speakin' ta them there in-shoo-rance folks be dang sure ta put a crimp in Sheriff Mandy's good mood an' all," Wynne said and took off her cowboy hat to scratch her hair. "I 'membah when mah ol' Chev done crapped out on me fer good. Back when it done lost its tranny, yuh?  Shoot, when wus that?  Hmmm… haw, it been a-cuppel-a years, alreddy… I reckon it wus befo' y'all done came ta Goldsborah, Quick Draw. Lawrdie, time flies. But anyhows, them folks jus' woudden lissen ta anythin' I done tole 'em. Took dang-blasted weeks ta settle, I be tellin' ya-"

Before Wynne could finish her sentence, Rodolfo Gonzalez - the thirty-something Mexican-American Senior Deputy whose slicked-back hair, movie-star looks and natural air of suaveness made him quite popular among a certain segment of the local population - opened the door to the crew room at the back of the office and poked his head out. "Hey, Wynne… c'mon in here, there's something I gotta show you," he said while sporting a sly grin.

"Haw?  Okeh…" Wynne said and plonked her beloved cowboy hat onto her dark locks. She had soon made it into the crew room that was dominated by a round table, several filing cabinets, two stacks of cardboard boxes labeled Statute-Barred Files, A-M and N-Z, and a row of metal lockers that contained the deputies' spare uniforms and other personal items.

"Hiya, Wynne!  Fine morning, eh?"

"Yuh, I reckon."

"Well, it's about to get finer. Check this out," Rodolfo said with a grin as he opened his locker and pulled out a large, sheer plastic bag.

The dolly's pinkish hue and the lurid name of Salacious Suzette should perhaps have alerted Wynne sooner, but it took her several seconds to realize she was in fact looking at a blow-up dolly of the adult kind.

Scrunching up her face in confusion, she stared at the dolly, at Rodolfo, back at the dolly and finally up at her friend's broadly grinning face. "Whaddinda-wohhhhhhhhhhhhhhr-ld?  Whaddahell y'all be doin' with that ca-razy thing there, Rodolfoh?  Y'all got da real deal back hoah-me!"

"Yes, yes, yes, but it's not for me-"

"Well, I hate ta break it to ya an' all, but I sure as stink-on-shoot don't need it, neithah!"

Rodolfo let out a long series of snickers as he returned Salacious Suzette to her temporary home in his locker. "It's for Barry," he said as he padlocked it.

"Haw?!"

"He turns thirty today!"

"Lawwwwwwwwwwwwr-die, ya don't say!"

"Yep. And we're going to celebrate it this afternoon. We've ordered cakes and stuff from Moira's-"

"Haw, I done saw that ordah yestuhrdy, but I didden make the connec-shun. I kinda been outta da loop an' all," Wynne said and pushed her hat back from her brow. "Whah, I had no ideah that Barry wussen no boy no mo'. He be a man now! Mercy Sakes. Haw, when I had mah three-ohhh party, a buncha wild an' wicked stuff done happened…"

Falling silent, Wynne tried to think back to the days and nights in question all those years ago. She needed to poke through a brain haze worthy of a smokescreen created by a World War II-era battleship, but she was only able to revisit one of two details that might not even have been from that particular celebration. "Uh… none o' which I got the slightest recollec-shun of…"

Rodolfo snickered again as he studied Wynne's face that told a tale of deep pondering.

"Anyhows. It don't mattah none now," Wynne said and promptly forgot even the tiny details she had dug out of her brain box. "So y'all done bought ol' Barry one o' them there blow-up sex dollies. Haw. Dontcha reckon it be strayin' a li'l too far inta that there area known as bad taste or som'tin?  I mean… y'all know Barry. I reckon he ain't gonn' find it funny or nuttin'."

"Perhaps not, but I will. I can't wait to see how much he's gonna blush."

"Yuh… okeh… I gotta admit, I sure be a li'l skeptical, there, Rodolfoh…" Wynne said and scratched her neck.

"No, come on!  Bea's already a stick-in-the-mud about it. Don't tell me you are too!  It'll be fun, I guarantee it!"

"Well… if y'all say so, I reckon I'mma-gonn' hafta bah-lieve it. When 'r y'all gonna hold that there celebra-shun?"

"At four," Rodolfo said and walked over to the door. Once he had opened it, he paused to glance outside - the coast was clear as Barry had yet to come to work. "Unless something weird happens… but of course, it's Goldsboro, so…"

"Yuh, I bettah knock on wood," Wynne said and shuffled over to the round table to perform the old ritual. "Okeh, that oughttah covah it."

Moving into the office itself, Wynne soon locked eyes with Beatrice who continued to sit at the watch desk - it was clear by the dark look on the Junior Deputy's face that she didn't agree with the nature of Rodolfo's secret present.

Nobody had time to say anything before the sticking front door was shoved open with a rattling bang. Blackie and Goldie jumped to their feet and let out a resounding barrage of barks and yaps until they noticed the intruder was their other owner - the Sheriff.

Mandy rubbed her shoulder as she began calming down the dogs. She was followed inside by Barry Simms whose pristine uniform and wet-combed hair almost made him look as if he had just stepped out of a recruitment poster.

Turning thirty hadn't improved the condition of his waxen skin and amber-colored eyes and fingers, however, and the home-rolled cigarette he had stuck between his lips made sure it would stay that way. Known colloquially as Mister Sixty-Cigs due to the high number of cigarettes he typically smoked each day, he bought bales of waste tobacco wholesale from the factories to support his habit.

His uniform and the watch desk where he usually sat would be clean and pristine each morning when he arrived for his shift, and covered in ash each afternoon when he went home - by then, his necktie would be yanked to the side, his eyes would be more red than amber, and his hair would stick out in every direction at once.

" 'Morning, everybody," he said as he hung his expensive Mountie hat on a nail and unzipped his uniform jacket. A chorus of Good Morning! came back at him from Rodolfo and Beatrice.

"Howdy, ol' Barry," Wynne said with a grin before she exchanged a sly wink with Mandy who walked past on her way to the restroom at the far end of the office. "Whah, some li'l birdie done tole me it be yer birthdy taday an' all!  Happy birthdy, buddy!"

Barry returned the grin as he swapped places with Beatrice. "Thanks, Miss Donohue. Yeah, it's been a fine day so far. Aunt Mildred made me peppermint tea and honeybread for breakfast. And Wheat Crunchies in chocolate milk… but the honeybread was the best."

"Haw, I bet it wus. Shoot, I ain't got no present fer y'all or nuttin' 'cos I wussen aware o' da big day an' all… but dontcha despair. Ol' Wynne Donnah-hew ain't nuttin' but clevah. I be right back, yuh?"

"Oh, you don't have to-" Barry said, but Wynne had already vacated the premises and went across Main Street at such speed that she needed to clamp down on her cowboy hat.

---

Four minutes later, Wynne returned holding a single cupcake that she had stuck a birthday candle into - she put it on the watch desk with great reverence. "Here ya go, pardnah!  Happy birthdy!"

"Aw!  Thank you!  I really appreciate it, Miss Donohue!" Barry said with a look of genuine surprise and delight on his face.

"Yer welcome an' all, but this sure ain't da end offit, Barry. Nosirree. Anothah li'l birdie done tole me that we gonn' have a spe-shul event this he' aftahnoon, so mebbe we bettah hold off singin' that there tradi-shunnal birthdy song until then, yuh?"

The door to the restroom opened to reveal Mandy. Once she made her entrance, Rodolfo, Beatrice and Barry all grabbed a folder or another type of clerical prop to appear busy. "I only heard the tail-end of that, Wynne, and you're right," she said in her customary no-nonsense tone that proved the Sheriff of Goldsboro had shown up. "It's time to go to work. We can have fun later."

"Yes, Ma'am, Sheriff Mandy Ma'am!" Wynne said and promptly smacked her fingers onto her forehead in a reasonable salute. "Lawrdie, I wus jus' on mah way ovah ta Moira's fer some pool an' mebbe ta wet mah whissel when ol' Rodolfoh he' done said Howdy, so… yuh, that's where I'mma-gonn' be fer da next cuppel-a hou'ahs or mo'. Mah darlin' dawggies, y'all wanna stay he' or come with me?"

Goldie jumped up at once and let out several happy yaps - in no time flat, she had wrapped herself around her owner's denim-clad legs. Blackie remained where she was and let it be known through a content Woof-woof-woooof that she preferred to be engaged in proper K9 police activities for the time being.

