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CHAPTER 5

The yacht-sized LaSalle Special drove over to the curb on Eighty-seventh Street to let out its passenger. Instead of taking up a whopping one percent of the space available in the ballroom-sized rear compartment, Sally had spent the return trip on the passenger seat up front so she could engage in a conversation with the chauffeur about this, that and one or two dips and dives between the lines - as she had expected, he had turned out to be a friendly fellow who had plenty of good stories to tell about his exploits overseas during the war years.

Even better, the chauffeur had plenty to tell about the exploits of the supposedly innocent Maureen Alice Brazelton: he had driven her to, and picked her up from, more than a dozen dinner-and-dance establishments over the course of the past fourteen months or so. He had used his own car so they could travel incognito, and Maureen had always met the same well-dressed, suave gentleman in his early thirties. The man's body language suggested he was far more than a mere lecher with regards to Maureen's ample assets. No name had ever been mentioned, so the chauffeur couldn't help on that - the information earned him a sawbuck and a half.

After Sally had stepped out onto the sidewalk, she popped her head back inside. "I told ya nothing bad would happen, yeah?  The General will never find out. Thanks for the smooth cruise and the words you whispered in my ear, pal. 'Preciate both," she said before she shut the vault-like door behind her.

The afternoon sun continued to beat down on the sidewalk, but dark clouds were slowly rolling in from the northern horizon. Sally remembered the old Mooresburg saying about the weather as she eyed their ragged nature and dark-gray tone: North will be nasty, east will be easy, south will be sunny and west will be windy.

The old saying was proven right nine times out of ten, so she upped her pace to get back to the entrance to the office building before the inevitable heavy drops would come for her. Her instincts weren't about to be disturbed by the threat of a little rain, however, so her neck began to itch like it did whenever she had picked up some kind of unwanted attention.

She glanced around without appearing to do so. She was unable to find anything or anyone untoward close to her, so she pretended to hobble over to the building. There, she put her shoe up on a small ledge to tie her laces and wipe something-or-other off the tip of the left one. She continued to scrutinize the people nearest her, but no one made her finely-tuned sonar ping.

Nobody seemed to stick out in a negative fashion save for a fellow whom she instantly pegged as a pocket-dipper on the prowl. Although he looked vaguely Italian - or at least Mediterranean - his sights were squarely set on the side pocket of a fat man who waddled along at low speed. In short, the dipping artist didn't pose an immediate threat to her.

The store situated on the ground floor of the building sold office supplies so the storefront windows weren't too exciting to look at, but Sally still went over there to do something inconspicuous while she took another gander at her surroundings.

At the second round of trying, it took her less than ten seconds to spot the cause of the persistent itch. A stubby but wide bruiser tried - and failed miserably - to blend in with the regular-sized pedestrians on the sidewalk on the other side of Eighty-seventh Street. He stood behind a pale-blue, badly dented 1940 Chevrolet clearly hoping to use it for cover, but that didn't work either.

Sally used the reflection in the storefront window to observe her opponent. It was obvious he had yet to realize his target was in effect standing in front of a mirror.

Sticking out like a sore thumb, the bruiser wore a set of clothes that hadn't been in fashion since the heady days of John Dillinger and Bonnie & Clyde fifteen years earlier: heavy work boots, brown pants, a tan bricklayer's shirt similar to those favored by the wharf rats, and finally a brown jacket that had been worn shiny and greasy in places. He wore a flat cap on his bulbous head; the cauliflower ears and the nose that had been mashed flat once too often proved he wasn't good at ducking when swung at.

Sally chuckled at the sight. "Well, an Eye-talian he ain't," she said to herself. "So the wharf boss Jimmy 'The Ice-Pick' McGarrigle wants a bite of the cherry, does he?  This is gettin' more and more interesting."

Turning away from the storefront window, she strode along the sidewalk to get to the far end of the office building. Her destination: the rear entrance. Her sneaking away was aided by a group of pedestrians who happened to walk by at the same time. Using them as a convenient cover, she took off in a fast jog and was soon safely around the corner of the alley.

She stayed there for a few seconds to see how her opponent had handled the situation. The bruiser was still stuck trying to cross Eighty-seventh Street, and it appeared by his open mouth that he was in the middle of a cussing fit against all the motorists who prevented him from carrying out his assignment.

Sally chuckled as she jogged along the alley until she reached the courtyard. Remembering the ambush the day before, she came to a halt to peek around the next corner as well - when she had established she was alone, she resumed strolling toward the back door while whistling through her teeth.

---

Safely upstairs, Sally knocked on the door of the bookmaker's office. She waited until 'Enter!' had been said in a clear and concise manner so no misunderstandings as to her intentions would arise.

"Hiya, doll!" she said as she clapped eyes on Vicky Prince who was busy at her work desk in the outer, open section of the office. As was to be expected of the place of work for one of the best of Mooresburg City's many bookmakers, tall piles of all the city's newspapers took up much of the available space. The office walls were nearly hidden by a cluster of metal filing cabinets that all carried sturdy padlocks on their drawers.

Several notice boards made of cork had been put on the walls in the sparse gaps between all the other items: each board was dedicated to a single sport - horse racing, the greyhounds, baseball, football, boxing and even darts - and carried at least fifty newspaper clippings of this and that related to the type of betting usually found in each of the sports.

A further door led to the inner office where Ira Birnbaum worked - Sally knew it was reinforced and carried several locks and safety chains so she didn't even bother knocking on it to say hello.

The desk Vicky worked at was equipped with a blotting pad, an old-fashioned anglepoise lamp and no less than three telephones. A pile of pages snipped from the various racing sections of the day's newspapers took up space on her left. A pair of scissors, a notepad and a pencil were within reach on her right.

"Why do you insist on calling me that?" Vicky said and adjusted her glasses. "How often do I have to tell you that my name is-"

"I know, sugar," Sally said with a grin as she rested her left buttock on the corner of the desk. She took off her dark-gray fedora and fluffed her hair a little to give it some air.

Vicky snorted. "Did you get anything out of that long trip with Miss Oh-I'm-So-Gorgeous?"

"Whoa, doll!  Your fangs are showing… I never had ya pegged for the jealous type!"

Vicky shot the private investigator a long, smoldering gaze before she turned her attention to the notepad and her work.

"Why, toots, if ya could bottle that look, you'd be a millionaire tomorrow!  But anyway… yes, I did. General Brazelton hired me to find his runaway daughter," Sally said and hopped off the desk. "I have a feeling that's gonna run for a while. Literally."

A long groan emanated from Vicky at the poor joke. She adjusted her glasses several times as she shot her friend another of those looks. One of the telephones disturbed their banter by ringing, but the call was short as they inevitably were in that trade. Once she had put down the receiver, she updated her notepad with a set of numbers, names and amounts.

After updating another notepad and tearing off the page, Vicky leaned back on her chair and hid a yawn with her hand. "Oh… that's right," she said and opened one of the desk's drawers. "I have two messages for you. One from your contact in the Heights. He had nothing to report. The other was from the Prospects. That fellow insisted he had found something and urged you to either call him or drop by. He said vehemently it would be worth your time."

Sally cocked her head at the news. She let out a "Hmmm," as she reached for a cigarette. Once it was lit, she rubbed her chin several times before she checked her wristwatch. "That fella can be as untrustworthy as a three-dollar bill, but… hmmm. Maybe he's really onto something this time."

"As opposed to be on something. I could barely understand his nasal twang," Vicky said and adjusted her glasses all over again.

"Well, that tends to happen with boozehounds, yeah?  You need to cut him some slack… he's had a bitch of a life."

Vicky briefly looked up and locked eyes with her friend; she broke out in a small nod before she turned back to her work.

"Yeah," Sally said and took a deep puff of her Serrano cigarette. "I won't lose nothing but time if it turns out to be a wild goose chase. I'll just change into my regular duds so I can carry my little friends with me. I feel all naked without 'em," she continued before she moved over to the door to the hallway.

Vicky looked up again to let out a snort and shake her head at the comment.

Turning around, Sally sent her friend the most charming, winning smile she could muster. "Say, doll… wouldya mind making some coffee and maybe call for a sandwich or something while I change?  I'd really love ya for it," she said with a wink.

Vicky had been about to add her usual reply of My name's Vicky! when the latter part of the statement reached her ears. Blushing, she looked down at once. A few seconds later, she nodded her approval of the plan.

"Gee, that's real swell, doll. Thanks!" Sally said before she left the bookmaker's office and headed further down the hallway to her own.

-*-*-*-

Back in her regular outfit of brown socks, brown pants, a white men's undershirt as well as the compulsory tan shirt, Sally clicked off the light in the tiny bathroom and strolled over to one of the filing cabinets. Unlike those in the bookmaker's office next door, hers were all unlocked because they only contained files that couldn't interest anyone - not even herself at times.

Finding and pulling out the drawer labeled 'D,' she took the diary she had found in Maureen's bedroom at the mansion and thumbed through it once more. It held page after page after page of neatly written text - acres of it. She came to a halt at the entry marked January 28th just to get a feel for what she should expect.

Her eyes zipped across a few of the paragraphs until she let out a sigh. "What a buncha blah-blah-blah. Shopped for clothes. Called a friend. Spoke to Mrs. Somebody at her old school. Didn't she ever write about the good stuff?" she said in a mumble. Sighing again, she put the diary in the first empty folder she found - it would have to wait.

The coffee was next, so she grabbed a somewhat clean mug off the desk and went over to the small wash basin just inside the door. After the mug had been rinsed thoroughly, she checked her wristwatch to see how much time had passed since she had asked the latest favor of Vicky.

The short answer was that she needed to wait a little longer, so she made a beeline for her desk where she sat down and pulled the telephone closer to her. Dialing the appropriate number didn't take long, and she was soon able to lean back and put her legs up on the corner of the desk - it seemed the pain in her abdominal muscles had decided that enough was enough as it couldn't be bothered to do more than murmur.

'Yeah?' a gruff male voice said at the other end of the line. The background noises were of the hard-hitting kind with the occasional moan, grunt and barked command to 'Getcha dukes up!' or 'Jab!  Jab!'

"Hiya. This the Mount Olympus Athletics Club?"

'Yeah. So?'

"Orlando around?"

'Yeah. Ya wanna talk to him?'

" 's my general idea, yeah."

'I'll shout for 'im.'

"Gee, thanks, fella," Sally said and reached into her shirt pocket to get her cigarettes and her gas lighter. The only ashtray on the desk already had a cone of ash all over it, but the gray stuff was quickly dealt with by chucking it into the trash can that had been placed next to the desk - that it too was overfilled was obviously just a minor oversight on the part of the cleaning lady.

She felt an urge to imbibe a little while she waited for Orlando Espinosa - the owner of the athletics club - to come to the telephone, so she put down the receiver, got up from the chair and made another beeline for her filing cabinets. Once a brand new bottle of high-quality 4-Leaf Clover Irish whiskey had been opened, she poured three fingers' worth into a glass and toasted herself by holding it high in the air and mumbling a "Here's to you, kid!"

Before she had time to touch the drink, a male voice could be heard saying 'Hello, this is Orlando,' through the receiver on the desk.

Not wanting to be cheated out of the exquisite whiskey experience now she had already toasted herself - it was considered an omen of a life cut short if the person didn't get to imbibe after the toasting - she took a quick swig before she returned to the desk and picked up the receiver: "Hiya, Orlando. It's Sally. Listen, pal, you wouldn't happen to know where your brother might be hiding at this time of day, wouldya?  He's been calling me a couple of times saying he has some information."

'Really?'

"Oh yeah."

'Well, I know exactly where Ramón is… he's right here-"

"Why, ya don't say!"

'I'm looking at him right now. You wanna talk-'

"Yeah!  Put him on, wouldya?  Thanks a bunch, pal," Sally said and chugged down the rest of the quality whiskey in a single gulp so she could have her right hand free to jot down notes on her indispensable notepad.

'Okay, but you need to understand he's past his prime today. Way past his prime. If you'd called a couple of hours ago, he'd be more coherent.'

"Couldn't be helped, Big O. Just put him on. I'll take it from there. Okay?"

While Sally spoke, she poured herself another shot of 4-Leaf Clover, but she settled for two fingers' worth on her second pass so she wouldn't overdo it. Once the spirits were ready, it was time for a cigarette - a Serrano's Special Blend was lit and puffed on with great relish.

'Sure, Sally. Here's Ramón now.'

"Thanks, bub!"

A string of fumbling noises were heard as the receiver was transferred from one brother to the next. In the background, Sally overheard the inebriated fellow asking Orlando several times about the identity of the caller before he took the receiver.

'Uh… yeah?  It's Ramón. Who's this?' the man said in a distinct, slow-paced mumble that had come from spending most of the decade on a daily diving expedition into any bottle of liquor he could find. Once a promising talent in the boxing world, Ramón had joined the ranks of the down-and-outs when an opponent had beaten him to a pulp in a back-alley bare-knuckles fight that wasn't just unofficial but illegal. The federation and everyone else - bar his brother - had left him fighting a war against his damaged brain that he could never win.

"It's Sally, Ramón. You've called me?"

'I did?'

"Yeah. A couple of times."

'Naw, that… oh… oh, yeah, sure. Sure. Yeah. So… that guy you had me lookin' for?  I found him.'

"Is that a fact, Ramón?"

'Sure is!'

"Where, exactly?" Sally said and put the cigarette in her mouth so she had her hand free to write down the information.

'Uh… in the Prospects. It was him, I know it. I ain't blind. It was him!'

Grunting, Sally quickly knocked off some ash. "I ain't sayin' it wasn't, Ramón. I'm askin' where you saw him. What street?"

'In the Prospects…'

Sally scratched her hair with the butt of the pencil. "Yeah, but the Prospects are pretty damn large, see?  I need to know the exact street where you saw him or else it won't be no use to me."

The line fell silent. "Hello?  Hello, Ramón?"

'No, it's Orlando,' the owner of the athletics club said. 'He's too far gone to talk now. He dozed off. Sorry.'

"Aw, dammit…"

'Was it important?'

Sally stared at the dead fan in the ceiling - its lack of progress matched her own. "Kinda. Did you hear what he said?"

'Yeah…'

"Okay… do you know anything about his message for me?  What he was trying to tell me?" she said and took a deep puff of her cigarette to compensate for the disappointment.

'Nada. If you swing by in maybe an hour or so, there's a chance he'll be back among the living.'

Sally let out a sigh and wrote down the info on the notepad. "All right. I made a note of it. An hour. Maybe a little more, yeah?"

'Can't hurt to make it an hour and fifteen.'

"Right. Okay. Thanks for your help, Big O. I'll talk to ya later. Hi de ho, bub," Sally said and put down the receiver. An annoyed "Mmmm!" escaped her as she leaned back on the swivel-chair. With the cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth, she stared at nothing in particular with the kind of thousand-mile gaze she always used when the world conspired against her.

Before she could get too depressed about the state of affairs, someone knocked on the office door - the silhouette revealed it was Vicky carrying a tray. Sally broke out in a small whoop as she extinguished the cigarette and jumped to her feet. She was at the door in nothing flat and soon guided her friend into the office.

Vicky brought a coffee pot, a stack of napkins, cutlery and three bagels that had been halved, buttered and draped with fresh cold cuts. "They're from the new Aaron's Delicatessen over on Eightieth Street. I got them at half price because Mr. Sharovsky won big last week on Mr. Birnbaum's advice. I hope you don't mind kosher cold cuts."

"Not in the least, doll- I mean, Vicky," Sally said with a grin. To make room for the tray, she hurried around the desk to put the lid back on the bottle of 4-Leaf Clover and move the ashtray and a few files aside. "Are you on a break right now?"

"Yes. A twenty-minute one," Vicky said as she distributed the various items.

Sally let out a chuckle as she took one of the napkins and spread it out so she wouldn't have to put the bagel directly onto the somewhat untidy desk. "The old cat's spoiling you rotten, eh?  Come, let's flap our gums a little. I got something to run by you, anyway."

"I see?"

The bottle of Irish whiskey was soon back in its drawer in the filing cabinet. It left a little more room on the desk that Sally filled at once with the diary. "Did you keep a diary growing up?" she continued as she poured fresh coffee into her own mug before she repeated the gesture into Vicky's mug.

"Yes. Its design wasn't too dissimilar to that one there. Whose is that?" Vicky said and pointed at the one on the desk.

"Maureen Brazelton's. The runaway daughter of the General."

"Oh… and he allowed you to read it?  Diaries are supposed to be private, you know," Vicky said and adjusted her glasses.

Sally sat down on the swivel-chair and made herself comfortable. After taking a long swig of the coffee and letting out a prolonged "Ahhh… love your coffee, doll!" at its high quality, she picked up the first of the halved bagels to eat it with her fingers despite Vicky pointing at the cutlery.

The investigator ignored the gesture and said: "It was a complete fluke I even found it. And honestly, I think getting his daughter back is more important to him than having someone read the diary. Say, doll… whatcha pointin' at?"