"Okie-dokie," Wynne said and swung her cowboy hat in the air. "Bah-bah, ev'rybody!  Tawk to y'all latah!"

-*-*-*-

At the stroke of noon, Moira's Bar & Grill was, as always, well-attended. The usual group of day laborers from the large cattle ranches south of town had made their expected influx and were vying for space up at the row of bar stools at the counter. Moira's long-time short-order cook, the twenty-something Anthony Joseph 'Slow' Lane tried keeping up with the orders to the best of his abilities, but his red face and sweat-stained clothes proved he was already stressed out.

No changes had been made to the Bar & Grill, so the pool table was still over on the left next to the refrigerators and the electronic games. The Video Keno saw little action, but one of the day laborers had already won twenty dollars on the Video Poker machine - that he had spent twenty-five dollars before Two Pair! had lit up on the display was perhaps somewhat unfortunate.

The square tables with their red-and-white tablecloths and reed baskets featuring salt and pepper shakers, toothpicks and vials of various hot sauces were lined up in the same pattern as always. Nobody wanted to sit at the tables closest to the public restrooms, but the rest were home to their fair share of regulars.

Wynne stepped out of the restrooms with her telephone at her ear. She let out a few grunts that were alternately affirmative and dismissive as she walked back to the pool table. On her way there, she nodded a Howdy to Wyatt Elliott, the owner of the largest hardware store in all of MacLean County, who had just finished eating lunch.

"Yuh, that amount sure does sound fine an' all, ain't no doubt 'bout that, Mista, but- haw?"

Moving past a few empty tables, Wynne nodded another Howdy to Nancy Tranh Nguyen, the charming, twenty-something Vietnamese-American lady who had moved into the new section of Goldsboro the past summer. The talented artist worked on a charcoal drawing while she enjoyed a bean sprout salad and sipped a Pineapple Perfection.

Wynne eventually made it over to the refrigerators where she took another six-pack of H.E. Fenwyck Double-Zero non-alcoholic beer. She turned around to take a brief glance at Diego Benitez, her neighbor from the trailer park, who chalked his cue while attempting to find the best angle for his next shot.

"Yuh, that be all fine an' good, Mista," Wynne continued into the telephone, "but Lawrdie, it jus' ain't fer sale. Haw?  Yuh, I know ev'rythin' is fer sale fer da right price an' all, but this one ain't. Who done tole y'all 'bout it, anyhows?  It ain't public knowledge that- haw?  Tuckah Garfield?  Okeh… but whodahell tole him?"

While the caller continued to talk into Wynne's ear, she shuffled over to the nearest table and put down the six-pack. The conversation had the signs of evolving into a lengthy one, so she pulled out a chair and sat down.

"Yuh, okeh, but lissen… it sure ain't da only 'seventy-nine K-ten on da market, ya know?  An' it's in bits an' pieces. Yuh, I know y'all done tole me it wus fer a restora-shun project, but-"

Wynne's eyes narrowed down into slits as the caller mentioned the sum he was willing to fork out - the old saying of If It Sounds To Good To Be True, Chances Are It's B.S. echoed through her mind.

"Hold 'em hosses, pardnah, y'all jus' done offah'd me fo'ah an' a half grand fer a box o' nuts an' bolts, a rusty frame an' a forty-five-year-old three-fifty vee-eight that got an oil-smokin' problem an' don't always run on all eight?"

The late-forty-something, somewhat rotund Diego gave up pretending not to eavesdrop on Wynne's conversation. The news made him let out a surprised grunt that made his pitch-black mustache flutter out. Always dressed for a long-range trek through the desert so he wouldn't need to go home to change whenever he got the urge to go hunting, he wore trekking boots, tan cargo pants featuring desert camouflage, and a tan tunic that he had hand-dyed himself to give it the proper sandy shade. The rest of his hunting gear, including his thirty-aught-six rifle, was out in his old Ford F150 workhorse truck.

When he realized he had used up most of the piece of chalk to dust the tip of his rental cue, he put down the small cube and leaned over the pool table to get back to what he was there for.

"Yuh, okeh," Wynne said into the telephone, "lemme get back ta ya. Okeh?  I jus' need-a ask somebodda 'bout som'tin that be sorta, kinda related ta this he' deal. I'mma-gonn' call ya back in half an hou'ah or so. Yuh?  Awright. Bah-bah, Mista."

After closing the connection, she stuffed the telephone into her rear pocket and began tapping her fingers repeatedly on the table top. She just sat there, tapping and staring, tapping and staring, tapping and staring. The six-pack was left unattended which didn't happen often.

Diego observed her silently until his curiosity couldn't be contained any longer. "Hell, Wynne, you can't go around and say things like that and then not fill in the blanks!"

"Haw?  Oh… yuh," Wynne said before she returned to tapping and staring. She finally had the mental surplus to unwrap and open a can of Double Zero with a Pssssshhht!  "Somebodda I ain't nevah met or nuttin' jus' offah'd me fo'ah an' a half grand fer mah ol' K-ten."

"And?"

"An' nuttin'."

"Damn, four and a half grand!  That's one helluva wad of cash."

Wynne had come prepared for a grand day of pool in the shape of her top-of-the-line cue that had won countless games in the important Inter-City Pool Tournament held several times a year between teams from pool clubs in Cavanaugh Creek, Barton City and even tiny Goldsboro.

Getting up but remaining dead-silent, Wynne took the expensive stick out of its protective sleeve and leaned it against the edge of the pool table so no harm would come to it. "Yuh, surely is," she finally said after draining half the can in one swig, "but that ol' thing be mah restora-shun project, yuh?  Mah hobby. Y'all got yer huntin' an' I got mah Nascah-r an' mah ol' truck."

"Yeah, but you also own Joe-Bob Millard's old 'seventy-six Eldorado, dontcha?  Or did you sell it?  I haven't seen it since we dragged it out of the desert after the old Manbeast fell ill."

"Naw, I still got it. It be up at Fat-Butt's. Whenevah we fix one darn thing, two mo' trubbel-spots turn up. It ain't fun no mo' an' I sure can't work on it mahself. I need them profes-shunnal powah tools an' whatnots. Ain't gonn' happen, but it still gonn' be one o' them there parade vee-hickels when it be done."

Diego let out a grunt and scratched his neck. "All right, I see the problem. Have you checked out Cletus's lots lately?  Maybe there's a newer truck you could buy and tinker with instead of the old K-ten?"

"Yuh, 's whut I done tole that there callah there. I'mma-gonn' call ol' Cletus in a li'l while ta he'ah whut they got in stock an' all. Haw, ain't no time like da present, yuh?"  Wynne said and swapped the beer can for her telephone - she had soon found the number in the registry.

"Lessee whut gonn' come outta it- Whah, howdy, Cletus!  How's it hangin', pardnah?" she said as she leaned her rear-end against the shelves that held the rental cues and the other paraphernalia used to play the game. "Haw, that sure be good ta know, yessirree. Lissen, I done wondah'd if y'all mebbe had an old General Motahs vee-hickel that you really ain't int'rested in havin' around or some such?  Mebbe a- aw, nuttin'?  Nuttin' at all?  Shoot. Haw, no pardnah, I sure ain't got the hots fer no Nissah-n. It don't mattah none how coo' it done looks, Cletus. It be G-M or ferget it. An' y'all be sayin' ferget it?  Dang. Okeh, tawk ta ya latah, buddy."

"I guess it's time for plan B," Diego said with a shrug.

"That sure ain't no lie. Plan B-fer-beer, dontchaknow," Wynne said and drained the rest of the Double-Zero in two gulps. "An' now it gonn' be Plan P-for-pool," she continued and lined up her cue.

---

Wynne's mind was on the $4500 offer rather than on the game, so even her relatively inexperienced opponent Diego was able to score several points against her before it culminated in a rare defeat over an entire round.

Grinning, Diego picked up their $5 wager that would be just enough to cover his next draft of dark lager from A.J. 'Slow' Lane.

While Diego took care of business up at the bar counter, Wynne pulled out a chair and sat down. She propped her head up on her arm and practiced her finger-tapping and thousand-mile staring - that she happened to be looking at the H.E. Fenwyck shelf inside the nearest refrigerator was a coincidence.

After a long moment, she found her telephone and went through the Recent Calls list to find the number for the person who had offered her the large sum of money for the vehicular jigsaw puzzle parked permanently on the lawn between the trailers. "Howdy, Mista. Yuh, this he' be Wynne Donnah-hew ag'in. I reckon we might be able ta find common ground regardin' that K-ten. Yuh. Okeh, fo'ah an' a half grand. Yuh. In cash. Yuh. How we gonn' do this on a practical level?  Where y'all at, anyhows?  Maynard Bluff, okeh. That be 'bout, shoot… uh… uh… a buncha miles north o' where the K-ten is at. Only I ain't got no flatbed or- y'all do?  Thru' Tuckah Garfield?  Okeh. Yuh, then how 'bout all y'all swingin' bah tamorrah mornin' at ten or so?  Naw, I can't make it taday. Naw. Yuh, nine-thirty gonn' work jus' fine as well, yessir. Yessir. Okeh, we got usselves a deal, then. I'mma-gonn' put all them loose bits an' pieces in a buncha boxes so y'all don't hafta run yerself ragged doin' that tamorrah. Yuh. Okeh, catch ya then. Bah-bah."

While Wynne spoke, Goldie poked her head out of the doggy-cave underneath the pool table to see what all the talking had been about.

"Howdy there, Goldie, mah bayu-tiful li'l dawggie!" Wynne said and reached down to apply some loving fur-rubbing. "Wouldya bah-lieve, I jus' done sole mah ol' Chevrolet K-ten. Yes, Ma'am, I sure did. I didden reckon I wus gonn', but fo'ah an' a half grand fer that ol' semi-wreck is jus' too good ta be walkin' away from."

Goldie let out a series of yaps that meant 'Well, that's nice, but I really don't care either way as long as you feed me three times a day and give me somewhere to sleep and a few toys I can play with and gnaw on.'  Nothing further seemed to happen, so she performed a doggy-shrug and withdrew to the cave where a few sticks of chicken jerky and some fresh water waited for her.

Standing up straight once more, Wynne started biting her lip. "Haw… mebbe I oughtta have somebodda from da long arm o' da law with me jus' in case them folks ain't playin' fair?  Mebbe Quick Draw… yuh. I reckon I'mma-gonn' ask her."

The big news deserved to be shared, so Wynne began scouting for Diego. All she found of her friend was an abandoned glass of beer up on the counter, but A.J.'s gestures seemed to suggest Diego had needed to visit the restroom in a hurry. Nodding and grinning, Wynne gave the hard-working short-order cook a big thumbs-up in return.

If Diego wasn't available, Mandy certainly would be, and Wynne moved out onto the sidewalk. She needed to wait for a delivery truck from Allied Parcel to drive past before she could cross Main Street. While she waited, she saw one of the most unusual sights she had ever seen in Goldsboro - and that statement carried a great deal of weight considering the array of ultra-bizarre things that had taken place in and around town.

For a change, the thing that had caught her eye wasn't a UFO, a zombie cannibal, a fanged bat creature, a 50-foot-tall desert dweller or even a one-foot green goblin with a mile-wide nasty streak, but a fit, young, African-American fellow riding a super-fast sports bicycle.

As the man controlling the greased lightning came to a halt in front of Moira's Bar & Grill, Wynne needed to rub her eyes to make sure she wasn't seeing things. The twenty-something fellow who climbed off the two-wheeled contraption wore sneakers, tan cargo pants, a gray winter jacket, bicycle gloves and a black bicycle helmet with a chin guard and a reflective visor that only revealed the lower half of his face including a neatly-groomed mouth beard.

Wynne regained her manners and stopped staring just at the right moment. The bicycle-rider stared back at the dame in denim at first, but soon removed the helmet and came over to her.

"Whah, howdy, son!" Wynne said as she pumped the man's arm up and down in the traditional greeting. "Wynne Donnah-hew's mah name!  Ohhh-riginally outtah Shallah Pond, Texas but latterly o' li'l ol' Goldsborah. I don't reckon I done seen y'all he' in town befo'?"

"You haven't. I just moved in late last night. I'm Keshawn Williams, the owner-"

"Haw!  That there new second-hand sto'ah!  Awright!  Lemme tell ya som'tin, Mista Williams, li'l ol' Goldsborah ain't had nuttin' like that fer too dang long. We used ta have som'tin similar a decade or mo' ago, but that there ol' fella who done owned it wus in real shitty health so it hadda close down an' all. Yuh. It wus really too dog-gone bad 'cos there wus always som'tin int'restin' there fer anyone ta look at, yuh?  But then his family come an' done hauled it all away 'cos they didden wanna continue the sto'ah so they done sole da whole kit an' caboodle at auctions an' them things. Haw, there gonn' be a buncha way happy locals comin' bah yer sto'ah, that sure ain't no lie!"

Keshawn's eyes grew wider and wider as the tall dame in denim went through her lengthy, rambling monologue. When he realized she had stopped speaking, he broke out in a series of nods. "Well, that's certainly good news. Uh… I hope my store can measure up to the old one. We'll definitely have a lot of different products on our shelves. Everything from A to Z and back again. The prices will start at one dollar for the first two days-"

"Lawrdie, if that ain't awesome, I ain't sure whut would be!" Wynne said with a grin - the grin turned pensive when a surprise thought entered her mind. "Aw… Keshawn… I need-a ask y'all 'bout som'tin… 'R ya associated with one o' them there reli-guss organiza-shuns or som'tin?  'Cos if y'all is, it might put a crimp in yer plans an 'all."

Keshawn had already begun to shake his head even before Wynne had finished. "No. This is a private company. It's not connected to any kind of organization or charity for that matter. I buy directly from customers who come to my two stores, but I also go to warehouse auctions and-"

"Haw!  Like on teevee?"

"Pretty much, yes," Keshawn said with a smile.

"Yuh, okeh. Coo'," Wynne said before she pointed at the sports bicycle. "Haw, that be some kind o' rocketship y'all got there. Ain't no horsepowah but pedal-powah!  How fast wus y'all goin', ya reckon?"

"Oh, probably close to forty. It comes very easily. The gearing's a little low because I've used it on the hilly streets where I lived before."

"Haw!  Adjustable fih-nal drih-ve ratio!  Coo'!  But, jus' so ya know, we kinda got a speed limit o' twentah-five miles per hou'ah he' in town an' all. I reckon that gotta count fer them bikes as well, yuh?  An' one o' them there de-per-ties is called Quick Draw fer a reason. She jus' luuuuuuuves writin' them fihhhh-nes, lemme tell ya!"

"Oh…" Keshawn said and glanced over at the sheriff's office just across the street.

Wynne followed his line of sight and broke out in a chuckle. "Yuh. Woudden wanna see y'all get in trubbel on yer first day he', ya know!"

"Yeah…"

"Haw, I got an ideah!" Wynne said and smacked her hands together to underscore just how good it was. "Whah don't we go ovah ta them de-per-ties an' Sheriff Mandy an' intra-dooce y'all to 'em?  They be a friendly bunch an' it be one off'em's birthdy an' ev'rythin'… yuh?  I jus' gotta get mah othah dawg an' then we can be on ou'ah way an' all."

"Uh… sure. I better lock my bike, then…"

Wynne broke out in a chuckle. "Aw, ya don't hafta do that, Keshawn. Ain't nobodda 'round he' knows whaddindahell that there greased lightnin' even is, anyhows!  Dontcha be goin' nowheah, this only gonn' take a second, yuh?  I be off!"

-*-*-*-

Across the street, Mandy had most of a pinkie finger stuffed into her auditory canal to pick up what was being said at the other end of a telephone conversation. The typical Goldsborian chaos had broken out all around her, and she sent several dark glares at Barry Simms whose coughing fit threatened to break all records - it didn't help that Beatrice repeatedly thumped Barry on the back with the best of intentions.

Down on the floor, Blackie took a leaf out of her doggy companion Goldie's book by burying her head in her paws - not because she was frightened of the violent coughing, but because the constant wall of noise threatened to inflict permanent harm to her sensitive hearing.

The fit had started when a poorly cut slice of tobacco had gone down the wrong pipe - or to be precise, the correct pipe when it came to the gruesome, foul-smelling smoke the home-rolled cigarettes produced, but the wrong one for any solid objects - and had become stuck to one of the soft, inner walls. The soundtrack had turned more and more gross as Barry hacked, rattled and coughed to get the tobacco back up.