"What do you think?  Those strange objects there are called a knife and a fork!  They're used for eating," Vicky said and adjusted her glasses several times in rapid succession.

"Golly gee whiz, sugar… the things I learn whenever you're around!  I just happen to have my own eatin' utensils right here, see?" Sally said and waved her fingers at her friend who responded by letting out a dramatic sigh. Grinning, Sally went to work on the first of the halved bagels.

---

The end of Vicky's twenty-minute break came up sooner than either she or Sally would have liked. She just had enough time to read another of Maureen's entries before she put the book away. "Well," she said and adjusted her glasses all over again, "she does seem a little on the vapid side. Not childish, just… how shall I put it…"

"Like the life she's lived has been so sheltered she's got no clue what's really going on out here?" Sally said and wiped her lips on one of the napkins. "I agree. The weird thing is that I thought I had buttoned down the main cause for her running away. Yeah?  I thought she was sick and tired that her father continued to see her as an innocent twelve-year-old and not the mature twenty-two-year-old she really was… but reading page up and page down about all sorts of blather has made me change my mind. Their chauffeur told me Maureen's been seein' a gentleman on the sly and definitely off Big Daddy's radar… well, that may be the case, but she sure ain't ready for real life. Turns out the General hit the bullseye after all… more or less, anyway."

"Which makes it even more important she's found before she's… before she gets mixed up with the wrong people," Vicky said in a somber voice.

"Yeah. That's where we come in," Sally said and reached for her cigarettes. "And Ramón if I can squeeze him dry long enough to get a coherent answer outta him."

A cry of 'Vicky?  Your break's over!' suddenly echoed down the hallway; it prompted Vicky to groan out loud. "I swear Mr. Birnbaum has a stopwatch on me," she said as she got up.

"Ya know, I wouldn't be surprised if he did. Leave all this stuff. I'll deal with it later," Sally said and put a hand on Vicky's to still her rapid gestures. "Say… once you finally punch out tonight, wouldya care to join me over at Clifford Norton's for a little early-evening treat or something?"

"Oh, I'd like that… yes, please," Vicky said with a smile.

"Swell!  It'll be a good contrast to a boxing club full of swearing, sweaty, smelly pugs in trunks."

Vicky narrowed her eyes in a most puzzled fashion. "Pugs?" she said after a while of failing to come up with a word that would go with that abbreviation.

"Pugilists. Palookas. Prizefighters. Boxers, see?  Like in put 'em up!  Put 'em up, pal… duck, duck, weave, see?" Sally said as she clenched her fists and began to dance around on the spot to demonstrate her excellent footwork - that she did so while wearing brown socks made the display slightly ridiculous.

"Yes. I see," Vicky said and adjusted her glasses. She had already opened her mouth to go on when Ira Birnbaum barked 'Vicky!' out in the hallway. "Oh, I better," she said and shuffled off.

"Catch ya later, doll!  I'll pop in once I get back," Sally said as she grabbed her gum-shoes and made for the sofa bed to put them on.

-*-*-*-

The flat-topped, wooden building housing the Mount Olympus Athletics Club was located right in the hot spot of several of the ethnic neighborhoods near Fifty-third Street, Carlton Street and Proctor Avenue. Run with plenty of pride and heart by Orlando Espinosa, the sports club had become the natural place of gathering for the locals of all colors and ethnicities.

The main hall echoed with the familiar grunts and whooshes of a pair of boxers who went at it with great gusto. Although it was merely a sparring match meant to hone the skills of one of the fighters, the two young pretenders had no intention of pulling their punches.

Sally entered the hall just as the fighter wearing white trunks sent the other one into the following week with an uppercut. If the fighter thought he'd be commended for his victory by the people standing in his corner, he was soon to be disappointed as the sparring trainer, the man with the medical kit, the water carrier and everyone else shouted abuse at him instead of applauding - the sparring partner simply wasn't meant to K.O. the favored fighter.

Chuckling at the sheepish look on the young man's face, Sally strolled along the ropes to get to the office at the back. The air inside the main hall was exactly as she had described it to Vicky, i.e. saturated with the scents of male sweat and adrenaline.

The walls of the athletics club were covered in photographs of former students as well as framed newspaper clippings where tall headlines screamed of victories in various local, regional and even state-level championship bouts. Old prizefighting belts from the bouts mentioned were on proud display next to the articles. Though the legendary Joe 'The Brown Bomber' Louis had never been anywhere near the club or even Mooresburg City in general, an autographed photograph of him took center stage - the photo was framed by a laurel wreath just to underscore the man's iconic status among the pugilists.

Several men of the sublimely fit kind practiced with jump ropes in one of the corners of the hall. Elsewhere, a trainer tried to teach a raw teenager the special techniques required to strike a punching bag without risking injury to the wrists; the trainer's exasperated groans as his instructions were misunderstood time and time again proved the young fighter had some way to go before he would ever be allowed to get anywhere near the actual boxing ring.

Sally's presence and outfit - gum-shoes, brown pants, a tan trench coat and her favorite brown fedora - created a spectacular contrast to the fighters who were all bare-chested, bulging and shiny of sweat. Several of them cast puzzled glances in her direction, but they soon turned their attention to their exercises once more.

Reaching the office at the back of the hall, Sally knocked on the doorjamb even though the actual door itself had been removed for ease of access. Once Orlando Espinosa called 'Enter!' she stepped inside and took off her hat.

The office was even more spartan than her own: it was only equipped with a metal desk, a couch and two chairs. A map of Mooresburg City where the various boroughs had been highlighted in different colors had been pinned to the wall just to the left of where the door used to be. The opposite wall saw two filing cabinets and a row of reed baskets that contained extra jump ropes, clean towels, boxing gloves in various sizes, spare trunks and all the other items typically found in an athletics club.

A penetrating odor of old sweat, cheap booze and filthy clothes rose from the scrappy bundle of humanity that rested on the couch. Ramón was still fast asleep and didn't appear to want to come back to the real world.

Orlando Espinosa looked up as Sally entered. The beefy early-fifty-something owner of the club - his medium-brown complexion revealed that he and his brother were the offspring of a Hispanic mother and an African-American father - was busy updating progress sheets for the junior fighters he was responsible for, but he soon pushed them aside, got up and put out his hand with a: "Hello, Sally. Nice to see ya."

An aspiring fighter who had entered the scene not long after the Great War had ended, Orlando had spent four years trying to improve sufficiently to get a shot at one of the local title bouts, but his skills just weren't strong enough to ever be a contender. As younger, better fighters had come into the sport, he had seen the writing on the wall and had changed paths to manage his younger brother's career. After Ramón's sad demise, another change of paths had led Orlando to buy the club, building it into what it had become.

"Hiya, Orlando. Likewise," Sally said and turned to look at the sleeping Ramón after she had shaken hands with the older brother. "Yeah, looks like coming over here was a waste of gas. He ain't surfacing any time soon."

"No," Orlando said and moved over to the couch. He knelt next to his brother and put a hand on the many layers of clothing that kept the younger Espinosa warm out on the streets. "I've tried to stir him awake a couple of times. No chance. It's too late in the day for him. He's usually coherent from maybe ten PM until noon or so. The night's when he's out and around. That's when he finds little things that he sells at the hock-shops. To get his hands on a quart of cherry brandy, you know."

"Yeah. I asked him to keep a lookout for someone connected to a case I'm workin' on," Sally said and opened the trench coat to combat the high ambient temperatures in the club. "He says he saw something, but… I dunno. Sometimes, he sees things that ain't there."

Orlando eyed the shoulder-holster inside Sally's coat as he stood up straight. "Are you working on a hot case, Sally?  The guns…"

"Yeah. The charming Calabreses are up to no good. And Jimmy Ice-Pick sure ain't far behind."

"Both of 'em?  Damn," Orlando said and walked back to the desk. "I'll bet the decent folks of Mooresburg City will get caught in the crossfire as usual. Another gangster war… hell, that's the last thing we need."

Sally shot the sleeping hobo another look before she moved over to put her hands on the backrest of the chair opposite the desk. "Before Ramón went under, did he say anything that could be some kind of address?  I don't want to get you involved-"

"Thank you!"

"Heh, you're welcome, pal. But anyway, the person I had your brother looking for might be the key to stop trouble of the nasty, large-scale kind from breaking out."

Orlando shook his head slowly. "No… I wasn't in here the whole time, though. And Ramón is always mumbling about this, that or the other. Even when he's coherent. It's become part of the background noise, you know," he said and broke out in a wide shrug.

"Yeah, I understand. Okay. Hmmm," Sally said and reached for her pack of Serrano's to create a handful of new pathways up in her gray matter. She had already stuck it between her lips and held her lighter ready when Orlando said:

"No smoking!"

Sally's double-take was instant and loud. She whipped the smoke from her mouth and stared at the grinning man behind the desk. "Whut?!  Dontcha be pullin' my leg at this time of day!"

"I'm not. You can't smoke in here, Sally. The Mount Olympus Athletics Club is a temple dedicated to the purity of body and mind."

"Since when?"

"Since I quit smoking," Orlando said while flashing his guest another wide grin.

Heated voices and sounds of pushing and shoving suddenly rolled into the office from the main hall - the noises offered a hint that a couple of fighters had crossed the line from regular sparring to something else entirely. The grin disappeared from Orlando's face as he jumped up and tore out of the office to put a stop to whatever was going on.

While the owner of the club dealt with the disturbance, Sally put the cigarette back between her lips without igniting it. Instead, she used it as a makeshift snorkel that would allow her to breathe the sweet smell and taste of tobacco - she would need it as she knelt next to the sleeping Ramón.

The multiple layers of clothing worn by the vagabond had plenty of pockets, but they were all empty save for trash-like objects that would be worthless to anyone else but him. The fruitless search continued for a short while, but Sally let out a grunt when she reached into Ramón's right-hand-side pants pocket. Apart from old filth, her fingers touched what could only be a small notepad of some kind.

Retrieving it, she quickly thumbed through it to see if it would provide the clue, or clues, she needed to move on in the investigation. The entries had been written in a shaky hand so the letters and words were all jumbled, crooked and near-unintelligible.

She bared her teeth in deep concentration as she read a few of the most recent updates one letter at a time. The first led nowhere, but the second and third raised her hopes as she began to decipher them: "The Prospects… okay. Fennimore Street… or is it… no, it's Fennimore Street. 'Seen him.' 'Seen him again.' 'Waited and saw him again.' 'Saw the eyes.' "

Sally leaned back and furrowed her brow. She stared at the sleeping hobo before she returned to the notepad. "Saw the eyes… all right… you may be onto something, but where, Ramón?  Dammit… just the exact address… Fennimore Street runs through the Prospects for nine damn blocks!"

She was about to shove the notepad back into Ramón's pocket when she noticed a tiny two-word entry in the bottom-right corner of the last page. It was even more smudged and jumbled than the rest, but by getting up and holding the notepad under the brightest light the office had to offer, she was able to read what it said:

"Four… six… hmmm… two… eight?  Or… no, it's an oh… four-six-two-oh. Yeah. Hmmm, that's not too far from, ah… Kingston Road. All right. Gotcha."

Sally climbed to her feet. The notepad was soon pushed back into Ramón's pocket before she wiped her hands half a dozen times on the seat of her pants. The unfortunate scents continued to linger on her fingers, so she grabbed her fedora and left the office to find some soap and hot water somewhere.

---

The shoving match between the young fighters had been resolved by the time Sally had washed her hands and arms all the way up to her elbows. As she approached the boxing ring, she had to chuckle at the sights and sounds of the large, threatening Orlando Espinosa chewing out both pretenders in a rapid mix of English and profane Spanish - he spoke loud and clear, and they listened.

She waited at the ring until the message had been hammered home. Once Orlando hopped down onto the floor, he came over to her with a face like thunder. "You even had me standin' at attention," Sally said with a grin.

"One taunted the other. He responded. They both lost their head. It happens," Orlando said and once again shot fire at the young men who had moved to their respective corners.

"Yeah, I'll bet. Anyway, Orlando, I think I got what I came for, so… thanks. I won't take more of your time. Thank your brother too, yeah?  I'll be in touch with a bonus for him. I promise it won't be booze."

"Oh… were you able to talk to him?"

"No, but I found a note that he'd written, see?  I think it'll help."

A smile finally creased Orlando's lips. "He'll be glad to hear it. The jobs you give him make him feel like somebody again."

"Good. Like I said, I'll be in touch. Put it there, pardner," Sally said and extended her hand for the traditional greeting.

-*-*-*-

Sally's old Ford moaned as it drove through the mean streets of Mooresburg City. Behind the thin steering wheel, Sally moaned in a similar key to create a harmonic caroling that the legendary band leader Guy Lombardo would have been proud of - of course, the renowned musician would never play anything like the sour, bum notes that were let out in a mumble by the P.I.

The traffic was rarely less than hectic even in the quietest moments of the day's twenty-four hours, but it had turned evil as the late-afternoon rush hour had been reached. It seemed that many, if not most, of the city's white-collar workers wanted to get home to their castles to smoke their favorite pipe, listen to their favorite radio show, mix and sip their favorite six-o'clock cocktail and enjoy their wife's meatloaf, beef stew or slow-cooked pot roasts.

Mooresburg City's countless blue-collar folks nearly all used the city's buses or subway to get to and from work - or walked if they couldn't afford the fare - so they weren't among the people clogging up the streets.

Sally's ultimate destination of 4620 Fennimore Street deep in the Prospects had prompted her to try an alternative approach, but it hadn't helped a thing that she had gone for the smaller connecting streets as most of the intersections she reached were congested to the point of being blocked completely.

All the city's major arteries that went toward the inner boroughs or the outer suburbs had been converted into parking lots or auto shows where all the brands could present their new range of car horns. In short, Sally had ample time to write several new chapters in her personal book of misery while she waited for something to happen.

The latest mess finally cleared up long enough for the line she was in to chug across the intersection - just like quicksand or a deceptive stretch of swampland, the gap that had been created filled up with more cars not ten seconds after she had come through it.

On the other side of the intersection, she spotted a vacant telephone booth on the sidewalk. A quick glance at her wristwatch made her let out a dark, annoyed grunt. The lanes around her Ford weren't clear in the least, but she made a daring maneuver and swung over to the curb by the telephone before the others knew what had flashed past them.

---

The dim light in the ceiling of the booth came on as she opened the door. As expected, it was as useless as every other such bulb she had ever seen and didn't provide any usable light whatsoever - enter her faithful gas lighter that she flipped open and turned on. Once the flame had been adjusted so it wouldn't set anything in the booth alight, she put it on the shelf next to the telephone.

The receiver and the cord were both in one piece, but the directory below the shelf was missing. Another dark grunt escaped her as she dug through the pockets of her trench coat to find a nickel. Finding one, she took the receiver off the hook, inserted the coin and dialed the number for Ira Birnbaum's office.

'Good afternoon. How may we help you?' Vicky Prince said at the other end of the line.

"Hiya, doll!  Guess who it is?"

'Eleanor Roosevelt?'

"Close but no cee-gar," Sally said with a grin. Acting on instincts alone, she let her eyes sweep across the area closest to the telephone booth as well as the sidewalks on both sides of the busy street she had stopped at. It seemed she could continue toward the Prospects and Fennimore Street without having a tail pinned on her, but there were so many people around it was hard for her to say for sure. "I called to let you know the traffic's a real killer tonight so I'm pretty sure I'll be late getting back to the office."

'Oh…'

"Yeah, it's a real moaner but there ain't nothing I can do about it, toots. I promise I'll get there before it's too late for the early-evening fun we talked about, though."

'Did you get something out of visiting the-'

Sally didn't want anyone, and that included the operator at the telephone exchange, to know too many details of any of her cases, so she made the proverbial leap ahead to cut Vicky off before she could say the name of the sports club. "Yes!  There's a chance the first part of my trip was a hit. I need to investigate it at once, see."

'Uh… of course. No problem. If you haven't come back by the time we close, I'll just wait in your office. Heaven knows it could use a woman's touch…'

"Swell!  Gee, you're such an angel, ya know that?" Sally said while displaying a grin so wide it could hardly fit in the telephone booth.

'Aw… shucks…'

"Yeah. Okay, I only put one nickel in the darn thing so I better run. Talk to you later, Vicky. Hi de ho!"

'Bye, Sally. I can't believe you remembered my name!' Vicky said and let out a warm chuckle as the connection was terminated.

Sally chuckled as well as she placed the receiver back on the hook. Exiting the booth, she returned to her Ford in no time flat so she didn't waste more time than absolutely necessary. She needed to wait for a delivery van to rumble past before she could open the driver's side door; it gave her a few moments to look at the cars parked at the curb behind her Ford. One of them - four cars back - was a pale-blue 1940 Chevrolet two-door that had a hood with several badly repaired dents in it as well as a crumpled fender and a missing bumper.

She furrowed her brow as the sight made her sonar ping. To hide her true intentions, she looked in the other direction for a moment before she cast another secretive glance at the Chevrolet. "I know I've seen that junk bucket once today already. But where?" she mumbled to herself. "At Orlando's?  No. I know I've seen it… but when… and where… aw, dammit, it was parked by the office when I got back from the General's. Sonovabitch, it's the dumb-looking palooka in the flat cap!  Jimmy The Ice-Pick's bruiser. Damn, damn, damn," she said as she got into her Ford and slammed the door shut behind her.

After starting the engine, she reached in under her trench coat and unbuttoned the holster for her Browning to be on the safe side. She had no idea who her opponent was or what part he had to play in the big game, but she didn't want to give him an opportunity to strike first. Moving swiftly, she stomped on the gas pedal and hauled the Ford into a gap in the traffic that really wasn't large enough for it. She was greeted by a concert of honks and screeching brakes behind her, but that was the lesser evil.

She switched lanes three times in rapid succession before she settled down to a regular pace. Checking out the rear-view mirror, she could see that the flat-cap-wearing bruiser in the blue Chevrolet had far greater problems getting ahead - the dented car was soon left for dead among the heavy traffic.

---

The next logjam came sooner than Sally had hoped for as everything came to a grinding halt only five city blocks further along the same street. She wasn't related to Martone Mannisson - a.k.a. The Marvelous Magician who had ruled the roost when vaudeville had been the big thing in Mooresburg City's theater district - so she had to stop at a blocked intersection just like everyone else. As she sat there with the windows and the air vents closed so she wouldn't have to be exposed to everyone else's toxic exhaust fumes, she never stopped glancing in the mirror and out of the windows for the big fellow in the blue car.

It seemed she had lost her shadow somewhere along the way, but she had been on the opposite end of that exact scenario often enough to know that the shadows had a tendency to catch up with their targets sooner or later.

Yet another dark grunt escaped her when her eyes fell on a different car altogether. Five cars back in the same line as her Ford, it had been pulled half a lane to the side so the driver could have an unhindered view of the things going on up ahead. It was a black, unmarked police Plymouth of the type Lieutenant Conrad Garrett had used when she had run afoul of him and his brass knuckles at the Majestic.

Sally tapped her fingers on the steering wheel's wooden rim. "Well, well, well. Congratulations, Sally, you win the Goddamned lottery," she said in a mumble. "This must be my lucky day. Mista Bonehead Bruiser to the left, Lieutenant Crooked D. Flatfoot to the right. And I'm stuck in the damn middle like always!"

Realizing she couldn't take the risk of driving over to the Prospects after all - it would show her hand far too much in the perverted poker game she had been thrown into - she decided to take her one or possibly two shadows on a guided tour of all Mooresburg City's beloved tourist attractions to either keep them entertained or to make them lose all interest in her.

When the traffic cleared enough for her to reach the intersection, she turned off the smaller street she had been on to head north on one of the major six-lane avenues. She craned her neck to find its name but was unable to read the small sign as she went past it. "Ah. never mind… I know where I am. And better yet, I know where to take those palookas back there," she said as she glanced in the rear-view mirror to see not one, but two tails latching onto her Ford.

The traffic was lighter now that she moved in the opposite direction of most other people, and that meant she could drive that little bit faster. In turn, that meant the men chasing her had to up their own pace which might put them under more stress than they cared for. Chuckling, she settled down behind the thin steering wheel and headed for Mooresburg City's more colorful boroughs.

---

A permanent smirk had been etched onto her face as she continued to yank her followers around by the short hairs. On her long trek through town, she had driven through Eldon Square, past the Chamber of Commerce, gawked at the crowd in front of the Odeon Movie Theater - twice; she wanted to catch another glimpse of the marquee to see which film could draw such a crowd - across Raleigh Square, through the Art Deco arch that connected two sections of the same department store, past the world famous Lovers' Fountain on Nineteenth Street, twice around the equestrian statue of one of Mooresburg City's founding fathers, and finally marveled at the splendor of the new City Hall that had been built using the proverbial lifeblood of the city's taxpayers.

Somewhere along the way, the bruiser in the pale-blue Chevrolet had needed to veer off into the forecourt of a gas station and had yet to return. The unmarked police Plymouth was still behind her, however, and that posed a far greater threat.

She kept her eye on it in the rear-view mirror to make sure she wouldn't be caught by any nasty surprises sprung on her by the abrasive Lieutenant and his unfortunate subordinate Sean McFarlane. Something was definitely brewing as the police car seemed to come another step closer to her each time she looked for it.

-*-*-*-

The game had been good from Sally's perspective, but it turned out to have been too good to last. After another three-minute drive around some of Mooresburg City's sights, landmarks and other types of tourist attractions, the unmarked police car had moved into position directly behind her.

Her tail in the pale-blue Chevrolet had vanished without a trace as the black squad car had moved closer and closer. She couldn't blame the man with the flat cap and the unfortunate looks as she wasn't particularly looking forward to talking to Conrad Garrett again, either - her abused abdominal muscles agreed with her.

"Dammit, this is such a mess…" she said to her reflection in the rear-view mirror - she didn't even need to look too closely to see there were two people in the police car tail-gating her Ford. "First Vittorio Grazziani and the Don want me to find that damn ledger and that damn Count… and then damn Stinky Garrett shows up and knows far too much about the whole, damn thing… but he don't care about Count Wotshisface, only the ledger… and then Ramón tells me he may have found the Count staying in the slums… but where's the damn ledger?  Fer cryin' out loud. What a mess!"

Before she could as much as reach for her cigarettes to quell her mounting frustration by adding a little nicotine to her system, her Ford was given such an enormous thump from behind that her entire body slammed backward then forward by the force - it caused her hat to fly clean off and land down in the footwell.

Everything creaked, rattled and groaned inside the Ford Coupe's passenger compartment; the spring holding the ashtray in place failed which made it tear open and fall out of the dashboard. The latch on the glove box also gave up the ghost which meant the door flew open and several items dropped onto the floor. Out back, the trunklid popped open and bounced up to the upper stop so it resembled a giant bird with its beak wide open.

"That Goddamned sonovabitch!  Copper or no copper, I'm gonna kill 'im!  Kill 'im stone-Goddamned-dead!" Sally roared at the top of her lungs as she pulled the rattling remains of her Ford over to the side of the street she had been driving on.

Before she had time to even switch off the engine, the driver's side door was yanked open from the outside. A moment later, a pair of strong hands grabbed hold of her lapels and dragged her from the car with zero interest in her general well-being after the accident.

A powerful flashlight was turned on directly in her eyes. Groaning, she tried to move up a hand to shield her vision, but it was held back by her unseen attacker - unseen, but not unrecognized: the vile odors of day-old sweat, stale coffee and cigarette smoke that exuded from the man behind the strong hands confirmed that it actually was the middle-aged Lieutenant Conrad Garrett and not some random street tough who just happened to have a beef with Sally. Like at the Majestic, he tried to hide the stink by champing on spearmint chewing gum, but it wasn't strong enough to do the job required of it.

"Well, if it ain't Miss Slackbladder," Garrett said and broke out in a chuckle at his own running joke. "Don't you know that braking without reason is a criminal offense?"

"Like hell I did!  You rammed me!"

"Did we ram her?" the lieutenant said to his faithful number two, Sean McFarlane, who remained on the verge of the shadows on the far side of the Ford. "No, we didn't ram ya. Our nerf bar just got a little close is all. Hey, I don't have to ask what you've been doing all day. You stink of booze. You could lose your P.I. license."

"Oh, yeah?  You stink twice as much, you sonova-"

"Keep talkin', dick," Conrad said in a deceptively calm voice. He moved his right hand into his jacket pocket and soon produced his beloved set of brass knuckles - the polished metal seemed to sparkle in the mounting darkness.

A single glance at the instrument of violence made Sally pipe down. Her jaw was given a strong workout as she ground her teeth in complete silence.

"Have ya heard from ya greaseball friends today?" Conrad Garrett said as he continued to shine the flashlight into Sally's eyes. When he was met by a stony silence, he moved up the brass knuckles to run the ribbed edge along Sally's jawline. "Cat got your tongue?  Eh?"

"No."

"She speaks!  So?"

"I ain't seen 'em today. I've been workin' on another case until now."

"B.S."

"No. If ya don't believe me, why the hell do you ask-" Sally never got any further as the lieutenant used the brass knuckles to give her a love tap on the jaw. She winced from the wave of pain that soon spread from the point of impact.

Conrad Garrett chuckled at the wince; he made a big production number out of appearing heartbroken. "Oh, no!  Beg pardon, dick. My hand slipped. You're not gonna cry like a girl, are ya?"

Sally's face turned into a dark, angry mask at the bizarre situation. The flashlight continued to blind her and created a myriad of little suns and stars that flickered in her vision. "Cantcha turn that thing off?  I get the picture already."

"I'm scared of the dark," the lieutenant deadpanned before he took a step away to allow his number two room to work. "Detective McFarlane, arrest Miss Slackbladder here. Slap your cuffs on her and throw her in the back of the Plymouth."

Sally let out a hard, guttural noise that almost resembled a bark. The other police detective, the subordinate Sean McFarlane whom she had played a trick on at the Majestic, stepped forward with his metal handcuffs all ready to be clicked around the slender wrists of the detainee. "What?!  Th'hell for, ya sons of bitches?"

Lieutenant Garrett chuckled. "Erratic driving for starters. Two, for mouthing off against members of Mooresburg City's police corps."  He seemed to recall that Sally would always be armed when she was conducting assignments in the field, so he brushed her trench coat and the blazer jacket aside to grab the Browning Hi-Power from the holster under her arm. "Three, for carrying a concealed firearm without a valid permit."

"Of course I have a permit!"

"No, it's a forgery. Are you packing backup heat as well?  All you gumshoes are. Do you wanna tell me about it or do you want me to frisk you until I find it?"

"It's on my right ankle," Sally growled; she glared at the two detectives for so long her eyes began to ache. As expected, Garrett was anything but gentle as he yanked the FN Herstal .32 from the holster around her ankle. "For Chrissakes, Loo, what the hell is all this hooplah supposed to be?  You know damn well I didn't do jack of whatcha-"

The lieutenant had no time for idle chit-chat. After putting both weapons in his coat pockets, he turned off the flashlight and took another step back. "Detective, meet me at the precinct house after you've driven that piece of junk to the impound yard. I think Miss Slackbladder's frame of mind will improve after a night in the cooler."

"Yes, Lieutenant," Sean McFarlane said and began to pat down Sally's pockets to find the car keys.

"They're still in the ignition," Sally said in a sour note. A moment later, Garrett grabbed her by the collar and yanked her toward the unmarked Plymouth. Once the rear door had been opened, she was dumped onto the back seat with such force she nearly slipped down into the footwell. Another strong glare was wasted on the lieutenant who calmly closed the door and strolled around the police vehicle.

As the car moved away from the scene of the accident, Sally looked out of the window at the mob of spectators that had gathered at the scene - their animated faces and gestures relayed vivid tales of having seen something really, really exciting.

It was less exciting from Sally's point of view, but it wasn't the first time in her life she had spent a night behind bars, and it probably wouldn't be the last unless the lieutenant had something diabolical planned for her. What grated on her mood the most was the fact that Vicky Prince, who was most likely waiting for her back at the office, would be annoyed with her for standing her up like that.

A sigh escaped her as the Plymouth rumbled through the uneven city streets en route to the Twelfth Precinct stationhouse. Things were already messy, and she had a feeling they were about to get even messier as the night progressed.

*
*
CHAPTER 6

The stationhouse for the twelfth precinct resembled a forward command post somewhere in Germany after Patton's boys had crossed the Rhine to enter the Fatherland. Although the building itself was five storeys tall and fairly well-maintained, the borough it covered was one of the grittiest in all of Mooresburg City which required plenty of visible security measures.

Where many of the other precincts could get by with a single guard at the main entrance - and he was often someone close to retirement - the Twelfth needed a detachment of armed personnel to keep the wolves at bay. There weren't any sandbags or machine gun posts in pillboxes as such, but the rifles and shotguns carried by the uniformed guards at the door proved the situation could escalate and get out of hand at a moment's notice.

The secondary access to the stationhouse was below ground, so Lieutenant Garrett drove the rumbling, black Plymouth down a steep ramp until it reached a smooth concrete floor. Once there, he drove past the motor pools for the regular black-and-white cruisers and the unmarked squad cars on his way over to what resembled a cargo elevator.

Sally jerked forward as the car came to a hard, sudden stop - the lieutenant's nasty chuckle as he climbed out proved he had done it on purpose. The metal handcuffs were too tight and gnawed on her wrists, but she clenched her jaw and bottled all the fire and brimstone within her for later.

As the door opened, she was grabbed and yanked off the seat by the lieutenant and a uniformed officer from the regular force. The open-sided cargo elevator creaked and groaned as the car moved down toward the underground floor. When it arrived, she was shoved into it and pushed up against the back wall.

"I don't hear no lip outta ya, Slackbladder?  I'm disappointed. Well, maybe you know you'd end up with a fat one if ya mouthed off more," Lieutenant Garrett said as the old car moved back up on its squeaking wires and chains.

Sally kept quiet but made sure to shoot a withering glare at her tormentor. The uniformed officer got one as well to maintain a balanced approach; Garrett had seen far too many such glares to give a hoot, but the other officer looked away after briefly locking eyes with the detainee.

---

As the car moved past the ground floor on its slow grind toward the upper floors, Sally couldn't help but let out a grunt at the sight of the overly busy lobby.

The watch desk in particular was flooded by citizens of all classes, types and colors who all wanted something from the Watch Sergeant on duty. A short distance away from the desk, the wooden benches where the most recent prisoners spent their time chained to the floor waiting for the processing backlog to be cleared was just as overcrowded - the major difference was that nine out of ten were young men of color.

A group of seven prostitutes who had been picked off the street over the course of the late afternoon and early evening shared a bench separate from the men. Their garish makeup and revealing clothes created a loud splash in the monochrome landscape.

Upstairs on the second floor, the elevator's scissor-doors opened to reveal a nondescript hallway that had a string of reinforced doors on each side. Before Sally could even bare her teeth at the stench of fear, sweat and vomit that invaded her nostrils, the lieutenant grabbed hold of her arm and yanked her out of the cargo elevator.

"This'll be your new home for the time being, dick. I hope you like the colors. We've just had it redecorated," Garrett said and let out a nasty chuckle as he dragged Sally along the corridor. "The charges against you are so weighty they might as well haul your skinny ass off to the correctional facility right away… but until the slave bus gets here, enjoy your new friends."

The lieutenant knocked on one of the reinforced doors; it was soon opened by a uniformed guard who could only offer a bored look at the latest prisoner to enter the holding cells.

"I'll be by for a little chat later on. Maybe we'll come to an agreement regarding certain topics. Have fun, Miss Slackbladder," Garrett said and left Sally in the uniformed guard's custody.

The officer from the night shift yawned as he pulled the handcuffed Sally into the processing room of the holding cells. Apart from a metal filing cabinet and a wooden desk where the initial paperwork would take place, the room had bare walls and nothing in the way of furniture. A stark atmosphere of dread hung over the room that had seen tens of thousands of men and women line up to have their possessions confiscated and their fingerprints taken.

"Empty your pockets into the tray," the uniformed guard said without even looking at Sally - as he spoke, he pushed the aforementioned metal tray across the wooden desk. In addition to the tray, the desk was home to a lamp, a pile of napkins and a typewriter that was accompanied by a stack of forms ready to be filled out.

"I'm still wearin' bracelets," Sally replied in a sour note.

The uniformed guard looked up with a puzzled expression on his face. Craning his neck, he let out a grunt and reached for a large bundle of keys that hung from his utility belt. After some difficulties selecting the proper key, he unlocked the handcuffs and threw them onto the desk. "Now empty your pockets like I told you. And remove your waist belt, too."

Sally clenched her jaw hard as she struggled to hold back the scathing sarcasm that was already jumping up and down on her tongue to be let out. After taking off her wristwatch and putting it on the tray, she went through one pocket at a time and deposited the keys for the office, her cigarettes, the gas lighter, a handful of change, two handkerchiefs, a set of picklocks in a leather case, the spare magazines for her Browning and finally her belt. "You want my shoelaces as well so I ain't gonna hang myself to get away from the stench?" she said and stuffed her hands deep into her pants pockets.

The officer ignored the quip and inserted one of the empty forms into the typewriter. After a bit of rolling the paper up and down so it was lined up properly, he said: "Name?"

"Sally Swackhamer."

"Spell it."

"S-a-l-l-"

For once, the guard reacted by shooting fire at the sassy woman at his desk. "Your last name, wise ass!"

"Gee whiz, bub!  Why, I do beg ya pardon. S-w-a-c-k-h-a-m-e-r. One M only, if ya please."

The guard sent another dark glare in Sally's direction before he typed the surname using the one-finger-one-key system. The date and time followed in a similar fashion - it reminded Sally of the old song Takin' It Slow This Sund'y Morn'.