And in the middle of all that, Mandy's personal telephone started ringing - the caller-ID said HQ Barton City.

Beatrice had been prompted to come to her colleague's assistance when Barry's face had turned an unhealthy shade of blue. Rolling up her shirtsleeves, she held nothing back in playing an eight-movement symphony on his back with a pair of clenched fists, the roots of her hands and even her elbows. By now, the unhealthy shade of blue had turned an even unhealthier shade of purple, but that was generally to be considered progress.

The coughing fit continued at a volume close to that of a fully-loaded, jumbo-sized dump truck trying to drive up from the world's deepest quarry, so Mandy shook her head in despair and tore open the sticking front door. The gross hacking followed her out onto the sidewalk, so she needed to move half a dozen yards away from the office to hear but a single word of the conversation. "I apologize for the interruption. It couldn't be helped. You were saying?"

'Sheriff, you may recognize my voice, but please don't mention any names. I'm stationed at the headquarters of the MacLean County Sheriff's Department in Barton City. This is a heads-up and it's way, way off the record.'

"I see. Go on," Mandy said, already trying to put a face on the voice. She only knew a small handful of people up at the seven-story building that housed the headquarters, but the voice didn't seem to belong to any of them - still, it seemed familiar somehow. She rubbed her chin as the thought processes continued.

'Your presentation at the conference certainly made a few heads spin. I was there as well, but I just couldn't find the time to introduce myself.'

"I see…"

'I'm afraid I need to add to your workload. I have some leaked files on my desk that suggest a large-scale, multi-departmental field exercise is going to take place within the next few days.'

"That wasn't the response I had hoped for," Mandy said in a voice that she tried to keep as neutral as possible - a throbbing vein on her forehead offered a strong hint of what was really going on behind her cool, professional exterior.

'I can imagine. I tried sending you the little I've managed to scrape together by fax, but-'

"We don't have a fax machine here in the Goldsboro office."

'Oh… still not?  That would explain it.'

Mandy let out a grunt as the penny dropped, the lights went on, the pieces of the puzzle fell into place and the ducks lined up in perfect order - in short, she remembered the identity of the caller: it could only be Walter 'Wally' Thompson, jr., a fellow who had worked in the Goldsboro sheriff's office as Junior Deputy for a short while. Thompson had transferred out because he couldn't accept the crude ways of Artie Rains and his sleazy cronies like Thomas 'Tom Thumb' Kincaid.

The grunt made the caller say: 'I knew it wouldn't take you long to make the connection, Sheriff, but please… no names.'

"My lips are sealed," Mandy said with a smile.

'If you don't have a fax machine, I need your office's email-address to send the-'

"I'm afraid we don't have one of those either. You'll have to send it to my personal account," Mandy said as she turned around to glance at the trio crossing Main Street: Wynne, an apprehensive Goldie and a man whom she had yet to meet.

'Oh… no, I can't do that. It would tie me directly to the leak… not to mention break several federal guidelines on data protection. That won't work.'

"All right. In that case, you'll have to send the information sheets by express courier. Perhaps you could just give me the most important bullet points now?"

'Well… this is all strictly off-off-off-the-record, you understand?  You haven't heard anything from anyone about anything whatsoever.'

"I understand."

'All right. The exercise has been titled Operation Finesse And Fortitude. An urgent communique sent by the FBI field office in Salt Lake City requests that all counties in northern and central Nevada be on the look-out for a pair of escaped convicts who've been on the run since four o'clock this morning… and the phrasing of 'this morning' isn't to be taken literally. That's just how it was worded. The first man is Stephen Eugene Howard, Caucasian, twenty-nine, convicted of several counts of armed robbery.'

While the supposedly anonymous contact spoke on, Mandy dug up her trusty notepad and began jotting down everything that had been said to be able to make heads or tails of it afterward.

'The second fugitive is Miguel Alfredo, Hispanic, twenty-seven, convicted of multiple assaults with a deadly weapon. Both are to be considered armed and dangerous. The FBI suspects they're on their way to California as they both have relatives there.'

"All right. Noted."

'Oh, I'm not finished yet. The backstory is quite detailed as you may expect of an FBI exercise. And I quote. The fugitives hitched a ride with an interstate truck driver for the first stretch from Salt Lake City to the Nevada state line. Once they had made it across, they assaulted and robbed the driver but only got less than one hundred dollars out of it. Not fifteen minutes after the driver had been attacked, a charcoal-gray, late-model Acura sedan was reported stolen from a mall parking lot. Unquote.'

"I see," Mandy said as she added the next bits of information. "Very well. I greatly appreciate this heads-up."

'You're welcome. And remember, you haven't heard a thing from anyone about anything, so don't forget to act surprised when you're contacted for real. I'll get back to you if and when further documents fall onto my desk.'

"All right. Goodbye," Mandy said and closed the connection. She let out a deep sigh before she stuck the telephone, the notepad and the ball point pen into their appropriate pockets. Remembering Wynne and the unknown man, she screwed a smile on her face and turned around to greet the visitors.

"Howdy there, Sheriff Mandy!" Wynne said with a grin that faded when she caught the grim expression on her loved one's features. "Haw… wus that shitty news?"

"I can't talk about it, Wynne. It's law enforcement business. But yes, it could turn out that way."

The somber tone to her owner's voice made Goldie let out a whimper and duck behind Wynne's denim-clad legs.

"Haw… shoot. Okeh. This he' fine fella be Keshawn Williams," Wynne said and gestured at the man next to her. "He be the owner o' that there new second-hand sto'ah, dontchaknow."

"Hello, Mr. Williams, I'm Sheriff Mandy Jalinski. Welcome to Goldsboro," Mandy said and put out her hand for the traditional shaking.

Keshawn shook it while glancing at the sheriff's office where the hacking, rattling sounds of someone's coughing fit continued to seep through the glass door. "Uh… thank you, Sheriff. Pleased to meet you. Uh… perhaps you should consider calling an ambulance…"

"The nearest ambulance is in Barton City. And we already have a qualified individual working on resolving the issue, Mr. Williams," Mandy said with a calm and professional smile. Just as she had finished speaking, the coughing fit receded followed by a long, pained groan. "I think we can go back inside now. Did you have any specific questions for the Sheriff's Department, Mr. Williams?" she continued as she held out her hand to show it was perfectly safe to venture back into the lion's den.

"Naw, that wus me," Wynne interjected. "I kinda reckoned it wus a good time ta meet them de-per-ties. Ta show we be a friendly bunch out he' in da boonies an' all."

Nodding and smiling, Mandy put her shoulder to the sticking door and shoved it open with great force - which made Keshawn break out in another wide-eyed stare - before she stepped aside to allow her guests access.

Goldie zipped inside first and dove for cover up against Blackie's strong body. The dogs soon rubbed shoulders to show that everything would be just fine now they were together.

Wynne took it more sedately but eventually rested a buttock on the corner of the watch desk. Keshawn came last and seemed a little timid in the face of the chaotic conditions inside.

After the coughing fit, Barry had thrown himself into the hard chair at the watch desk. The floppy slouch, the horrendous state of his hair and uniform, the glob of saliva on his chin and the grotesque shade of purple that tainted his facial skin proved he had been through the wringer - and on his birthday, no less. He just sat there with eyes as wide as saucers as he tried to recuperate from the fit and the merciless timpani solo Beatrice had played on his upper back.

"Mr. Williams, meet Deputy Barry Simms," Mandy said and pointed at Barry whose only response was a shaky wave. "Deputy Simms usually sits at the watch desk, but you'll also see him around town. Wipe your chin, Deputy."

"Hello, Deputy," Keshawn said, looking at anything but the glob of saliva on Barry's chin.

Exactly on cue, Beatrice Reilly came back into the office after washing her hands following the success of saving Barry by beating him black and blue. Her intense eyes quickly surveyed the scene before she strode through the office while rolling down her shirtsleeves.

Mandy continued: "And this is Junior Deputy Sheriff Beatrice Reilly."

Keshawn stepped forward and put out his hand at once. "Keshawn Williams, Deputy Reilly. I'm the owner of the new second-hand store. Pleased to meet you."

"And you, Sir," Beatrice said as they shook hands. She had a puzzled expression in her eyes as she looked to Mandy for an update regarding the telephone call. "Sheriff, was it Mr. Williams who called you?"