Once he was done, he whipped the form out of the typewriter and reached into a drawer to grab a kit for collecting fingerprints. "The fingers on your right hand go there, the fingers on your left hand go there," he said as he pointed at two groups of empty spaces on the form.

Sally's good mood had been whittled away to nothing by then, so she abstained from telling the officer which finger she would like to show him first. After getting all her digits coated in the black residue and pressing them against the form, she grabbed one of her own handkerchiefs from the metal tray and wiped everything off thoroughly.

The guard's glare revealed he disapproved of her actions, but he kept quiet as well. When Sally had thrown the filthied handkerchief back onto the tray, he poured the contents into a large manila envelope and sealed it. The name of the detainee and the appropriate case number were soon written on it before the whole thing was put in the filing cabinet.

It wasn't until he had pressed a hidden button for a buzzer underneath the desk that he broke out in a grin - and even then, it wasn't a friendly one.

The door down the other end of the processing room opened to allow another uniformed guard to come out and grab hold of Sally's arm. Soon, she was dragged along a stark corridor until they arrived at one of the holding cells.

---

The second guard opened the cell door - that obviously squeaked on its rusty hinges - and shoved Sally inside. The stench of fresh sweat and old vomit inside the cell was suffocating so she remained at the iron bars to draw air from the corridor for as long as she was allowed to.

Unlike those found in the romanticized novels read by the crime-loving wives of the well-off gentlefolk, the holding cell Sally found herself in was built for pain, not comfort. Thirty by twenty feet in scope, the floor and three of the walls were made of sturdy bricks that nothing could penetrate. Inch-thick iron bars that stretched from the ceiling to the floor ran the entire length of the fourth wall save for the spot at the halfway point where a swinging door had been integrated into the design - the door had crossbeams going this way and that, and metal shields encapsulated the hinges to prevent them from being the weak links.

As the guard had arrived with someone new, all those who were awake had looked up in the hope it was their turn to get out. The excitement had worn off when they realized they would have to wait longer, and several curses, groans and sighs were heard around the cell.

A wooden bench had been bolted onto the wall all the way around the cell. At present, it was home to the rear-ends of seven men of varying sizes and ages. Two of them looked to be rowdies while two others seemed gentler.

A teen wearing a red chintz jacket and dark pants, i.e. the colors of the Knives street gang, sat by himself the furthest away from the big fellows - his ice-blue eyes and blond crewcut didn't offer the best first impressions.

The final two men in the holding cell used the bench for sleeping, but they were clearly down-and-outs so they didn't pose a threat to anyone.

After the initial excitement had passed, the seven men settled down once more. Sally eyed them all before she strolled over to a central spot along the bench. She had barely sat down when the teen wearing the gang colors jumped up and came over to her.

"Hey, Mister!  Get your ass off my bench," the young man said in a threatening voice. Although his register was on the fair side of things, there was an unhinged undertone to his delivery that caused the other men in the cell to perk up.

Sally's eyes narrowed down into slits as she studied the young man in front of her. She knew that everyone in there had deposited their belongings in the processing room so there was no risk the fellow was armed with one of the switchblades that had given his street crew their name. Leaning back against the wall, she used the motion to hide the fact that she clenched her fists down in her pockets. "Gee, this sure ain't your day, bub. Ya got two outta two wrong there. One, I ain't no Mista. Two, this ain't your bench."

"Damn straight it's my bench!  Get your ass off it!"

"Or what?"

"Or I'll make you bleed, bitch!"

Tension mounted exponentially in the holding cell. The two rowdies - whose mere presence couldn't help but dominate the peanut gallery - moved out to the edge of their seats to get a better view of the fight that was bound to develop.

"Oh my, I wouldn't want that. I better get up," Sally said and moved to stand up. From one moment to the next, she kicked out and scored a direct strike on the young man's crown jewels. As he moaned in a high-pitched voice and doubled over in pain, Sally jumped around him, put a hand on the back of his crew cut and slammed his face down onto the space on the bench she had just vacated. "It's all yours, pal," she said in a low, menacing voice as she took a hasty step back.

The nose of the street tough took the brunt of the impact and seemed to explode in a gush of blood. The knock-out blow had been instant, and he continued further down until he was a mess of arms and legs on the floor. His nose continued to bleed which left crimson stains all over his gang coat and the white T-shirt underneath it.

The rowdies whistled and applauded at the brief action, but the two gentler souls looked horrified and shied back even further.

Sally took another step away from the pool of blood on the floor that had already begun to coagulate at the edges. She offered her fellow holding-cell inmates a cool smile before she strolled over to another section of the bench and sat down all over again.

-*-*-*-

Five hours went by before something finally happened for Sally. All of the prisoners who had been in the holding cell when she had arrived had been released - in the case of the juvenile delinquent, it had been to a local hospital - and a new group of drunkards, jaywalkers, street toughs, bar rowdies and assorted other bruisers and brawlers had been introduced to the foul odor and the other hardships of the twelfth precinct.

Her ire had grown steadily when none of the uniformed officers who were there to make drop-offs or pick-ups knew anything about the particulars of her case. At present, the scowl on her face was so deep and dark that only the bravest of those sharing the cell with her dared to even look in her general direction. She kept up a firm glare at the iron bars and the hallway beyond it; there was nothing she could do about any of it which only added to the fire that raged inside her.

After what felt like an entire high-school re-enactment of The Forty Days In The Wilderness, Lieutenant Conrad Garrett finally showed his face outside the holding cell. He had his hands stuck deep into his pants pockets while he shot Sally a glare that was meant, but failed, to intimidate her. The scowl on his face was a mirror image of the one on Sally's and hinted at an unexpected and unwanted development somewhere behind the scenes.

Sally cocked her head as she noticed the lieutenant's expression. She almost sent him a wave and a grin but decided at the last moment that such a gesture would not be beneficial for her immediate future.

Garrett was forced to wait in the hallway for more than a minute before one of the uniformed guards showed up with the correct set of keys; the lieutenant glared even harder at his colleague than he had at Sally, but the fellow from the night shift couldn't care less.

Striding into the holding cell, Garrett grabbed hold of Sally's arm and yanked her upright. He champed hard on his spearmint chewing gum that still failed to overpower the eye-watering scents he carried around. "If I ever needed proof of how crooked you are, dick, I just got it," he said in a hoarse voice that was accompanied by a foul mix of spearmint and bad breath. "Your lawyer showed up and demanded to see you. He's one of those gold-rimmed big shots. How the hell can you afford such a lawyer as a private dick?"

Sally furrowed her brow. Although she did have frequent contacts with a lawyer who provided various legal representation in the aftermath of certain cases - typically stake-outs of cheating spouses and subsequent servings of divorce papers - she would never call the white-haired, large-whiskered and semi-retired Teodor Solomon one of the gold-rimmed big shots.

"Let's go," the lieutenant said before Sally could add as much as a tiny quip.

---

Two floors up from the holding cells, Garrett shoved Sally onto a wooden chair in one of the stationhouse's interrogation rooms before he went back outside to wait for the golden-boy lawyer.

The room only contained a table and four chairs, one of which was the one she occupied. The ceiling and the walls were all drab and bare to instill a sense of dread in the people forced to be there. A naked bulb, primed to be shone in the eyes of the suspect, hung down from the ceiling on a twisted cord.

The chairs and the table were of the most utilitarian kind. They had all seen better decades and were uncomfortable to sit on, or at; the table's top was home to a glorious collection of Gutter Art in the shape of lewd comments and drawings of various elongated bits and pieces. The quality of the air was better than in the cells below, but it still wouldn't win any contests. A fan had been installed in the ceiling, but it was as dead as the one back in the office of Sally's detective agency.

She let out a bitter chuckle at all the nonsense she had been put through since she had first heard of Count Gennaro of San Bonnaccio. It all seemed to be a bust of mountainous proportions, and even worse, only General Brazelton had ever mentioned anything about paying her for her services. She leaned forward and put her elbows on the crude table top. A deep sigh followed hot on the heels of a strong craving for her Serrano cigarettes; all her things were still in the filing cabinet down in the processing room.

Commotion on the other side of the door made her sit up straight. A few seconds later, the door opened to reveal Lieutenant Conrad Garrett, Detective Second Grade Sean McFarlane and a regal-looking, bespectacled, silver-haired sixty-something gentleman in a Navy-blue three piece business suit that had clearly cost more than what the two police detectives would earn in six months combined.

Garrett stepped inside and slammed his arms across his chest. The look of undiluted sulfuric acid he shot at Sally was reserved for the really bad situations; it added a ruddy tone to his face that hinted at a rapidly approaching coronary.

McFarlane's face had never lost the embarrassed quality it had gained when he had stumbled over his own feet on the parking lot in front of the Majestic Hotel. The police detective slid over to one of the walls and leaned against it like he wanted to be anywhere else at that exact point in time.

All that left the lawyer, and Sally shot him a puzzled look. "Hiya, Mista. Good to see you again. Gee, it's been so long you need to refresh my memory a little…"

The regal-looking gentleman chuckled as he put a leather briefcase on the table and pulled out the chair next to Sally. "With pleasure, Miss Swackhamer," he said as he sat down. He spoke in a calm, cultured voice that carried a strong memento of his Ivy League background; it also matched his exterior to a T. "For the benefit of our mutual acquaintances within the Mooresburg City police department, i.e. the esteemed gentlemen present in this room, it should be noted for the record that I, Nathan Silberschein, senior partner in Borratz, Silberschein, Karoly and Byron, aim to file a formal complaint with the Chief of Police and the Chief of Detectives with regards to the unlawful detention of my client here-"

Conrad Garrett let out a croaking snort that sounded as if he was about to cough up a bullfrog. A moment later, he broke out in a loud "Pah!" and waved his hand at the lawyer like he couldn't believe he was even hearing it.

Silberschein's grayish-blue eyes - that sat symmetrically in his narrow face - hinted at great intelligence while the hawkish nose and firm chin almost gave him the look of a bird of prey. It was only to be expected of such a gentleman that he wore gold cufflinks, a diamond-studded tie pin and even a couple of gold rings on his fingers.

"Lieutenant," the lawyer continued in an accusing tone, "if that is your answer to the serious matter I have laid out, then I can only advise you to drop these false, even fictitious, claims against my client and let her go at once."

The man's looks and manners were so in tune with the fellows that Hollywood always cast to play professors, surgeons, judges and indeed lawyers that Sally suspected he might simply be an actor hired by someone to break her out through words rather than dynamite; whoever he was, she had never, ever seen him before. To keep herself from adding a quip at the wrong moment, she chewed on her cheeks while she watched the verbal wrestling match unfold.

Tension mounted in the interrogation room as Lieutenant Garrett began to move up and down on the balls of his feet; a few moments later, he moved his arms down and slammed them onto his hips. "Like hell I will!  We arrested the private dick there for erratic driving and disrespectful behavior toward police officers!"

"After you had crashed into her car," Silberschein said; he reached into his briefcase to take a notepad and a fountain pen.

"That was nothing but a minor fender-bender. And besides, Detective McFarlane and I suspected we had come across a drunk driver from the way the vehicle swerved in and out of the lanes," Garrett said in a voice that he clearly tried to keep as civil as possible.

"I see," Silberschein said as he made sure to take notes. He looked up above the rim of his spectacles. "Was a blood sample taken?"

"What?"

"A blood sample, Lieutenant. It could corroborate your suspicions regarding Miss Swackhamer driving under the influence."

Several seconds went by in a stony silence. "No, it wasn't."

"Why not?"

The shade of red that covered parts of the lieutenant's face darkened as he once more kept quiet; his silence lasted for all of three seconds before he reached boiling point: "We didn't need to, that's why not!  I've been in this damn business for decades… I know exactly what it looks like when some juicer hits the streets!  I'm just glad we stopped her before she mowed down some poor pedestrian!"

Sally had been biting her cheeks and lips hard throughout Garrett's barrage of lies. She kept her eyes glued to the table top because she knew she would jump up and kick the lieutenant's behind into next week if she didn't.

"I see," Silberschein said again. "How much time has gone by since the incident that caused you to stop her?"

The lieutenant clammed up and stuck his hands into his pant pockets. He glared at Sally like it would help. "Detective McFarlane will know," he eventually said in a strangled voice.

Silberschein turned around on the uncomfortable chair to pin the younger plainclothesman to the spot. "Detective, when did the incident occur?"

"Ah… ah… ah, it was just… a few minutes… maybe five minutes to six PM," McFarlane said while wearing an expression that bordered on the mortified.

"It's a quarter past eleven, gentlemen. That's five hours post-incident, give or take," Silberschein continued before he turned back to Garrett. "Lieutenant, in your decades of experience, have you ever seen a state of intoxication remain after five hours?"

"Yes I have, dammit!  It happens all the stinkin' time out there in the real world!"

"Even for people who do not have an opportunity to maintain their intoxication through a frequent intake of high-alcohol beverages?  Lieutenant, if you had taken a sample of Miss Swackhamer's blood at the time of the arrest, you could have compared it to the one I strongly advise you to take now. I suspect you will not find traces of-"

"All right, that does it!" Garrett roared at the top of his lungs as he stormed over to the table and slammed both fists onto the top. He leaned forward with a face like thunder; the foul odors that were his constant companions seemed to follow his temper into the red zone and grew even stronger. "If I have to listen to another word of crap out of you, I'm gonna puke!  McFarlane, throw that Goddamned dick outta here!  And that polished turd who calls himself a lawyer, too!"

A gross-sounding snort burst out of Garrett as he spun around and stormed away from the interrogation room; the door was slammed shut with such force that dust rained down from the proverbial rafters.

Sean McFarlane - who had been standing right next to the door and had thus received the full blast of venom - nearly jumped a foot in the air as a result. As he landed, he wrung his hands a couple of times and let out a squeaked "Yes, Lieutenant," before he stepped over to the table to deal with the fallout.

Chuckling, Sally pushed the chair back and got up. "Put it there, Mista Silberschein," she said and held out her hand for the old-fashioned shake. Once that had been accomplished, she stuffed her hands in her pockets to keep her pants up. "I can't wait to get my belt back… and I can't wait to see your bill."

Nathan Silberschein smiled at his temporary client as he stored the notepad and the fountain pen in the briefcase. "The situation will soon be explained fully, Miss Swackhamer. Come, let's get across the final hurdle so you can go home."

"Gee, that sure does sound swell, Mista. I need my stuff from the processing room downstairs. Oh, and my car, of course… hey, McFarlane," Sally said and turned toward the mortified Detective, Second Grade. "Did I hear your Loo tell you to take my Ford to the impound yard?"

The detective looked from the lawyer and over to Sally a couple of times before he let out an embarrassed: "Yes."

"Where is that, exactly?"

"In the garages behind the next building."

"Okay. And another thing… what the hell happened to my fedora?"

"It's still in the car," McFarlane said in a mumble.

"Well, then… you'll be a good copper and fetch my Ford, won't ya?" Sally said with a steely grin.

When nothing happened and no reply was given, Nathan Silberschein turned to look at the mortally embarrassed detective with a telling expression on his distinguished face; McFarlane eventually nodded and left the interrogation room.

"With that out of the way," Nathan Silberschein said as he put a gentle hand on Sally's shoulder to let her know she could go on, "let's go downstairs so you can collect your possessions."

---

The sight of a detained person and their lawyer - for most of the people held at the Twelfth Precinct's stationhouse, it would be a court-appointed attorney - walking along the busy hallway to get to the elevator at the far end wasn't an unusual sight, so the uniformed officers and other prisoners they met didn't even give Sally and Nathan Silberschein a second glance.

The hulking presence of Lieutenant Conrad Garrett who followed at a distance of ten paces was a different story. Most of the officers working at the Twelfth knew Garrett well from his exploits and successes as the commander of the organized crime task force, but none had ever seen him in such a foul mood. Red-faced with anger, his intense eyes seemed to drill holes in the backs of the people walking ahead of him.

He had shed his blazer jacket to cope with the blast furnace inside him; it left a clear view of the dark patches of sweat under the arms and on the back of his formerly white shirt. His necktie was pulled crooked which revealed he hadn't just undone the top-two buttons, he had torn them clean off the shirt in his frustration.

In addition to the standard-issue .32 short-barrel revolver in a regular holster on his belt, he carried a leather shoulder-holster equipped with a .38 Smith & Wesson Police Special for greater stopping power. A pair of metal handcuffs dangled from a noose at the back of his belt next to a sheath containing a three-inch utility knife.

Sally reached the old cargo elevator first. As she pressed the call button, she turned around to cast a final glance at the hectic activity in the hallway; a groan escaped her when she clapped eyes on Conrad Garrett who stomped along like a raging bull.

Noting the groan, Nathan Silberschein turned around as well. "Ah, Lieutenant Garrett. Did you forget to tell us something?  Perhaps an apology for the unjustified arrest?"

A hateful look flashed across the lieutenant's eyes as he caught up with the others; for a split second, it looked as if he was about to take a swing at the high-priced, gold-rimmed lawyer despite the presence of at least a dozen witnesses in the shape of uniformed police officers. To be as aggressive as possible, he moved in so close that the stink that exuded from him made Silberschein take a long step back. "You keep your trap shut and we'll get along just fine, Jew-boy," he growled before he turned to Sally.

He poked her hard in the chest before he grabbed hold of her lapels and yanked her toward him. "And you, you little cockroach. You better watch your ass from now on 'cos I'll be right there, watching your every move. You hear me?  The second you reveal your real game, I'll be there to squash you like a bug. There won't be nothin' left for your momma to identify. And that's-" - he poked her hard in the chest again - "a Goddamned guarantee. Call it an early Christmas present from me to you."

A good portion of the lieutenant's fiery rage had spilled over onto Sally, but she clenched her jaw hard so she wouldn't make everything worse by mouthing off. She let her eyes do the talking instead - the white-hot death rays that shot from her hazel orbs would have annihilated any average Joe on the spot, but the lieutenant seemed to be so far removed from the regular human genom that he was immune to them.

Behind the trio, the elevator car arrived. As the scissor-doors opened, Nathan Silberschein took Sally by the arm and guided her inside. Much to the lawyer's vocal displeasure, Lieutenant Garrett went with them and slammed the doors shut. "Mister Garrett, may I enquire what you are doing?  Harassing a citizen in the presence of an attorney is exceedingly-"

"Didn't I tell you to keep your trap shut?  I'll let you know when I feel a need to listen to you and your fancy-ass words." Conrad Garrett took a step back and crossed his arms over his chest. "And I need to go with you to the processing room. The guard will only release the little dick's belongings to me."

Sally's experienced eyes noted immediately that the crossed arms meant the volatile man had his hand close to the hilt of the .38. Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, she turned toward her visibly upset lawyer and patted his arm to calm him down.

---

Downstairs in the processing room connected to the holding cells, the regular shift rotation meant the uniformed guard who handled the release of Sally's confiscated belongings was a different one to the officer who had been there earlier - even so, the new fellow seemed to have inherited the first one's chronic fatigue as he yawned several times while he went through the procedure.

Lieutenant Garrett and Nathan Silberschein stood twenty feet apart on either side of the central desk so they wouldn't have to deal with each other. Both men had clammed up and carried dark, frozen expressions.

The moment Sally received the manila envelope, she poured out the contents in the same metal tray she had used when she got there. The filthy handkerchief she had used to wipe her fingers after the messy fingerprinting was left behind for someone else to have fun with, but her leather belt had soon been inserted into the loops on her pants so she could have her hands free.

Once the belt had been tightened, she took her wristwatch. It needed to be rewound so she gave the little knob a couple of twists to be on the safe side. "Mista Silberschein, wouldya mind giving me the time?"

"It's half past eleven, Miss Swackhamer," the lawyer said, making a big show out of ignoring Garrett.

The hands were already on time, so Sally put the watch on her arm and closed the strap. "Right on the money. Just like they said in the ads, Eagle Crest watches never let you down," she said with a grin. The keys for the office, the set of picklocks, her cigarettes, the gas lighter and the collection of nickels, dimes and quarters she always kept were soon put into the appropriate pockets.

The spare magazines for her Browning came last but were soon clicked in place in the holster under her right arm. "And my guns?" she said to the lieutenant.

A stony silence broke out; it lasted so long that Nathan Silberschein cleared his throat. The lieutenant scowled at the lawyer before he pointed at another filing cabinet. "Unlock it," he said to the uniformed guard who did as he had been told.

Reunited with her Browning and her FN Herstal, Sally attached the firearms into their holsters and made sure the buttons and straps were closed and tightened. She glared at the lieutenant and the bored-looking uniformed officer. "All right. We're done here. Let's blow this popsicle stand before they discover I'm really a secret agent for the Commies. Oh no, did I say that out loud?"

Silberschein chuckled but the lieutenant couldn't see the humor. Growling, he spun around, tore open the door and vacated the processing room at such a tempo he nearly knocked over an officer out in the hallway.

"Miss Swackhamer, I sense you have a few questions you would like answered. Come, let's go somewhere more secluded where we can have a little talk. We need to stop at the watch desk first, though. I have to sign you out."

"Sounds real swell to me, Mista. I'm dying to get to the bottom of this. I'm also dying to get a smoke and some coffee but they'll have to wait. Getting up to speed is more important," Sally said as she and the lawyer left the processing room.

"Perhaps we can combine your needs and find a nice and quiet all-night café somewhere for our talk?"

"Gee whiz, I sure wouldn't object to that notion at all, Mista." Out in the hallway, she crinkled her nose as her nostrils caught wind of the lieutenant's body odor that continued to linger even long after he had stomped off.

As luck, or bad luck, would have it, they weren't alone in the cargo elevator going down to the ground floor. Sally kept mum throughout the slow ride though she had compiled a list of several dozen questions she couldn't wait to have answered.

---

The lateness of the hour hadn't lessened the frantic activity around the watch desk. Uniformed officers arrived with new prisoners while others waited in line to be released. A group of court-appointed attorneys seemed to have a pleasant, animated conversation at the far end of the central area while concerned parents, spouses and other types of relatives wrung their hands as they waited for news on their loved ones.

Several $2-a-pop prostitutes had engaged in an internecine trash-talking contest elsewhere in the large room, and it required a constant presence of several uniformed officers to keep the shouting women from going a step further into proper fisticuffs.

"Home sweet home," Sally said and let out a chuckle as she and Nathan Silberschein exited the cargo elevator and made their way over to the watch desk. They soon joined the tail-end of a long line of prisoners and lawyers who were all waiting to have the paperwork finalized so they could get on with their lives.

---

As the hands of time approached the witching hour at midnight, Nathan returned to Sally's spot in the line after having made a brief telephone call. The din was so massive that he needed to lean down to speak into her ear: "I've made arrangements for transportation in case your car is too badly damaged to drive."

"Okay," Sally said; a sour look fell over her face as she sent a glare at all the endless commotion and hubbub that went on all around them. "Damn, all these crackpots give me a thumpin' headache… and I haven't had a drop for most of the day. That's gotta be some kind of record."

"Pardon?" Silberschein said and leaned down toward Sally again.

"Nothing," Sally said and took another look at her wristwatch. "Oh, how the hell can it take this long?  I'm gettin' an urge to play a little chin-music on someone's schnozz just to move ahead in the line… talk about goin' stir-crazy in here!"

"There does seem to be quite a lot going on tonight."

"Yeah… no kiddin'," Sally said before everyone's attention was grabbed by two middle-aged, poverty-row prostitutes who jumped up to engage each other in a wrestling match featuring plenty of hair-pulling, nail-scratching and high-pitched screaming.

Sally stared at the fight for a few moments before she shook her head and let out a string of chuckles. "Golly gee whiz… and there I was, thinkin' I'd seen it all… yikes. Must be a full moon tonight."

-*-*-*-

Sally's blood pressure rose by 28 percentage points - one for each additional minute she had to wait in line - before she could step out onto the sidewalk in front of the heavily fortified stationhouse of the Twelfth Precinct. She drew a deep breath of the crisp night-time air that may have been laced with the inevitable smells of exhaust fumes and other things typical of a major city, but certainly not sweat, blood and vomit.

The deep breath only released some of the pressure that had built up inside her; still spit-flying furious over the long wait in particular and the general direction her evening and night had taken, she kicked out at a pebble that was sent racing along the sidewalk.

A short distance away but closing fast, hard heels tapped such a furious drumbeat on the sidewalk that even legendary jazz drummer Carl 'Skins' Preston couldn't have kept up - a cry of "Sally!  Sally!" could be heard through the noises created by the traffic on the busy street.

"Why, if it ain't my one and only doll!" Sally cried back as she caught an eyeful of Vicky Prince hurrying toward her. The secretary wore a coffee-brown, tailor-made dress suit over a white blouse, and the combo suited her sculpted frame perfectly; she needed to clamp a hand down on her pillbox hat so it wouldn't fly off in the headwind. As always, she had her hair up in buns and her nut-brown spectacles sat high on her nose.

The two women intercepted each other at the halfway point. Sally was nearly bowled over by the huge, crushing hug she was given by her taller friend, but she took it all in her stride and made sure to enjoy the intimate moment while it lasted.

When Vicky finished off by slapping a wet kiss on Sally's cheek, the private eye couldn't help but break out in a cheesy grin. "What a nice surprise, sugar!  And I must say I much prefer your kissin' lips to your-"

"Oh, never mind that now!" Vicky said and took a short step back while still holding onto Sally's arms. "How are you?  Are you all right?"

"Sorta-"

"Did they treat you well in the big house?  What happened?"

"Well-"

"Why were you arrested?  Oh, my Goodness, I was so worried about you when you didn't show up at the office."

"I can-"

"I racked my brain to come up with things I might try so I could find you. I called the Mount Olympus Athletics Club and Clifford Norton at the diner and several other places. Even that gentleman's club you frequent sometimes up at the waterfront, the Red and Black… such a strange name… but nobody had heard a peep from you!"

"They couldn't have 'cos I was-"

"I even tried smoking one of your Serrano's Special Blend cigarettes just to see if it would give me some insight, but… ugh… remind me not to do that again. How can you stand that vile taste?  How long have-"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa… doll!  Settle down, settle down… I promise I'll reveal all, see?" - Sally winked; Vicky blushed - "Let's take it nice and slow. One thing at a time. Yeah?  Gee whiz, my head's spinnin' just from hearin' you talk so fast, sugar!"

"All- all right. One thing at a time," Vicky said and reached into her purse to find a clean handkerchief. Instead of dabbing her own brow, she reached out to remove a smudge on Sally's forehead.

"Thanks, doll!  I guess I'm a little tarnished after spending five hours in a pig sty. First things first, though… Mista Silberschein, may I introduce you to Miss Prince. Secretary, intellectual opposition and above all dear friend."

Nathan Silberschein stepped closer and offered Vicky a smile. "I've already had the pleasure. You see, it was Miss Prince who alerted my client who in turn contacted me. General Brazel-"

"Ya don't say!" Sally said and turned back to Vicky. "You called General Boom-Boom?  Well done!  I always knew ya had brains behind your gorgeous mug, sugar. Gee whiz, I sure wouldn't have thought of that in the heat of the moment."

Vicky adjusted her glasses as the blush continued to stain her cheeks. "Well, I had to do something. I figured the General was connected enough to know what to do. He was."

"Yes," Silberschein continued, "and that was where I came into play. I made a few telephone calls and learned that Lieutenant Garrett had brought you here. The rest was old-fashioned legwork."

Sally grinned and wrapped her arm around Vicky's waist. She looked up at her friend's face that was even further north of her own due to the two-inch heels worn down below. "I guess the moral is to have friends in high places… eh, doll?"

"Quite," Vicky said and adjusted her glasses all over again.

Nathan Silberschein smiled at the exchange before he reached into a vest pocket to read the time on his gold pocket watch. "I hope Detective McFarlane won't take too much longer to bring out your car, Miss Swackhamer. It's getting rather late for this old fellow."

Sally was about to add a humorous quip when her good mood took a wrong turn and ended up down a cul-de-sac - she spotted Sean McFarlane walking toward them rather than driving her Ford. "We're about to find out. Look," she said and pointed past Silberschein's shoulder.

An annoyed huff burst out of the lawyer as he took in the sight of the detective and the man's sheepish expression. "Were my instructions not clear enough, Detective?" Nathan said in a voice that held a chilly undertone.

McFarlane's eyes darted between the two women and the lawyer. He whipped off his hat and wrung it between his fingers. "Ah… yes. They were. But… ah… I'm afraid that… ah… Lieutenant Garrett has, ah… ordered the vehicle in question to undergo a thorough technical inspection f-"

"What?!  What the hell for?" Sally barked.

McFarlane jumped at the volume and the harsh quality of the bark. His eyes grew even wider as he stared at the three others. "Ah, yes, for… ah… it's been… the Lieutenant suspected the vehicle may have been involved in smuggling narcotics or other illegal substances around Mooresburg City, ah… so-"

"That," Sally said at a volume just one notch shy of thunderous, "is the worst serving of Swedish meatballs I've ever had the misfortune to listen to!  Did you hit the giggle juice on yer way over here, pal?  Smugglin' illegal substances, my hairy heinie!"

Vicky's eyebrows shot skyward at the inventive profanity; she cast a sideways glance at Nathan Silberschein to see how the distinguished gentleman would take it, but it seemed he found it to be rather amusing.

"Tell ya wotcha gonna do," Sally continued. "You gonna go back there, you gonna get my Flivver and you gonna drive back here. Now, see?  Speak my language, pal?"

Sean McFarlane's eyes grew even wider than they had been; they were soon joined in their misery by a set of bared teeth as well. "Ah… Miss… I don't have the, ah… authority to… to… annul the Lieutenant's orders-"

Nathan stepped forward and turned his own authority up to full blast. "But I do. Come, Detective McFarlane. Let's get this matter sorted once and for all. And that's not a suggestion."

The detective clammed up. A moment later, he broke out in a frantic nod and shuffled back toward the impound yard behind the next building - Nathan Silberschein walked next to him to make sure the release of the vehicle happened as fast as possible.

Sally and Vicky shared a long look and a brief shrug. Chuckling, Sally resumed her pastime of holding onto Vicky's waist. "What'll we do until then, doll?"

"We could-"

"I know!  Let's have a gasp!" Sally said and reached into her liner pocket to get her Serrano's cigarettes and the gas lighter. Once she had lit up and had taken a deep puff to cleanse her lungs of five hours' worth of terrible air, she broke out in a wide grin. "Smoke?" she said as she held up the pack.

Vicky's left eyebrow created a perfect arch at the sight. "No, thank you. I've had my life's first and last Serrano earlier tonight."

"Awww… you smoke. I've seen you smoke at functions. I seem to recall you enjoyed cigarillos earlier?"

"I did and I still do. But they're not real cigarettes," Vicky said before her superior height enabled her to catch a glimpse of a familiar vehicle driving out of a gate further down the street. "Oh!  Goodness gracious me… what in the world?"

Sally followed her friend's gaze and soon took in the sight of her battered 1938 Ford Coupe. It hadn't been pristine to begin with, but now it resembled the cars that raced in demolition derbies. The grin faded from her face like someone had flicked a light switch. "Sonova… I'm gonna kill that Loo if it's the last thing I do!" she growled as she stomped toward the vehicle that had just come to a halt at the curb.

Vicky sighed and looked skyward. After a few moments of quiet reflection, she followed her fiery friend into the next battle.

"What in the flamin' pits of hell?!" Sally barked as she took in the full extent of the Ford's damaged rear - she hadn't had time to do so before she had been arrested. "The trunk lid, the bumper, the taillights… even the Goddamned license plate!  All torn up!  Somebody gonna pay for this and it ain't gonna be Sally Swackhamer, Esquire!"

Detective McFarlane stepped out of the Coupe and closed the door behind him. He held Sally's fedora that had been covered in ash when the ashtray had popped out of the dashboard, but it was soon yanked out of his hands.

Sally glared at the filthy hat before she slapped it hard against her legs several times to get the gray residue off. Once it was back on her blonde locks where it belonged, she calmed down a fraction but remained in the proverbial red-zone.

Nathan Silberschein soon returned from dealing with the typical bureaucracy in the office connected to the police impound yard. Joining the others at the car, he let out a grunt at the extent of the damage.

When the four people present all fell quiet and seemed to wait for someone else to take action, Vicky took it upon herself to do so. She moved back to Sally's side and leaned in to ask: "Do you want me to take a look at how messy it is inside?"

Sally sighed. "Wouldya mind, toots?  I don't feel like havin' my melon explode right now."

Adjusting her glasses, Vicky nodded and stood up straight. Her hard heels sent an echo across the sidewalk as she went over to the Coupe and looked inside. She had already turned back to face Sally when she decided she needed a second peek to give it a positive spin that wouldn't see any melons exploding - the second peek didn't add anything to the 'positive' category, so she settled for offering her friend an apologetic smile. "Sally?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you remember the history lessons in school about Herculaneum and Pompeii… and how they were buried in-

"Ya better be yankin' my chain!" Sally roared and stomped forward to see for herself. She only needed a two-second glance at the state of the upholstery and the carpet before she slammed her hands onto her hips. "No, ya ain't yankin' my chain. Dammit!"

"Well," Vicky said in a smaller voice than usual, "you've produced that ash yourself, you know. Perhaps you could have emptied the ashtray just once a month… or something…"

Sally rubbed her brow and cast a dark glare at Sean McFarlane - the blast of hazel fire made the jumpy detective shy back. Letting out a long sigh, she returned to Vicky's side and wrapped her arm around the inviting waist all over again. "Yeah, I suppose I could have. Now I don't have to for the next month."

"Well, that wasn't exactly the point I was trying to make… but all right. I'll accept it," Vicky said and performed her favorite fidgeting - she adjusted her glasses.