"No, the two are unrelated. I'll update you in a moment," Mandy said as she moved back to the sticking door. "Mr. Williams, Senior Deputy Sheriff Gonzalez is on foot patrol so I'm afraid you'll have to meet him later."

"Sure. No problem," Keshawn said and moved over to the opened door. Once he got there, he snapped his fingers and turned back. "Oh, I almost forgot… do you have an employment office or job center in Goldsboro?  A truck will deliver the first load of merchandise for my shop in an hour or so, and I could definitely need more manpower to unload it. Kenny Tobin and Ritchie Lee have agreed to be there, but-"

"Haw!" Wynne said and broke out in a snicker. "I woudden ha' ol' Ritchie Fumble-Fingahs anywhe'ah neah valuable items if I wus y'all, Keshawn. He sure ain't known fer his hand-ta-eye co-ordina-shun, if y'all know whut I mean."

"Uh… yeah, I noticed when he managed to drop the sandwich-sign on his foot… but he's all I got right now. Did you have an employment office here?"

Mandy shook her head. "I'm afraid we don't, Mr. Williams, but if you're willing to offer a few beers as compensation, I'm pretty sure Miss Donohue here would like to help."

"Oh?"

"Haw!  That sure ain't no lie, nosirree!" Wynne cried and waved her cowboy hat high in the air. "O' course, I ain't gonn' provide no man-powah, but I reckon woman-powah might be even bettah, yuh?  An' there ain't nuttin' ta get a natural thirst goin' like manual lab'ah. Count me in, Mista!"

The moment of positivity was broken by none other than Barry who suddenly began coughing again. Most of the others drew a deep breath to yell at him - or to have enough air to make a swift escape - but it proved to be a false alarm. He soon reached for his cigarettes to continue to feed his unhealthy habit.

"Oh, fer cryin' out loud, Barry… dontcha reckon y'all oughttah lay off'em coffin nails?" Wynne said, shaking her head. Before the Mushroom Cloud of Foul-Smelling Doom would rise from the cigarette and stink up the entire office, she jumped off the corner of the watch deck and put her hand on Keshawn's shoulder. "Anyhows. Y'all got yerself a deal there, pardnah. C'mon ovah ta Moira's. There be plenty othah folks y'all need-a meet. An' I bet ol' Diegoh be int'rested in hearin' 'bout yer offah, too. Tawk ta ya latah, Sheriff Mandy!  We be gone!  Bah-bah!"

-*-*-*-

One hour and forty-three minutes later, Wynne and Diego strolled around at a leisurely tempo on the sidewalk in front of Keshawn's Second-Hand Treasures store. They had been joined by a trio of teenagers - Kenny Tobin, Ritchie Lee and even Torsten 'Tor' Jensen, the kid behind the prank calls that had nearly turned Goldsboro on its ear the previous summer - who had been lured in by the promise of being paid in beer.

The reason for the forty-three-minute delay relative to the original scheduled time when the truck was supposed to have arrived was being discussed by Keshawn Williams and an unidentified caller at the other end of the connection.

Being the elders among the group, Wynne and Diego soon claimed one of the white benches put up by the Goldsboro Town Council in the hope of attracting tourists. Why anyone would think that a wooden bench of a forgettable design could do that had never been thoroughly investigated, but that was Goldsboro in a nutshell. Goldie rested between them with her furry head nestled in her owner's lap.

Wynne's matte-black Chevrolet Silverado was parked at the curb ten yards or so further down Main Street from Keshawn's new store. To save everyone's backs, Wynne had put the six six-packs of liquid wages down in the footwell between the seats: one was a pack of Double-Zeros for herself, one was a pack of Dark Lagers for Diego, and the final four were split equally between root beers and ginger ales for the minors among them - however, she intended to keep that secret to herself until after the heavy lifting had been completed.

Keshawn rolled his eyes several times as he listened to the truck driver undoubtedly whining in his ear. "But when do you expect to be here, then?" he finally said. "Another fifteen minutes?  Man, you better be here. That's all I'm saying!  'Cos I have a group of people sitting on their hands waiting for you to show up, that's why!"

Chuckling, Wynne leaned over to nudge Diego's side and then point at the young man speaking over the telephone. The hunter grinned and nodded at the one-sided conversation.

"So, anyhows," Wynne said as she pulled her cowboy hat down to cover her eyes a bit better, "how y'all gettin' along with ol' Freddie… or mebbe I oughttah say, how is ol' Freddie these he' days?  We hear him now an' then but sure don't see him offen."

Diego reached down to give Goldie's fur a little rub - the Golden Retriever let out a happy yap to show that she appreciated the attention. "He's still a bit spooked around people, but he's getting better on a daily basis. When Goldie and Blackie played with him Sunday evening, he was in his element. He stormed around out back like you wouldn't believe."

"Yuh, them dawggies always did have a spe-shul rela-shun-ship an' all. Lawrdie, I ain't nevah fergettin' las' Halloween when I done thunk that ol' Blackie had gone ta da great doggy-park in da skah… Mercy Sakes, that evenin' took ten years outta mah life, that did… haw, lookie there, Diegoh!"

Wynne's outburst made everyone crane their necks to look south on Main Street. Down at the farthest end of Goldsboro, a large delivery truck had just gone past the perforated city limits sign and drove northbound at no more than five miles per hour.

"That's my truck," Keshawn said and folded his arms over his chest.

"Lawrdie, if he ain't nevah been drivin' no fastah than that, it sure ain't no wondah it done took 'im that long ta get he'. Holy smokes, he sure ain't be leanin' on that there loud pedal or nuttin'. I be walkin' fastah than that when I be out airin' mah dawggies…"

Yap!

"Yuh, like I done said, Goldie," Wynne said and rubbed the golden fur.

Just to prove Wynne right, the artist Nancy Nguyen exited Moira's Bar & Grill and walked north on the sidewalk at the exact same time. In spite of the large portfolio she carried under her arm that contained the charcoal drawing she had been working on as well as all the pre-production sketches, she was able to keep up with the large delivery truck as it lumbered along Main Street.

Watching from afar, Wynne noticed that Nancy gawked at the truck as if she couldn't quite understand what was going on. "Aw… an' now he done stopped altogethah. He prolly be askin' Nancy fer direc-shuns or som'tin," Wynne said, holding up a hand to shield her eyes from the sun.

"That moron," Keshawn mumbled as he stomped out into the middle of Main Street and began waving his arms high and wide to catch his driver's attention.

"Haw!  Wynne Donnah-hew ta da rescue!" Wynne said and got up from the bench. She was at Keshawn's side in an instant and promptly whipped off her hat. "C'mon, Diegoh, let's show 'em how us Goldsborians wave!  Boys, all y'all too!"

Chuckling, Diego shuffled out to the others and began to wave at the driver. Kenny, Ritchie and Tor were somewhat more hesitant than the older members of the MacLean County Synchronized Hand-Waving Team, but they eventually joined the others.

Goldie remained on the bench staring at the peculiar humans. When they began hooting, hollering and chanting as well, she let out a croaked Yappppp?! and buried her face in her paws.

Not a minute later, the delivery truck came to a halt on the opposite side of Main Street. Its size meant it needed to pull a five-point turn to make a U, but it got there in the end. The driver's boots had barely touched the asphalt before Keshawn put an arm around his shoulders and led him inside the store for a brief but colorful talk in private.

Wynne chuckled as the two men came back out a couple of minutes later. A pair of veins bulged on Keshawn's forehead, and the driver's face looked redder than a baboon's rear-end.

"Yuh, it done happens, son. Dontcha worry none 'bout it now. Y'all be he' an' that be da most impahrtant, yuh?" Wynne said as she and the driver moved over to the truck.

She took a step back as the leading edge of the pneumatic ramp lowered to the ground so they could get on with business. Once it had brought her back upstairs, she entered the cargo compartment to have a quick look-see. "Okeh, les' offload this he' truck, fellas. Diegoh, there be some furni-chure an' stuff. That be fer us, yuh?  K.T., y'all an' Tor gonn' carry some electronics stuff I see ovah yondah. Aw, an' there be a buncha clothes, too. In plastic bags an' that be even bettah. Ritchie, ya reckon ya can handle bags of clothes?"

"Yes, Ma'am," the gangly, spotty Ritchie said - his voice broke at the exact wrong moment which created a torrent of bright-red splashing onto his cheeks and a torrent of jeering from his teen friends.