Detective Second Grade Sean McFarlane saw his opportunity to slip away while the others were busy among themselves. He soon disappeared inside the Twelfth Precinct's stationhouse where dealing with the city's down-and-outs, pickpockets, prostitutes, knife-wielding muggers and assorted other lowlifes caused far less strain and stress than being around gold-rimmed attorneys and steaming-hot private investigators.

Out on the sidewalk, the trio was on the verge of being reduced to a duo when Nathan Silberschein stepped forward. "Dear Ladies. Like I said before, it's far too late for an old gentleman to be away from his silky sheets, so I shall retire for the night. Miss Prince, why don't you and Miss Swackhamer take my company car and find a wonderful club or all-night diner?  I seem to recall you telling me that had been your original plan."

"It was indeed, Mister Silberschein," Vicky said with a nod. "But how will you get home?"

Nathan pointed at the street where several taxi cabs from all Mooresburg City's regular cab companies were lined up not too far from the police station. "Oh, don't worry about me. I'll just catch a cab. No problem."

Sally took off her fedora to scratch her scalp. "Why, that's a good plan all in all, Mista, but I have a tiny modification to it. Vicky, why don't you take the company car and I'll follow in my Flivver?  I need to find out what needs fixin' and what I can push off for later… and, honestly, there ain't no way I'm gonna leave it here, see?  If I do, those palookas will just impound it all over again."

"Oh… makes sense," Vicky said and craned her neck to look at the black Lincoln company car that she and Nathan Silberschein had arrived in far earlier in the evening. "But… I don't know where we're going… I'd much rather drive with you, Sally."

"Naw," Sally said and shook her head. "That's a no-can-do, toots. I don't wanna ruin that picture-perfect dress of yours. That would really pop my balloon."

"Well, I wouldn't want that," Vicky said in a mumble. She took another glance at the black Lincoln and then at the battered Ford; then she looked over at Nathan Silberschein - it was the thought of the elderly gentleman needing to take a taxi cab home that swayed her. Arriving at a conclusion to her conundrum, she nodded, stood up straight and steeled her resolve to face her friend. "Sally, I'm only going to say this once. I'm driving with you."

"But-"

"Hush. I'm not finished-"

"Yes, Ma'am!" Sally said with a grin.

"-And I'll be using your trench coat as an extra seat cover."

"Whoa… okay-"

Going on a tear, Vicky had no intention of stopping before she was done. Adjusting her glasses, she continued: "Mr. Silberschein has taken your nightly misadventure really well so far, so I don't want to shove him off into a smelly taxi cab just because we're going on the town. No. I'm driving with you. Furthermore, we're going back to your office."

"Okay, wait-"

"I will not!  I'm sure the phonebook has many all-night diners listed… we won't have any problem finding one that delivers, even at one in the morning or whenever we get back. That's my opinion and I stand by it."  Once Vicky had completed her soliloquy, she nodded and took a step back to await the response. When nothing came, she added in a quieter voice: "And I want to spend some time alone with you. Not you, me and fifty strangers in some noisy, smokey night club somewhere."

Sally grinned and reached out to put a gentle hand on Vicky's elbow. "Sold," was the first, last and only word that came from her with regards to Vicky's plan.

---

After Nathan Silberschein had been brought up to speed on the updated plan, he stepped forward with his hand extended. "In any case, have a pleasant remainder of the night, Miss Swackhamer."

" 'Night, Mista. I really 'preciate the help tonight. If you hadn't shown up, I would still have been in the puke-stinkin' pig sty they call a holding cell. I'll call the General first thing tomorrow. Why, I'll call him as soon as it's light outside. I'll bet he gets up at the crack of dawn," Sally said and tipped her hat after she had shaken hands with the lawyer.

"Oh, I can't say. It wouldn't surprise me," Nathan said before he turned to Vicky. Being the consummate gentleman that he was, he took the offered hand and kissed the back of it instead of giving it the traditional shaking. "Miss Prince. I wish you a good night. Both of you."

Vicky was so flustered by the gesture that she let out an "Oh, my!" out of sheer surprise. She dipped into the kind of deep curtsey that her mother had told her time and time again was how a proper lady responded to an elderly gentleman's affections - Sally just chuckled at the sight.

Once the company Lincoln was on its way up the street with the high-priced lawyer resting on the wide passenger seat, the private investigator took off her trench coat and spread it over the Ford's bench so Vicky's coffee-brown dress suit wouldn't be stained by the abundance of ash. "Yup. Oughtta work. Gee, doll… I think we're all set-"

The inevitable reply of "My name's Vicky," was soon heard, but it was accompanied by a smile rather than a frown. The rear-end of the Ford Coupe was a mess, but at least the interior was in better shape after the trick with the coat - the smile stayed on her face as she sat down on the bench seat and made herself comfortable.

Sally whistled through her teeth as she closed the passenger-side door and strolled around the car. She went around the front to avoid looking at the wrecked rear, but she was soon behind the steering wheel and ready to go. While the engine came to life and settled down into its usual idling, she cast a final, dark glare at the stationhouse of the Twelfth Precinct. Scoffing at the nonsense she had been put through, she pulled away from the curb and blended into the night-time traffic.

*
*
CHAPTER 7

The next morning may technically have had a dawn, but nobody would ever know it given the dark clouds that had fallen over Mooresburg City - the cloud cover was so low to the ground that the tops of the high-rises were obscured. A nasty breeze swept around every corner and rain pelted the windows of the detective agency's office on Eighty-seventh Street.

With the natural light reduced to hardly anything at all, it was no wonder that the snoring outline of a human being that stretched out on the sofa bed had slept in. All the impressions that had been absorbed the day before needed to be processed so the snores were deeper than usual. In turn, that caused the ubiquitous newspaper that covered the sleeping person's face to flutter in and out at regular intervals.

The shrill ringing of the telephone over on the desk - ten miles away - put an end to Sally's sweet dreams. As she came to with a jerk, the newspaper fell onto the floor as did a torn-off piece of paper. "Wha'?" she croaked as she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the couch.

The telephone continued to ring so chances were it was important. Responding with great reluctance, Sally got up, stumbled over to the desk on socked feet and bumped down onto her swivel-chair. The receiver was soon picked up and held to her ear. "Yeah?" she said in a croaking voice.

'Good morning, Miss!' an infuriatingly overstrung male voice said at the other end of the line. 'How do you do?  Have you ever considered switching to Blackbird Insurance?  For this week only, we have a special offer on our premium services where you can-'

A long groan escaped Sally before she said: "Ain't interested. Hi de ho, bub," and slammed the receiver back on the telephone. She remained in the swivel-chair for a long minute spent staring at nothing in particular. Although she hadn't imbibed - much - the night before unlike most evenings, her head ached from all the things that had happened over the course of the previous twenty-four hours.

As the rain splashed against the window panes behind her, she tried to look at her wristwatch to see what time it was, but she had to admit defeat after a minute of trying when she discovered she wasn't even wearing it.

Instead, she rummaged through all her pockets, the messy desk top and the desk's drawers to find some cigarettes. A brand new pack of Mohican greeted her in the bottom drawer - it wasn't her favorite brand, but any old cig would do while she got her brain in gear. A Mohican was soon stuck between her lips after which the search for her gas lighter began.

The torn-off note that had fluttered onto the floor when she had been jerked awake came into view while she rummaged through the desk top all over again. An eloquent "Huh?" escaped her croaky throat before she got up and stumbled over to the note.

It read,

'Hello, Sally - I hope you've slept well. Thank you very much for the night cap and the delightful round of gyros and baklava. I'll definitely add that Greek restaurant to my list of places to visit. You were more asleep than awake when I left at three so I helped you to bed and let myself out. Please note that I took your office keys so I could lock the door. You can come into Mr. Birnbaum's office to get them once you wake up.

Yours, Victoria Prince.

P.S. Don't forget to call General Brazelton.'

"Aw, that doll… she spoils me rotten," Sally said with a grin. As she spoke, the unlit Mohican bobbed up and down in her mouth as she had yet to recover her gas lighter. Leaning forward, she rubbed her face and her scalp - the latter to get her haystack into some resemblance of order. She looked at her wristwatch again out of sheer instinct and discovered it was still bare-arm o'clock.

"Gee whiz, I wouldn't be surprised if my lighter and my watch eloped and got hitched somewhere," she mumbled as she got up from the sofa bed and stumbled into the tiny bathroom to take care of all the regular morning business.

---

A brand new, wet-combed private eye emerged half an hour later. Sally had changed into a fresh pants-and-shirt combo that looked remarkably similar to the one she had only just hopped out of: brown, high-waisted pants and a tan shirt over a white, men's undershirt. After donning her gum-shoes and a fresh pair of bloomers - though not in that order - she was ready for whatever the day could throw at her.

She had found her wristwatch but not her gas lighter, so she performed a thorough visual scanning of the entire office while putting the watch on her arm. A grunt of surprise escaped her as she checked out the time of day - it was nearly half past nine in the morning though nobody would ever expect it given the gloomy shade of the outside light.

The visual scanning came up short as well, so she broke out in a shrug and made a ninety-degree right-hand turn toward the door. Her mission: go next door, greet Vicky in the Sally'est way possible and ask her to make some coffee and call Zeligman's for some sweet morning bread. Then find some matches, get the morning papers and finally return to the office to call the General.

"Nothin' to it," she said with a grin as she worked the two cylindrical locks - the safety chain hung limply down the doorframe; Vicky had locked the door from the outside as she had left in the early hours of the morning.

Her instincts demanded that she should be even more professionally paranoid than usual, so she got started on her lengthy work sheet by peeking out into the hallway for possible sightings of Calabrese mobsters, Irish wharf rat bruisers or nasty, smelly police lieutenants. None of the above were to be seen anywhere, so she stepped into the hallway while whistling through her teeth.

-*-*-*-

Fifteen minutes later.

"Gee whiz gorgeous, I always knew you was a sensational slice of sugarloaf!" Sally said with a grin as she spotted her gas lighter sitting prominently on the coffee tray that Vicky Prince carried into the office. The private investigator shoved a large pile of paperwork aside to have room on the desk top for the important bits and pieces.

Vicky let out a sound that was a cross between a snort and a chuckle as she stepped over to the desk. "My name's Vicky. And how in the world can you slice a sugarloaf?" she said as she distributed the various items. The incessant rain had soaked the paper bag from Zeligman's, but it hadn't harmed the quality of the sweet bread inside - and the five-spot tip had even made the soaked delivery boy break out in a sunny smile.

"Huh?  Of course you can slice a sugarloaf. It's a German Christmas cake. Or pastry. Or whatever. You know… a hefty, old thing with marzipan, nuts, pickled cherries and icing sugar," Sally said and flipped open the lighter at once so she could take the mother and father of all puffs. Soon, a huge cloud of pale-gray smoke rose to the ceiling where it tried to mimic the low cloud cover beyond the windows.

"I have no idea what you're talking about. None," Vicky said and adjusted her glasses. "Never mind. I'm sorry I ended up stealing your lighter. I have no idea how that happened."

"Whatever," Sally said and waved her hand, "but I have a theory, see… I think you just wanted another Serrano's but didn't dare to ask!  Ain't that so?" she continued with a wink.

Vicky stood up straight and shot Sally a stern look. "That, my dear, would be a no. I'll never touch one of those again. Ever."

"Mmmm?" Sally said and took the opportunity to knock off some ash. "Say… are you wearing yet another new perfume?  Doll, how can you afford all those pricey goodies?  Is old man Birnbaum really paying you that much?  What's it called today?"

"One… yes, I'm wearing a new perfume," Vicky said and adjusted her glasses. "Two… I get free store samples through my half-sister-"

"Ah!  Clever girl," Sally said with a grin.

"And three, this is Bayou Dreams."

A puff of smoke escaped Sally's mouth as she let out a saucy "Haw, is that a fact?"  Chuckling, she got up from her swivel-chair and moved over to the metal filing cabinet labeled 'W'. The bottle of 4-Leaf Clover Irish whiskey was soon retrieved and held ready. "Another great fragrance if ya ask me. Fits ya to a T. Definitely makes somebody dream about youse and them down the bayou… anyway, you want some kick in your coffee, toots?"

"No, thank you."

"I do," Sally said and returned to the desk. Two fingers' worth of 4-Leaf Clover was soon poured into the mug before she poured coffee in it up to the rim. Putting her lit cigarette between her lips, she grabbed the mug and leaned back on the swivel-chair. "Yeah. See, this is what I imagined being a private dick was all about. A cig, great coffee, a little booze, sweet pastries and a delightful dame for company. Does it get any better than this?"

Vicky adjusted her glasses. "Perhaps a paycheck now and then would be the cat's meow?  I mean one that doesn't bounce."

"True. Very true. Gee, that's what I always say, doll… if the world was run by gals like you, we'd all be cleverer. Cheers." A long swig of the spiked coffee and a deep puff of the Mohican followed before she went to work on the first pastry.

"Cheers. And thank you. Have you called the General yet?"

"Nope. Food first, then grumpy gents," Sally said with a grin.

---

Sally's game face had returned an hour later as she studied the notes and records she kept of her active cases. The sound of rain continuing to splash against the window pane behind her made her let out a dark grunt; the first grunt was soon followed by several more at the realization that a good portion of her day would be spent outside - she intended to stake out the address she had found when she had searched Ramón's pockets back at the Mount Olympus Athletics Club, namely 4620 Fennimore Street.

After the glorious breakfast and a failed attempt to reach General Everett Brazelton - one of his employees had told her that he was out hunting and couldn't be reached until the afternoon at the earliest - she was about ready to head out onto the mean streets of Mooresburg City once more.

She swiveled around to look at the two holsters that hung on the hallstand next to her trench coat and her blazer. A thought came to her that prompted direct action. After making space on the desk, she opened the central drawer and pulled out the Browning Hi-Power and the FN Herstal .32 that Lieutenant Garrett had confiscated during the false bust. She paused briefly before she took the second Browning and her cleaning kit as well.

A rapid knock-knock-knock on the door made her look up - Vicky's characteristic silhouette through the frosted frame proved it was a friend, not a foe. "Enter!" she said as she ejected the thirteen-round magazine from the Browning and began to disassemble the firearm.

"Here's the last of the morning papers. It was soaked through so I had to put it on the radiator first," Vicky said as she entered the office. After putting the dry-but-rippled newspaper on a corner of the desk, she cocked her head as she took in the collection of bits and pieces on the desk. "Oh… are you expecting trouble?" - The comment was followed by a brief adjusting of her glasses.

Sally caught the puzzled look and let out a brief "Mmmm." A few moments went by where she separated the slider from the Browning's main frame before she looked up again. "I wouldn't put it past the Loo to have tampered with them. I got plenty of things to do today, but I'd rather spend five minutes doing this than risk getting trapped in a jar of pickles out on the street. It's so easy to manipulate the firing pin that any snot-nosed kid can do it, see?  That's why I never leave 'em out of sight… that's also why I never have any snot-nosed kids in here."

Vicky had already opened her mouth to reply when the last part of the statement reached her. Her glasses needed to be adjusted several times while she tried to parse the joke. "You almost had me… and then you lost me again," she said with a shrug.

Chuckling, Sally winked at her friend while she continued inspecting and cleaning the Browning. She had done it so often she could do it in the dark, so the process was quick and effective. "Well, how about that," she said as she worked the action by pulling the slider back. Everything seemed fine, so her thumb pressed the appropriate button to make it safe again. "The Loo hadn't fiddled with it. Now I don't know if I should be relieved or disappointed."

With the first Hi-Power ready, Sally put it aside and reached for its twin brother to start the process over.

"Were you able to get in touch with the General?"

"No. He was still out hunting the last I heard," Sally said and took a deep breath to blow some dust out of the trigger body. She pointed over her shoulder at the window panes. "Who in their right mind goes out hunting in such crappy weather?  That fella must really miss the battlefield mud and misery."

A loud call of 'Vicky!  I need you on the telephone!' soon wafted down the hallway - it made Vicky sigh and look at the ceiling. "I better. If you need to spend time outside today, perhaps you should wear your rain cape?"

"I don't have one, toots."

Vicky had already begun to move over to the door, but came to a halt halfway there. "Sure you do. I distinctly remember you wearing it."

"Yeah?"

"Yes," Vicky said and adjusted her glasses.

"So where is it?"

"I haven't the foggiest…" - Another call of 'Vicky!  I meant now, not later!' soon burst through the hallway.

Sally leaned her head back to let out a loud laugh. "Great answer, doll!  Okay. I'll look for it. You better run or else he'll fire you."

"Yes. And my name is-"

'Vicky!  Where are you?'

A long groan escaped Vicky Prince as she spun around and hurried out of the office. Over by the desk, Sally chuckled before she concentrated on cleaning her weapons.

-*-*-*-

If the pastries for breakfast had been heaven, the stake-out was hell. An hour into the ordeal, Sally found herself pelted with rain while standing in the mouth of an alley off Fennimore Street. She had pulled her fedora down and the trench coat's collar up as far as either would go, but it wasn't enough.