"Watch who ya be callin' Ma'am, son!" Wynne said and let out a large guffaw. "Okeh, les'get to it. Like the ol' song done said, we got a long way ta go an' a shohhh-rt time ta get there. An' then there be beers fer all!"

An enthusiastic cry of "Yay!" soon echoed between the eager volunteers as they rolled up their proverbial sleeves to get on with the program.

---

"Root beer?" -- "Ginger ale?!" Kenny Tobin and Tor Jensen said in unison. They stared at the cans in raw disbelief before they looked up at the grinning Wynne.

"Yuh. Y'all be minahs, 'membah?  Lawrdie, givin' real beer ta minahs is one o' them there biggah no-nos. Haw, Sheriff Mandy would pin and stretch mah hide ovah da fi'ahplace if I done gave all y'all real beer," Wynne said and cracked open a Double-Zero with a Psshhhht!  "Drink up, fellas!  There be plenty mo' where them cans came from!"

"This blows. I'm outta here," Tor said and stuffed his hands into his pants pockets. "D'you guys wanna come over and play God Of War Two?  I just downloaded the Troy expansion pack the other day. It's got some way cool new graphics for kills."

"You betcha!" Kenny said and put down the untouched can of root beer.

Ritchie shook his head while he held onto his ginger ale that just happened to be his favorite soft drink. "Can't, Tor… I promised my mom I'd be home for supper today. And we eat supper at four-thirty 'cos she works evenings."

"Okay," Tor said, "I'll Mess you a little later, then."

As the two teens shuffled off to go over to Tor's parents' place on Josiah Street in the new section of Goldsboro, Wynne narrowed her eyes, rubbed her chin and scratched her neck at Tor's odd parting comment. "Haw… he gonn' mess 'im a li'l latah?  Whaddahell-a that saposed ta mean, now?"

Diego put his hands in the air in the age-old gesture known as Don't Look At Me. "No idea, Wynne. I don't understand half the words that come out of these kids' mouths these days."

"Naw, it sure ain't like them ol' days when we wus youngah. We wus always tole ta speak clearly an' use 'em simple words so Gramma and Grampa could undahstand whut we wus sayin'… Lawrdie. O' course, that all be relative considerin' it wus back hoah-me in Shallah Pond an' all. Ain't nobodda evah done claimed us Texans spoke clearly or nuttin'. Aaaaanyhows… hey, Ritchie!"

The gangly teen looked up in a hurry, clearly worried that he had done something wrong. "Uh… yes?"

"Y'all gotta help us cuppel-a oldies he'. Whaddinda-wohhhhh-rld does mess ya latah mean?"

Ritchie furrowed his brow as he parsed the question. When the meaning had become clear to him, he broke out in a smile. "It means Tor will send me an online chat message so we can… you know, chat."

"Aw… okeh," Wynne said and scratched her neck. "Much obliged, son. Whah, them tech wizards, yuh?  Nevah sittin' still, always inventin' new gadgets. Haw."

She soon drained the first of the Double-Zeros, but before she could reach for the second of the six cans, she, Diego and Goldie were joined by Blackie and Mandy who strode along like a woman on a mission.

"Lawwwwwwwwr-die, darlin'!  That there look on yer face there sure don't… uh… look too swell or nuttin'. Som'tin botherin' y'all?  Ya ain't got no toothache or nuttin', do ya?"

"No toothache. It's the same as before. I'm afraid I can't talk about it. Not yet, anyway," Mandy said quietly before she moved closer to the second-hand store. She peeked through the windows for a short while though didn't appear to find anything untoward.

When no questionable items could be seen, she moved back to Wynne and Diego. "I went on a search for case files and reports on the old second-hand store. It was years before my time here so I obviously can't verify the details, but it seems that Sheriff Pershing found several stolen items during an unrelated questioning of the owner. At least two pieces of jewelry, an expensive guitar and several wristwatches, transistor radios and the like."

"Aw…"

"When you carried the boxes of merchandise inside, did some of it strike you as being of a higher quality compared to the rest?  Did some of it appear too good to be second-hand items?"

"Y'all be tawkin' 'bout them stolen goods, aintcha?" When Mandy nodded, Wynne shook her head. "Naw, darlin'. We didden see nuttin' like that. Nuttin' at all. It wus jus' reg'lar ol' stuff. Woudden ya say so, Diegoh?"

"Yeah," Diego said and did the opposite of Wynne - he nodded. "Honestly, I didn't pay that much attention to it, Sheriff. Wynne and me took care of the heavy furniture and things like that. The kids carried all the smaller items."

"The kids?"

"Yuh," Wynne said, "K.T. an' Ritchie an' that there new kid from ovah yondah who done caused all that trubbel las'year an' all… shoot, I plum fergot his- naw, I didden. Tor. Yuh."

"I see."

"That's right, Sheriff," Diego continued. "Most of it came in cardboard boxes or large plastic containers. Carrier bags with a buncha clothes. We just hauled the darn things inside," he said and threw his arms out in a wide shrug.

Wynne chimed in with a: "What he done said, darlin'."

Mandy cast a final glance at the storefront windows before she strode over to the white bench. "All right. Let's give the store and Mr. Williams a chance," she said as she sat down.

Blackie and Goldie had treated the denim-clad legs of The Last Original Cowpoke as obstacles to avoid in a living agility course, but they flew over to the bench and jumped up next to the Sheriff.

"Yuh, I reckon we oughttah," Wynne said and pushed her hat back from her brow.

"In any case," Mandy continued, "I'd like to invite you both to Deputy Simms' birthday extravaganza. There'll be fresh coffee and hot chocolate, whipped cream, several different types of cookies and a top-of-the-line layer cake. Miss MacKay has promised to send someone over with the beverages and a wide selection of the sugary treats at four PM sharp."

"Yuh, I know, darlin'!  That there goodie-wranglah there gonn' be yours truly," Wynne said with a grin that vanished like the morning dew when she happened to cast a glance at the clock on her smartphone - the hands of time had moved around to five to four without anyone noticing. "Holy shit… holy shittt!  Moira been waitin' fer me fer da past fi'teen minnits!  Awwwww, this ain't good… nosirree, this ain't good at all!  I gotta hussel!"

Without even saying Bah-bah to her friends, Wynne took off at a furious pace and hurried along the sidewalk to get back to Moira's Bar & Grill in time. She had already gone clear past her matte-black Silverado when she came to a screeching halt, spun around, raced back to it and jumped behind the wheel. The large truck soon came alive with a roar - then she was gone in a flash.

Mandy and Diego shared a long, knowing look before they set off for the sheriff's office. Down on the ground, Blackie and Goldie mirrored the Humans with a long, knowing look of their own. As everyone moved along at a rather more sedate pace than Wynne, the humans chuckled and the dogs woofed at the exact same time and for the exact same reason.

*
*
CHAPTER 4

Wynne's ears continued to ring as she wheeled a food cart across the sidewalk to get to the point at the alley where the curb was at its lowest. The typically fiery Moira Mackay had told her a few dozen truths over the course of a three-minute timespan while they loaded the cakes and the various thermos' onto the cart - all of it true, and all Wynne could say as her response was an endless line of Yes, Ma'am, No, Ma'am and Sure Ain't Gonn' Happen Ag'in, Ma'am.

The cart's top shelf saw two thermos' of steaming-hot coffee and two of even hotter chocolate. Two cake boxes were filled with cupcakes while another two held assorted butter cookies of which some were nutty and some not. A large box that featured a humorous sketch of a traditional birthday cake on the lid contained a professional layer cake made with plenty of whipped cream, raspberry filling and dozens of multi-colored chocolate buttons.

The lower shelf carried a six-pack of Summer Dreamz Pineapple Perfection that Wynne had snatched from the refrigerators as a last-minute gift for Barry as well as all the napkins, spoons, cake forks, cups, saucers and dessert plates needed for the big birthday extravaganza.

If the curb on the western side of Main Street had offered no problems, its distant cousin on the eastern side was a different story altogether. There were no approach ramps or flat surfaces within easy reach - the closest was nearly ninety yards further up Main Street at the corner of the alley next to Grant Lafferty's store - so Wynne faced the hairy prospect of elevating the fully-laden cart over 6-and-a-half inches of curbing without rattling any of the cakes or spilling a drop of the beverages.

"Dang-blasted… that ain't gonn' work, nosirree," she croaked as the food cart's wheels reached the tall curb. Moving up to the other end of the cart, she tried to lift the front-end off the ground to literally mount the curb, but not only did her back send out a distress call after all the heavy lifting up at the second-hand store, all the items on the top shelf began sliding back. A cry of "Hawwwwwww-shittt!  Thar she goes!" escaped her, but she managed to avert the impending disaster by lowering it back onto the ground at once.

She stared wide-eyed at the evil curb for several seconds before she whipped off her beloved cowboy hat and wiped her brow on her jacket sleeve. "That there darn thing there ain't got no clue whoindahell it be dealin' with!  This he' be Wynne Donnah-hew an' she ain't backin' down fer nuttin'!  Nuttin', I tell ya! Y'all bettah not be tryin' nuttin' sh-toopid or I'mma-gonn' kick yer bee-hind from he' ta Kingdom Dang-Blasted Come, ya he'ah?  Okeh, so les'do this!"

Trying a different approach, Wynne took a firm two-hand grip on the sides of the food cart and proceeded to lift it off the ground. Her plan worked really well for the first inch and even for the second, but the third was her undoing.

The cart began to tilt as she hadn't taken into consideration that all the weight - namely the thermos' and the six-pack of sodas - were down at the back-end of the shelves. "Aw… haw… haw!  Hawww!" she uttered as she took a step sideways to compensate for the shift in the point of balance. One step wasn't enough so a second followed at once. Then the cart began to tilt in the other direction. "Hawwww!  Ya ain't- ya ain't- ya sure is!  Awwww-sombitch!"

Wynne's subconscious tried to alert the rest of her being to lower the cart onto the ground before it was too late, but the urgent request was slow in getting through to her hands. As the cart tilted back in the first direction, Wynne couldn't move her feet fast enough which resulted in her boots knocking into each other - in turn, this caused the cart to touch down with the grace of a Floridian Waddlebird landing in a headwind on a choppy lake.

The thermos' and the Pineapple Perfections clanged and rattled, the cake boxes were thrown around, and two teaspoons, a coffee cup and a saucer vacated their quarters on the lower shelf and made a run for freedom. The metal spoons survived with a few scratches, but the coffee cup wound up as triplets and the single flying saucer performed a miraculous act by splitting into two perfect halves.

As the last of the fragments settled down, Wynne sucked on her teeth wondering why that sort of thing always seemed to happen to her. Admitting defeat, she shuffled over to the sheriff's office to ask for help.

---

Two minutes later - without further hassle save for sweeping up the sorry remains out on the street - Wynne began distributing the remaining napkins, cups, saucers, dessert plates, cake forks and teaspoons to the desks inside the office. "Much obliged, De-per-ty Quick Draw. 'S like I always done said, yuh?  There ain't nuttin' us wimmenfolk cant' do when we work tagethah," she said as she put a full set of tableware on Beatrice Reilly's desk.

"You're welcome," Beatrice said with a smile. She quickly rearranged some paperwork to have room for the dessert plates she had been given.

Barry sat at the watch desk beaming at the prospects of getting some cake and more hot chocolate. He even abstained from smoking; the rapid-fire motion of his jaw proving he had sprung for the nicotine chewing gum instead despite its somewhat unfortunate side-effects with regards to the over-achieving production of gastric gases.

Rodolfo had withdrawn to the crew room to prepare for the big reveal of Salacious Suzette later on. Mandy sat behind her own desk with a dark, concerned expression on her face that was the polar opposite of the festive spirit found elsewhere in the office.

Noticing her partner's gloomy expression, Wynne leaned in to speak to Mandy's ears only: "Whazzup, darlin'?  I ain't sure I like that there expres-shun on yer face an' all… I wish y'all would tell me what be botherin' ya."

"It's police business, Wynne," Mandy said and let out a long sigh.

"Yuh, so y'all keep tellin' me, but-"

"I'm sorry. I don't want to make it public yet because it'll undoubtedly cause unrest in town. Suffice to say we may have trouble coming our way."

Wynne's eyes briefly grew wide before they went on a rolling tour of the ceiling instead. "Awww-shoot… y'all gotta be pullin' mah leg!  Not mo' crittahs?!"

"Of the human sort, yes."

"Ugh, ugh an' anothah ugh. Them's the worst kind. We done kicked plentah of crittah buhhh-tt alreddy, but… ya know. Human buhhh-tt ain't so easy ta kick," Wynne said before she happened to eye a set of second-generation photocopies on the desk. The top sheet carried the seals of the FBI and the Utah State Police. Below the header, several lines of bold text as well as a pair of side-by-side mug shots seemed to indicate that someone was wanted in connection with some kind of crime. "Haw… bad folks comin'?"

"Yes and no. These gentlemen are escaped convicts. They're being chased by the FBI through Utah and into Nevada."

"Shoot… that be all we done needed he' in Goldsborah."

Mandy let out a long sigh. She propped her head up on her arm while she gazed intently at Wynne. It was a very unusual look for her, and one she didn't hold long. "Hon, you need to promise me that you'll keep quiet about this. And I mean it. Not one word to anyone."

"Haw!  Cross mah heart, hope ta choke on a peanit," Wynne said as she took off her hat to show her 100% sincerity.

"These gentlemen," Mandy continued, tapping on the information sheets, "also happen to be FBI agents."

"Haw…"

"They're actors in a vast exercise that involves the FBI, their Airborne Assault Unit, the Utah State Police, the Nevada State Police and the local office of the MacLean County Sheriff's Department… which happens to be Goldsboro."

"Awwwww-shittt… somebodda gotta be soft in da noggin!  Y'all got three de-per-ties… them foo's organizin' this can't be serious!"

Mandy sighed again and flipped the info sheets over so only their blank rear sides were visible. "They're serious. It's not official yet, but it will be. Soon. And then we'll have so much crap here in town that we'll be wishing for a monster to show up and stomp on it all."

"Aw-man… jus' when ya figger'd it coudden get no wohhhhh-rse or nuttin'… an' it gets wohhhhh-se," Wynne said and rubbed her temples furiously to stop the headache she just knew would come. "Ain't dat typical?  Mercy Sakes…"

Over by the watch desk, Diego poured down a cup of coffee before he snatched a couple of butter cookies from the open box. "Happy birthday, Barry… I can't stay 'cos I need to muck out my trailer before a relative comes over tomorrow. See ya around, eh?" he said before he stretched out a paw to shake hands.

"Sure, Mr. Benitez," Barry said with a grin - his voice was muffled by his own mouthful of cookies that he was trying to talk through. No sooner had he swallowed before the nicotine chewing gum was back between his teeth.

"See ya back home, Wynne!" Diego continued before he left the sheriff office.

"Bah-bah, Diegoh… whah, he didden even get a slice o' that there layah cake or nuttin'," Wynne said and plonked her cowboy hat back onto her dark locks. "Aw, that sure ain't gonn' stop me from gettin' some goodies, nosirree. Sheriff Mandy, can I getcha som'tin?"

"No thank you. I'm not in the mood for fun and games right now," Mandy said and leaned forward to get back to her regular paperwork thus signaling the end of the audience.

Wynne caught the hint and stepped away from the big desk. "No wondah. But I sure am," she said with a grin as she poured herself a cup of hot chocolate and put a handful of butter cookies and a single cupcake on a dessert plate.

No sooner had she sat down on one of the spare chairs had that been brought out from the crew room before Beatrice Reilly donned her Mountie hat and her uniform jacket. "Whaddinda-wohhhhhhhhh-rld… y'all be goin' too, Bea?"

"Yes, but only for a moment," Beatrice said and sent a rare wink in Wynne's direction before she left the office.

Wynne shook her head in confusion. "Ain't nobodda want them buttah cookies or them cupcakes or nuttin'?  It wus dang-blasted tuff gettin' 'em ovah he', lemme tell ya!"

"I'll have a few cookies and a cupcake… and a few more cookies," Barry said and stuffed another handful of the treats into his mouth.

Grinning, Wynne returned to her hot, creamy chocolate that soon left a brown mustache along her upper lip. She fell quiet, settling for slurping hot chocolate and munching on crunchy, nutty butter cookies and soft, squishy cupcakes for a while.

Down on the doggy-blanket, Blackie and Goldie had their own water and jerky treats that they didn't feel a need to share with anyone but each other. Much shoulder-rubbing was exchanged as they tried to figure out which of them should get the last piece of chicken jerky - the stick ended up between Goldie's teeth because her more slender frame proved she needed it the most.