The Prospects would never be a contender for the title of Nicest Borough In Mooresburg City even in glorious sunshine, but the run-down neighborhood was the absolute pits in the wet. She had hoped to find some kind of shelter across from the target of her stake-out - the apartments of 4620 Fennimore Street - but all she found were boarded-up stores, deep puddles with assorted garbage floating in them, and piles of human and animal feces in the shadowy nooks and crannies where nobody would bother the person taking a dump.

A homeless individual who had slept in the only dry spot around had drawn a rusty, old meat cleaver on her when she had come too close for his liking. Not wanting to get into unnecessary trouble, she had withdrawn from the conflict with nary a quip or a growl.

Worse, she couldn't even get a cigarette. The one time she had tried, it had drowned faster than she could puff on it which left it as a dissolved mess of paper and tobacco. A thought of chewing on the tobacco leaves instead simply to get some much-needed nicotine into her system had been considered and rejected as too gross even for her lowly standards.

Her battered Ford Coupe was parked directly behind her. She cast a longing look over her shoulder at the dry bench seat that seemed to call out for her, but she knew the car's battery would never hold up to the strain required to keep even the single windshield wiper running - and if it wasn't keeping the rain off the glass, the Queen Mary transatlantic liner could float past on the rivers that had formed on Fennimore Street without her noticing a thing.

The alley she found herself in wasn't the world's most inviting location, but at least the rain kept the inevitable stink and street dust to a minimum. A cracked drain pipe sent out cascades of water from the flat-topped building next door; gusts of wind often caught the water and created unpredictable splashes that went everywhere. The bricks that made up the alley's walls had been red once upon a time, but were now black from the soot and filth that swirled around in the air - a large section of the bricks was riddled with bullet holes to prove that something violent had taken place there at an earlier date.

A couple of stray cats chased a fat rat for several minutes, but Sally lost track of them as they zipped to and fro so she was unable to say whether or not they had bagged a hot lunch. Beyond the local wildlife, it seemed she was the only living being in the entire borough. No cars or buses had gone by for the past fifteen minutes, and there had been no pedestrians at all save for the ubiquitous slow-moving hobos, down-and-outs and homeless individuals who were everywhere in the Prospects of Mooresburg City.

Sally slapped her cheeks a couple of times - not only to stay awake, but to get a rain-induced numbness to go away. Across the street, a person in a dark-gray overcoat and a pale-gray Borsalino hat hurried along the sidewalk carrying a paper bag from a local grocery store.

The unusual garments made her look again. Few residents of the Prospects would wear such an expensive hat much less an overcoat of that quality. Flat caps, threadbare jackets, corduroy pants and work boots that had been taped together formed the order of the day for nearly everyone among the male population - only the local hoodlums and aspiring junior mobsters would dress up, but even they had limited access to nice garb compared to the proper wise-guys and made men they were trying to emulate.

Sally took a closer look at the person's shoes and the sections of the pant legs visible beneath the coat's lower hem; the pants were pale-gray and the black shoes didn't appear to have been made by a basement-store cobbler.

Tension mounted within her; she stuck a wet hand inside her trench coat and the blazer to wipe it off on her shirt and keep it near the hilt of her Browning. She upped her concentration to take in as many details as she could of the person across the street. He was in his early thirties and of medium height and build - the latter was difficult to establish as the overcoat concealed most of his physical presence. His hair was covered by the hat as was the upper part of his face. His cheeks and chin were home to a modest full beard that had a color one or two shades lighter than the overcoat's fabric.

The man soon walked up the stoop and came to a halt at the door to 4620 Fennimore Street. He turned his back to Sally while he fiddled with something out of her line of sight. He kept looking up and down the street like he was worried he had been followed. From one moment to the next, he stopped fiddling and stood still.

Seeing the sudden halt, Sally withdrew the furthest she could into the only place in the mouth of the alley that offered room for her: a tiny nook just next to the cracked drain pipe.

The man across the street turned around to see what had alerted his sixth sense. Holding a small-caliber silvery pistol, he stared directly into the alley at the battered Ford Coupe parked there. Damaged or vandalized vehicles weren't uncommon in the Prospects, so he kept looking around for a short while longer. Finding nothing, he slipped the pistol inside his coat, turned around and opened the door to 4620.

Over in the alley, Sally took a probing step away from the nook - she kept staring at the door expecting it to re-open any second. When nothing happened, she hurried behind the badly dented rear-end of her Ford and crouched down to be out of sight. "Well, I'll be good and Gosh-darned," she mumbled to herself. "Sometimes, Counts do stay in the slums. He shouldn't have looked… the eyes. The pale eyes gave him away," she continued as she peeked through the Ford's rear window to maintain a view of the door across the street.

---

She counted to 120 seconds - which seemed to take five minutes to get through - before she hurried across Fennimore Street and ran up the stoop at 4620. Like Count Gennaro of San Bonnaccio had done only minutes earlier, she glanced up and down the street a couple of times before she slipped inside.

The first thing she noted was that someone was in full swing slow-cooking cabbage and onion soup in one of the twelve apartments. Though the penetrating smell wasn't unpleasant as such, it wasn't what she needed to expose her nostrils to at that particular moment in time - it made her break out in a grimace that turned her face into a fright mask for Halloween.

The tiny lobby itself was utilitarian in nature. Every surface was flat and featureless, and the few design highlights that were present all had a pragmatic purpose. A bulb in the ceiling took care of lighting the staircase leading to the apartments, but the dim glass meant it wasn't up to much.

One thing that surprised Sally in a positive sense was the lobby's clean state. The floors and the steps had recently been washed, and it even looked as if someone had scrubbed the walls - she had seen plenty of horror cabinets around town, even in some of the supposedly nicer boroughs, to know how it would look when none of the residents cared. It appeared the people sharing 4620 Fennimore Street were proud of their accommodations and wished them to remain in tip-top shape.

The wall inside and to the left of the door saw an array of mailboxes. Most of the twelve carried a name on a small paper tag, so Sally went over there to study the list of names. Ten of the twelve mailboxes were equipped with a name which offered a hint that two apartments were vacant. Of the ten tags, seven only listed an initial and the surname. The remaining three were all male names: a Joe, a Joseph and a Harry.

"Hmmm," she said and rubbed her chin. Given the trouble the Count had gone to to disappear from the spotlight, chances were good he hid inside one of the apartments that only listed an initial and a surname. She applied her common sense and began to analyze the seven names. The first five didn't seem likely, but the sixth and seventh both had potential: the sixth was G. Illustre that she had a hunch might be loosely related to the word 'illustrious.' That person lived on the fifth floor. The seventh and last was S. diMarino on the fourth floor - not a perfect match, but foreign and noble-sounding.

She let out another "Hmmm," and rubbed her chin again. Regardless of where Count Gennaro stayed, they would need to have one of those life or death talks once she met - and it would be about his life or death.

Because of the unfortunate event in her younger years that had been used against her, she had been strong-armed into finding the stolen ledger and returning it to Vittorio Grazziani and thus Don Scardamaglia. It wouldn't take a professor of advanced algebra to figure out that Count Gennaro would get a pair of concrete boots for Christmas, or at the very least share a pine box with his namesake Count Dracula once the ledger had been sent back to the mobsters in charge of the Calabrese family.

She had so little room to wiggle it was almost a waste of time to even begin the dance, but one thing she did have influence over was her own part of the deal - and she wasn't about to get someone killed when all that person had done was to try to get out of the dirty business.

The situation needed to be resolved before either Don Scardamaglia, the aggressive Lieutenant Garrett or even Jimmy 'The Ice-Pick' McGarrigle, the head of the organization that controlled the docks and the waterfront, would follow the same trail she had and find 4620 Fennimore Street.

Nodding to herself, she climbed the stairs to try the apartment where G. Illustre lived. She had made it to the first landing when the front door opened down in the lobby. She froze and slipped her hand in under her coat and the blazer to grip the pistol - just in case.

A scent of an expensive perfume suddenly flowed around her nostrils. The sound of hard heels could be heard on the stairs. Playing it safe, Sally turned around and pretended to have come down from the upper floors. Stopping at the landing, she reached into her coat pocket to find one of the clean handkerchiefs Vicky had made her bring along.

She blew the trumpet in an excessive fashion; it was a natural thing to do in the inclement weather, and the handkerchief hid most of her face. The perfume and the hard heels on the stairs came closer until a gorgeous blonde in her early twenties turned the corner and came face to face with the trumpeting Sally.

"Oh!  Bless you!  Isn't the weather terrible?" the young lady said with a smile. She spoke in a cultivated voice that carried delightful vowels and unhurried, well-enunciated consonants; the words she had used to greet Sally made it strikingly obvious she wasn't originally from the Prospects.

"Mmmmh," Sally said behind the handkerchief. Her heart thumped hard in her chest as she tracked the blonde moving further up the staircase. She counted the steps until the heels stopped moving and a door was unlocked. The woman lived on the fourth floor.

Once Sally was alone, she removed the handkerchief which allowed room for her saucer-wide eyes. Moving on autopilot, she rummaged through her many pockets until she found the picture of the missing Maureen Brazelton that the General's assistant Geraldine Van Eyck had given her.

The woman in the picture and the blonde on the staircase were one and the same - Maureen Brazelton was no longer missing but alive and well and living on Fennimore Street slam-bang in the middle of the worst slums in all of Mooresburg City's many boroughs. And if that wasn't insane enough in and by itself, she lived in the same apartment building as the elusive Count Gennaro of San Bonnaccio.

Sally felt like smacking herself upside her head ten times in a row to wake up from the reefer trip she had to be on. The world tilted in three directions at once as she tried to wrap her head around the bizarre development; she gave up trying and settled for storming down the stairs. "Telephone… I gotta find a telephone…" she mumbled as she tore out onto the rain-soaked street.

---

"Button your piehole, Mista Palooka!  You listen to me and you listen good, see?" Sally growled into the receiver of the public telephone she had found near the corner of Doddson Street and Kingston Road. "So the General is out huntin', eh?  That's what I call a stinky cheese sandwich, pal!  I don't care if he's on a hot date with Rita Hayworth, I need to speak with him!  Now!  What the hell do I hafta do to make you underst- huh?  Yes. Yes. No, fer cryin' out loud!  No, I won't tell anyone but your boss- You gotta know where he is, right?  I mean, it would be kinda embarrassing if some private muscle lost a General, right?  So get him!  Whaddaya mean 'no' ?  Look- okay- okay- ah, forget it. Hi de ho, bub!  I hope ya choke on yer next Goddamned servin' o' sauerkraut!"

Grinding her teeth, Sally slammed the receiver back onto the public telephone. She whipped off her dripping wet hat to wipe her brow on her sleeve a couple of times - unfortunately, the sleeve was wetter than her forehead, so all she did was to transfer water in the wrong direction. "Damn that shit-for-brains," she said and plonked the fedora back on her locks.

She moved the door to the telephone booth aside and stepped out in the miserable rain. To add insult to injury, a stiff, constant breeze had joined in on the fun which sent scrap paper and other types of city debris hurtling down the street.

A flash of blue somewhere off to her left made her look in that direction. A split second later, a deep, raspy "Sonovabitch!" escaped her. The splash of color she had picked up in her peripheral vision turned out to be a dented 1940 Chevrolet driven by the wharf rat bruiser with the flat cap, the old-fashioned clothes and the molested face.

The driver had yet to find the correct street - maybe he couldn't read all that well - so the blue Chevrolet continued at low speed until it went out of sight behind the apartment building on the corner of Doddson Street and Kingston Road.

Sally smacked a palm against her face and cursed the day she was given the assignment. It was obvious the universe had it in for her. Not only was it still pouring with rain which happened to be her least favorite type of weather, she had solved two cases on one fluke but couldn't close either deal because she couldn't get in touch with the employer. And now the competition had arrived to claim the spoils for themselves.

"How the hell did that big, dumb lug find out about Fennimore Street?" Sally mumbled as she pinched the bridge of her nose. "Ramón Espinosa… dammit!  The juicer must have sold the information to get some of that rat-piss cherry brandy of his. Or maybe they just beat it out of him…"

She let out a deep sigh and briefly looked toward the heavens for guidance. When all that happened was that she was rained on a little harder, she let out a growl and set off in a jog to get back to 4620 Fennimore Street before the bruiser figured out how to spell s-t-r-e-e-t.

*
*
CHAPTER 8

After flying up the stoop, Sally entered the clean lobby and once again checked out the mailboxes. They were organized in something resembling alphabetical order which meant they weren't lined up on a floor-by-floor basis - in short, she had no way of knowing which of the apartments either Maureen Brazelton or Count Gennaro of San Bonnaccio had gone into.

She had already put a foot on the lower step when she came to a screeching halt and stared blankly into space. "Ain't no way this is a co-inky-dink. They live together. This is their love shack. The Count was the mysterious, suave gent the chauffeur saw Maureen hang out with… golly Gee whiz, why didn't I think of that before?  What are the odds?" she said out loud. A few moments went by before she let out a deep sigh. "Aw, dammit, Sally… I don't even know if that's a help or a hindrance?  Man-o-man, this is nuts…"

Running up the stairs, she soon made it to the fourth floor where she suspected Maureen had gone in. Three doors greeted her, but one of them didn't look as if it went to an apartment - its general appearance was more akin to an access to a utility room of some kind.

That left two doors for her to choose between. A small piece of cardboard had been thumb-tacked onto the first one - someone had written the words Joe Conners on it in an old man's scrawl that was jittery and hard to read.

The other was S. diMarino, i.e. one of the names that had piqued her interest down by the mailboxes. Joe Conners didn't seem right, but S. diMarino did. Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly to get her thumping heart under control, she reached in under her coat and jacket to release the little button that held her Browning in place in the holster.

She put her ear to the door to eavesdrop on whatever went on inside. Although the lobby and stairwell had both been in good shape, the typically sloppy building standards of the Prospects finally came into play: the wooden door was wafer-thin.

Even without straining her hearing, she was able to hear a male voice speaking English with a foreign accent. The voice was worlds apart from the usual accents and dialects heard in the Prospects, so her confidence gained another few notches. Whether the person spoke to someone else in the apartment or on the telephone was impossible to discern. Similarly, nobody - and certainly not Sally Swackhamer, Private Eye - could know if Maureen was still in there or if she had left during the twelve minutes where the apartment hadn't been under observation.

Sally took another deep breath before she moved her left hand up to knock on the door - her right was wrapped around the Browning's grip if push came to shove, or rather, if the pro-wrestling tag-team of Bam, Boom & Bang decided to get busy just for the hell of it.

The knock sounded like thunder in the quiet stairwell. Inside, all activity ceased. Sally held her breath as she sensed rather than heard someone approaching the door from the other side. She took two long steps to the side to be out of the firing line in case the person was of the shy, retiring type and thus let his friends Smith and Wesson do the talking.

One lock was twisted. Then another. Then the door cracked open and was held a mere inch ajar on a sturdy safety chain. One third of a male face peeked out: an eye and a perfectly sculpted, elegant cheekbone. The eye darted around to take in as many details as possible in as little time as possible.

His chin and cheeks were graced by a full beard though a cleft chin could be seen through the black hairs. The person wore round glasses that didn't seem to carry much strength in the lenses. To compensate, they allowed a perfect view of his striking, pale-gray eyes.

"Hiya. My name is Sally Swackhamer," Sally said with her right hand buried deep inside her jacket and her left dug into the outer pocket on that side of her coat. "Ya wouldn't happen to be Mista diMarino, wouldya?"

"No. He friend of mine. Good friend. His apartment. I only sleep and eat here," the man said in an inch-thick Italian accent. "Are you cop?  You cannot be cop. You too short."

"I'm also a good friend, Gennaro," Sally said and found the photograph Vittorio Grazziani had given her while they had shared the back of the Cadillac. She looked at it for a few seconds before she flipped it around and held it up to the man peeking out of the tiny crack.

A stand-off followed that seemed to take half an eternity, but in reality, it didn't even last five seconds. Sighing, the man said: "Okay. Come," as he briefly closed the door to get the safety chain off - it was soon standing wide open.

The tension grew as Sally stepped inside the small but functional two-room apartment. The wads of old newspapers plugging the gaps in the window frames proved it had the same issues with the draft as all the other old pads in the Prospects. Numerous moldy discolorations in the ceiling showed there had been a bad case of water seepage upstairs at some point in the past. A radiator installed on one of the central walls let out gurgling, clunking noises and very little in the way of heating.

To compensate, a smaller, oil-burning radiator had been wheeled into the center of the living room - it seemed to create a modicum of heat and a great degree of heavy, oily odors; the wet, dark-gray overcoat that was suspended over it on a coat hanger by way of a hook screwed into the ceiling didn't care about the smells.

The furniture was old but in decent shape: a supper table and two mismatched chairs had been placed under an old-fashioned kerosene lamp. A kitchenette in the corner of the room provided basic utilities for cooking and preparing food. Elsewhere, a low sideboard had been placed up against a wall to cover a crack in the outer layer of plaster. An old rug on the floor and an even older couch against the wall opposite the sideboard completed the ensemble.