-*-*-*-

Once Beatrice had returned to the office - and Rodolfo had come out of the crew room holding a wrapped gift that had the same size as the package containing the Salacious Suzette blow-up dollie - Wynne chugged down another cup of hot chocolate, threw a handful of butter cookies in her mouth and shuffled over to the food cart to get the six-pack of Pineapple Perfection.

In the meanwhile, a proper birthday candle had been lit on the watch desk much to Barry's amusement. The professionally-made layer cake had been revealed and sat ready to be cut by the beaming birthday boy.

"Okeh. He' be how I reckon-" - Munch, crunch - "we gonn' do this. First-" - Crunch, munch - "we gonn' sing de'ah ol' Barry-" - Crunch!  Crunch! - "that there Happy Birthdy song, yuh?" - Munch, crunch - "Then it be time fer them presents-" - Crunch, munch - "an' then it be time fer that there-" - Crunch! Crunch! - "awesome-lookin' layah cake. Yuh?" - Munch, crunch - "Any objec-shuns?" - Crunch!  Munch!

"None," Rodolfo said with a grin so wide an aircraft carrier could have docked in it and still have room for the support and supply ships.

"Whah, I guess we be reddy fer da fo'ah most famous words in da wohhhhh-rld… naw, it ain't Gentlemen, Start Yer Engines an' it sure ain't We Come In Peace, neithah… naw!  It be… happy birthdy to you!  Happy birthdy to you!  Happy birthdy de'ah Barr-rr-rr-eee, happy birthdy to yooooooooooooooooooooooou!"

Wynne, Beatrice and Rodolfo all broke out in snickers, chuckles and belly-laughs from the fact their voices had reached roughly five keys all at once, but it mattered little when the birthday boy seemed to find it all extraordinarily entertaining.

Barry sent each of his three greeters a big thumbs-up in return. "Thanks, guys!  That was awesome!"

Even Mandy broke out in a small smile over at the big desk. Unfortunately, her display of emotion only lasted for a brief moment in time - then she returned to the churning thoughts concerning the approaching tidal wave of trouble. It had given her a bad headache long before it had even been made official, and no pill or powder could help her.

"Hell-yeah, that wus da best dog-gone singin' act I evah done lissened ta since them Haah-waymen," Wynne said while she offered herself and the other two members of the Can't Sing Worth A Lick But We Don't Care-Choir a large round of applause. "Okeh, an' now it be time fer them presents, dontchaknow. I reckon ol' Rodolfo wanna go last, so lemme start bah givin' ya'll this he' little token o' apprecia-shun, Barry," she continued as she handed over the six-pack of Summer Dreamz Pineapple Perfection.

"Oh, you shouldn't have," Barry said as he reached for the colorful cans.

Wynne caught the joke at once and moved the six-pack back into her lap. "Yer right… I'mma-gonn' keep' 'em fer mahself. Naw, only kiddin'. Here ya go, pardnah."

Once Barry had the six-pack in his grasp, he made sure to put it out of Wynne's reach. "Thanks, Miss Donohue!  I better watch what I'm saying…"

Grinning, Wynne stepped aside to let the others have room to give Barry their own presents. Beatrice was next - she placed a small gift wrapped in colorful, glittery paper on the watch desk. "Many happy returns, Barry. Here's a little something I hope you can use."

Barry gained a puzzled look as he took the gift and began to unwrap it. After a moment, his face lit up in a smile as he took out a leather cigarette case that had his name hand-stitched onto it in a golden scrawl. "Wow!  This is great, Bea!  Super quality," he said as he opened the flap and glanced down the case's dark interior. "And look at that!" he continued as he ran a finger across the letters that formed his name - it was obvious it had been made by a master craftsperson. "Thank you very much!  Did Mrs. Pearson up at the Tack and Saddle make it?"

"Yep," Beatrice said. "That's why I had to run off just now. She needed time to inscribe the name."

Rodolfo could barely contain his giddiness, so he leaned in toward the watch desk to say: "Enough talk. Barry, I got something for you that you never knew you needed. Especially now that you've turned thirty and can't get the real thing 'cos you're too old. Clear the stage, everybody… here's… Salacious Suzette!"

The large gift was put onto the watch desk with a flurry. Rodolfo made sure to smooth down the lurid wrapping paper that he had found online in a shop that specialized in that sort of thing. "Eh?" he said as he drew attention to the pink bow-tie that was shaped like a brassiere. "Why dontcha pull that string and see what she's got?"

A growled "Rodolfo…" escaped Beatrice. She turned toward her colleague and shot him an Evil Eye before she stomped off to her own desk.

The cocked eyebrow and scrunched-up appearance of Wynne's face proved that even she found it just a tad too embarrassing - and the best/worst was still to come.

Puzzled, Barry reached for the pink string and pulled it to, if nothing else, find out what the large package contained. As the lurid wrapping paper slid aside like a virgin shedding a lacy nightgown on the wedding night, three distinct emotions flashed across his face: first surprise as witnessed by his wide eyes. Then acute embarrassment as witnessed by the sea of red that exploded onto his cheeks - and finally sublime annoyance as witnessed by the grim look that fell upon his face. "Honestly, Rodolfo… we've worked together for God knows how many years now, and you give me a sex doll for my thirtieth birthday?"

Rodolfo looked at the dollie, at Barry, at Wynne - who held up her hands in the age-old gesture of Not my concern, pardnah, down at the dollie once more and finally at Barry's glum face. "Uh… yeah… uh… not funny?"

Over at the other desk, Beatrice got to her feet and threw a ball of scrap paper at the Senior Deputy that nailed him on the side of his head with a Boppp! "Of course it's not funny!  Told you!"

Mandy had stayed out of the goings-on until then, but she rose from her chair and put her hands on the desk's top to create an undeniable presence. "Senior Deputy, please get that thing off the watch desk. I'd also like you to make an apology to Deputy Simms."

"Oh, I mean… really… it was just a joke between buddies," Rodolfo said and removed Salacious Suzette from the desk. "Okay, so it was a poor joke, but… Jeez. I'm sorry, Barry. I thought it was funny," he continued, breaking out in a wide shrug.

Chuckling, Wynne moved away from her previous spot to pat Rodolfo's shoulder. "Bettah luck next time, friend. Okeh, les'get down ta da real impahrtant mattah… yuh, it be time ta cut da cake!  Barry, hammah down, son!"

"Yippie, I've been working up an appetite just looking at that awesome cake!" Barry said and reached for the pastry slicer.

While the birthday boy took the first slice for himself and Rodolfo shuffled back into the crew room to deposit Suzette in the deepest, darkest corner he could find, Wynne relocated to the sheriff's desk where she rested a buttock on the corner. "I reckon y'all oughttah trah a li'l slice o' this he' cake, darlin'. All that whipped cream an' that there razzberry fillin' an' them chocolate buttons gonn' cure all yer worries in a flash, dontchaknow."

Mandy leaned back in her chair and let out a deep, long sigh. "Yeah. I suppose it couldn't hurt. Is there more hot chocolate left?"

"Naw, we done had it all, but there be plentah o' that there good coah-ffee in them thermos'."

Batting her eyelids at Wynne, Mandy leaned forward and held up her favorite mug. "Would you mind?  And a slice of the cake as well… if there's anything left after Barry has had his share."

"Aw, ya betcha, darlin'," Wynne said and hurriedly ducked down to place a kiss on the sheriff's lips while no one was watching. "One slice o' cake an' a-mugga hawt coah-ffee be on da way."

Wynne hopped off the corner and shuffled over to the food cart and all the items she had packed or brewed herself. "Watch it, de-per-ties, Wynne Donnah-hew comin' thru'!  Haw, dat rhymes… Lawrdie, I be a reg'lar poet, yessirree."

She continued to chuckle at her boundless wisdom as she poured the hot, black coffee into the mug and waited patiently for Barry and Beatrice to get their slices of the layer cake. "Yee-hawww, lookie he', Sheriff!" she said once she had returned to the big desk with the items. "Coah-ffee an' a slih-ce o' cake. Don't that qualifah fer anothah kiss or som'tin?"

Down on the floor, Blackie and Goldie groaned in unison at the verbal antics of their denim-clad owner. They both shook their heads before they got comfortable again and took another little doggy-nap to get away from the peculiar Humans.

Continued in part 2

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