Deciding to proceed with caution, Sally kept her voice calm and neutral as she eyed the fellow with the odd, pale eyes: "Gennaro, I'm a private investigator. I was hired to find and retrieve the item you took when you left the family business." As she spoke, her right hand remained on the hilt of her Browning Hi-Power. Her left slid the picture back into her coat so she could take off her dripping wet fedora.

Gennaro wore brown slippers while his outdoor shoes dried after his trip to the grocery store; the pale-gray pants sported wet patches that reached several inches up the pant legs. Further up, he wore a dark-gray shirt that was covered in part by a knitted cardigan. He didn't wear a necktie which allowed a peek at a gold chain that carried a crucifix around his neck.

He nodded in a somber fashion. "Not my family. That was problem. Are you armed?"

"Yes," Sally said and moved the Browning inside the jacket so the fabric bulged out for a brief moment. "Are you?"

"Left it in bedroom. Will you kill me?"

"No, but others might. I'm here to help, see?  You need to believe that," Sally said and began to move sideways through the apartment to get a clear view of the curtain that separated the alcove bedroom from the living room. It had been behind her and to her left, but with the news the silver pistol was in there, there was no need to risk getting bushwhacked.

Gennaro shook his head. "I can't."

"I'll explain. You'll change your mind. First up, though… how about you asked Maureen to come out of the bedroom so we all know what's what. Yeah?"

"I don't know who you talk about."

Sally chuckled and drew a deep breath: "Maureen!  You can come up for air now. Your daddy sends his regards."

A feminine gasp was heard plain as day from behind the curtain. Several seconds went by before it was pushed aside to reveal a trembling Maureen Brazelton. She wore a cozy-looking house coat over a neutral dress to stay warm; though basic in design, the dress had cost more than the combined worth of every piece of furniture in the apartment. Her blonde locks had been dried and set up in a charming hairdo after being out in the inclement conditions. Less charming was the silver .32 she held in her trembling hands. "G- get out!" she croaked in a frail voice.

Once the silver pistol had made an appearance, two things happened at once: One, Sally pulled the Browning from the holster but kept it inside the coat for the time being.

Two - which happened at the exact same time - Gennaro stepped forward and threw his hands in the air. "No!  No, caro, you must put away the gun… please!  Put away the gun… now. Please!  Please, Maureen… please listen!"

Maureen's wide eyes darted from Sally to Gennaro and back several times before she seemed to deflate like a leaky balloon. A long sigh that turned into a sob escaped her.

As the pistol was lowered, Sally grabbed it and put it into her coat pocket at once so it was safe. Her own Browning was shoved back into its holster before she closed the little button holding it in place. "Thank you. Both of you. All right… come, let's sit at the table. We have a lot to discuss."

Sally had barely finished speaking before Gennaro jumped forward to pull Maureen into a comforting hug. He mumbled a few, soothing Italian phrases into her ear that made her nod and shuffle over to the supper table. She almost disappeared from view as she sat down, lowered her head and wrapped herself up in the warm house coat.

"Gennaro," Sally said, "wouldya mind cooking up some coffee?  I think we could all use something hot to drink."

"Coffee all out. We have tea."

"Yeah… okay. I can drink tea. Wouldya mind?"

"I make us tea," Gennaro said and hurried over to the kitchenette to fill a pot with water and turn on the gas ring.

While the hot beverages were being prepared, Sally moved over to the supper table and put both photographs on the frayed surface. Maureen stared at them with wide-open eyes before she looked up at the private investigator. "Yeah. That was my reaction too. I don't know how this is even possible, but I guess the stars aligned," Sally said while a faint smile creased her lips.

She transferred the silver pistol into the side pocket of her blazer before she pulled off the wet trench coat. There wasn't any room for it over the portable oil-burning radiator, so she let it hang over the backrest of the nearest chair.

Gennaro soon returned carrying three mugs on a tray. After he had put the steaming-hot tea on the table, he took off the round glasses and sat down next to Maureen. They grabbed each other's hands at once and attempted to build mutual strength by a strong, but tender squeeze.

"Okay. Here's the deal, see," Sally said in a no-nonsense voice that made Gennaro and Maureen look at her with worried expressions etched onto their faces. "I already know most of what's been going on, but feel free to interrupt if I have a detail wrong here or there. Okay?"

Gennaro and Maureen both nodded.

"All right. Gennaro, you took the open ledger when ya jumped off the Scardamaglia-branch of the Calabrese family tree. If the open ledger ends up in the wrong hands… like the boss of the wharf rats, Jimmy 'The Ice-Pick' McGarrigle… he would try to steal each and every one of the big and little fish involved. The Don could never allow that. It would turn into a massacre."

"That was not my plan!"

"I know that, Gennaro, but Don Scardamaglia and his brilliantine boys don't, see?  They want it back. Badly. Half the Calabrese mobsters of Mooresburg City have been lookin' for you ever since you went bye-bye in the dead of night. None of 'em could find ya. Enter Sally Swackhamer, a.k.a. Miss Sacrificial Lamb. I was told by Vittorio Grazziani to get that ledger back at all cost… and from his point of view, that's a bullet in your head."

Maureen gasped again and stared at the man next to her; Gennaro nodded to prove Sally was on the right track.

"Yeah," Sally continued, "but even Grazziani suspected you might hand it over to the G-men instead of selling it to Jimmy Ice-Pick. Was that your plan?"

Gennaro nodded.

"Right. But that kinda action would create even greater ripples in the pond, see. Why?  'Cos now all the corrupt law enforcement folks are lookin' for that damn ledger as well to protect their own fat deals with the Calabreses. And believe me, those plainclothes palookas don't need no outside assistance. They already have unlimited access to records of all kinds. They can already smash down doors and bust lips and noses from here to the Great Lakes and still come up smellin' of lavender. They'll just sell it to the press as a great blow to organized crime. In turn, that'll be a feather in the Mayor's cap. They help him get re-elected and he'll never bring the heat on 'em. But!  Even the corrupt coppers are deathly afraid of the untouchable G-men with their federal powers and all that jazz. So the coppers come out all-swingin' and all-shootin'… and now you have three vicious beasts breathing down your neck, Gennaro."

Maureen pulled the house coat even tighter before she grabbed the mug to warm her icy fingers. "We're all going to die," she said in a frail croak - it prompted Gennaro to scoot closer to her and take her in his arms.

Sally shook her head with grim determination written all over her face. "Someone might die before this is over, yes, but it won't be us, see?  Not if I can help it. And Maureen, this is where you come in. You ran away from home to escape your father's strict discipline, right?"

Maureen offered Sally a small shake of the head. "Yes and no… there was some of that, but it was mostly because he couldn't understand I've grown up."

"He loves you dearly, you know. All right, I imagine he has problems actually saying the words, but he does love you."

"I know… but I wanted to love someone else, too," Maureen said and took a long swig of the hot tea. "Daddy would give me everything I ever pointed at, but I never wanted it and it never meant anything to me. I'd gladly have given it all away to the thousands of girls who don't have a tenth of what I had… you must believe that!  I just wanted to be allowed to love someone. The few times I brought home a date, my father would scare them off with his… his… damned third-degree interrogations!  One of my dates wrote me a letter afterwards where he said he had felt like a prisoner of war…"

"So you upped stakes and left."

Maureen sighed. "Yes. I knew Gennaro from a function we had both visited at the Italian consulate last year. We struck gold at first glance. We wrote letters to each other because I was worried that daddy would eavesdrop… or Miss Van Eyck… but then I began to suspect they read my mail instead. It all came to a head. And I left Daddy."

Sally let out a long grunt and pinned Gennaro to the spot - she was impressed by the fact he held her gaze. "And so did you, Gennaro. You rented or bought this pad and shacked up in the middle of the slums in the hope you'd both be out of sight and out of mind. You took the ledger to use it almost as an unlimited check book."

"Very close to truth. I had already planned to leave Grazziani. He disgust me. Nothing but a butcher in fine clothes. He and Angelo Corrado. You know Corrado?"

"O-yeah. We've butted heads."

Gennaro nodded. "When I heard from Maureen about troubles, I knew it was time to leave. Now we all sit here in deeper trouble."

"Yes, and there's even an evil twist to the whole thing, my friends," Sally said in a somber voice. "Grazziani and the Don don't know about Maureen. Jimmy The Ice-Pick doesn't know about her, either. Lieutenant Garrett may have heard whispers, but I doubt it. I'll bet a veteran warrior like the General will know how to run a tight ship. That means when they come for you, they won't risk leaving any witnesses behind. You understand?"

Gennaro nodded again. Maureen's eyes grew even wider than they had been. Her hands began to tremble harder, so she put down the mug at once so she wouldn't burn her fingers on the tea sloshing over the edge.

Sally sighed at the inevitable reaction from the young woman. "I'm afraid it may get even worse, Maureen. If someone leaks information to either of the interested parties and they learn about you… the daughter of a high-profile individual… they'll kill Gennaro, abduct you and squeeze your father for the greatest ransom in the history of mankind."

"Oh, God… no!" Maureen said and broke out in a wild sob. Gennaro reached over at once to pull her into a strong sideways hug. He whispered soothing words to her in Italian, but her sobs only deepened until they turned to real tears.

"What we can do?  Eh?  What we can do?  We must do something!" Gennaro said in a voice that held a far stronger accent than earlier.

A deep, long sigh escaped Sally. She reached for her pack of cigarettes in the hope they were dry rather than soggy. Rewarded for a change, she took a Serrano's Special Blend at once and held up the pack. Gennaro shook his head. The gas lighter soon did its duty and ignited the cigarette.

Sally's first puff for a while was a deep one; she paced restlessly while she racked her brains to come up with a solution that wouldn't involve abductions or eternal sleep - or if death was unavoidable, then only for the bad people involved in the tragic mess.

She glanced around the sparsely furnished apartment. There wasn't anything worth more than a few dollars at the most save for the clothes Gennaro and Maureen wore - the exquisite, tailor-made garments were of a vastly superior quality to everything else in the Prospects.

Another deep puff followed that sent a huge cloud of pale-gray smoke up toward the discolored ceiling. She went over to the alcove bedroom to see what was in there. It turned out to be nothing much: an old, rickety closet of dubious origin and a bunk bed of similar quality - the latter was just wide enough for two who didn't mind spending the nights in close company. Beyond a Marine Corps-style duffel bag and three high-quality suitcases that were stored on top of the old closet, the alcove bedroom had nothing to offer.

Sally nodded to herself while she took the final puff and stepped back into the living room. After stubbing out the butt in the tiny sink in the kitchenette, she went back to Gennaro and Maureen. "I have a suggestion. It may even be a solution, but it won't be easy for you. Especially you, Maureen."

The young woman let out a few trembling breaths before she wiped her eyes on her sleeve. "Go on," she said in a frail voice.

"Our top priority is to get both of you to a safe place, see?  Better still, it needs to be as far out of reach of the S-O-Bs as we can," Sally said and put her hands on her hips. "That involves packing all you want to take with you. Then we'll put you in my office until we can get in touch with Big Daddy. It needs to be done now. Yeah… and I'm afraid you're never gonna come back to this apartment."

"Oh… but…" Maureen croaked before she fell quiet and looked at Gennaro.

"Is your office safe for us?" Gennaro said and cast a concerned glance at Sally.

"Some, but not enough. Once we get there, we need to contact the General or Geraldine Van Eyck at once. Maureen, you need to tell your father what's really going on here. Everything. I've only met him once, but I'll bet he'll send in the Leathernecks to ensure your safety."

Maureen let out a few sobs and looked down. Gennaro kissed Maureen's cheek before he met Sally's gaze. "Do not worry. We will cope."

"I think you oughtta let Maureen speak for herself, friend," Sally said while she pointed at the young woman in question.

A handful of age-long seconds went by before Maureen broke out in a nod. She wiped her leaky eyes and nose on the sleeve several times before she said: "All right. I'll pack. I wish I could call Daddy right now… but we don't have a telephone."

"I noticed. Any of your neighbors got one?  Or maybe a store nearby?" Sally said and reached for her cigarettes again.

"Nobody here has telephone," Gennaro said, "and stores are all closed. Only the grocer around the corner is open but he is old, old guy and has no telephone."

Sally nodded before she lit the next Serrano's. "There's a public phone booth on the corner of Doddson Street and Kingston Road, but that's a little too risky. And besides, I've been rained upon enough for one day. Maureen… whenever you're ready to pack, please do so."

"I'll… I'll hurry," Maureen said and pushed the chair back from the table. She kissed Gennaro's cheek before she moved over to the alcove bedroom.

Gennaro was about to join her when Sally held him back. She waited for Maureen to go into the alcove before she pulled Gennaro closer so she could speak for his ears only. "It won't be easy. Hell, it may end up gettin' pretty rough. You'll need this," she said and handed back the silver pistol. "Do you know how to shoot?"

"I have hunted deer. And fagiani… ah… pheasants?  Never men."

"Let's hope you won't get a crash course today. But it might come down to it, see?  Do you understand me, Gennaro?" - Sally took a firm grip on the Count's arm to underscore her words - "You may need to shoot to kill to-"

"Save Maureen. Yes. I will kill," Gennaro said vehemently.

"Good. And something else, friend. The open ledger. That thing is like a bottle of nitro that's been shook… it needs to be returned to the Don as soon as possible."

"But-"

"Listen to me. When he gets it back, there's a chance he'll call off his butchers. You understand?  We'll still have a hundred other problems facing us, but one less problem is one more chance, see?"

Gennaro stared at Sally in wide-eyed disbelief; his eyes suddenly narrowed into pale-gray slits. "You told us all?  I smell a dog."

A dark chuckle escaped Sally. "I guess we'd say 'I smell a rat.' I hear ya, pal. The slick S-O-B has a squeeze on me too. A bad one. I need to return the ledger to Grazziani and his Don or else it'll be my neck in the noose, see?  Ain't no angels in this dirty game."

Tension grew for several seconds before Gennaro broke out in a nod. "I bring book. You get it once we are safe."

"Works for me, friend. Okay, go help Maureen pack. The sooner we leave, the better," Sally said and took a final, deep puff of the latest Serrano's.

-*-*-*-

A short fifteen minutes later, Sally opened the front door of 4620 Fennimore Street by an inch; it was just enough to peek outside but not enough for any potential snoops, scouts or even snipers to get a bead on her. Rain continued to haunt Mooresburg City but at a weaker intensity compared to earlier in the day. To counter one element's apparent laziness, the breeze had picked up which made the remaining raindrops come in sideways and with greater malevolence.

Fennimore Street remained shiny from the rain and slippery from the leaves and pieces of scrap paper that had blown onto it. The usual, distant sounds of the big city were brought closer by the leading edge of the wind so it sounded like the quiet street had turned into one of Mooresburg City's major arteries. Sally cursed under her breath as the intruding noises made it far more difficult, if not impossible, to make out what was right under their noses.

"Okay… my Flivver's parked across the street," she said over her shoulder. "Once we get out there, we move fast but hold back from outright running. There's no need to draw attention to ourselves, see?  Are youse guys ready back there?"

When a double-chorus of 'Yes,' reached her ears, Sally opened the door fully and moved onto the stoop's upper landing. She had drawn her Browning Hi-Power and pointed it in every direction to cover as many angles as possible. Everything seemed calm for the time being, so she moved down the flight of stairs. She stepped aside to allow Gennaro and Maureen room to haul the suitcases and the duffel bag they had packed.

It was too good to last. The moment they set foot on the street, a voice cried out in a distinct Irish brogue: 'There they are!  We got 'em!' from somewhere off to their left.

"Sonovabitch!" Sally roared as she spun around and stared at her occasional adversary: the stubby wharf rat bruiser with the mauled face and the old-fashioned clothes. He and two like-minded, and similar-sized, friends were just shy of 150 yards away, but the lead-rumped fellows soon set off in what could just about be described as a run.

Two seconds later, a shot rang out from one of the three heavies. The bullet went nowhere near the intended targets and in fact earned the shooter a stiff dressing-down from the lead bruiser as they approached the apartment at 4620.

Sally whipped up the Browning and took aim at the men; she didn't return fire, but they scattered in every possible way which earned the escaping trio a small reprieve. "Go!  Maureen, go!  Gennaro, help her!  I'll hold off the palookas!" she cried over her shoulder without taking her eyes off the gangsters.

Maureen squealed and tried to make a run for it across the street; her heavy, unwieldy suitcase slowed her down. Gennaro tried his best to protect her, but the two suitcases he carried plus the duffel bag over his shoulder meant he moved with the same grace as a South-East Asian waddlebird.

Sally crabbed sideways across Fennimore Street to keep an aim on their three attackers for as long as possible. She briefly glanced to her right to see how far Maureen and Gennaro had made it before she moved her eyes back to the street - a mumbled curse escaped her when she realized it was all taking too long.

It seemed that Sally flashing her Browning had lost some of its deterrence. After a brief conference that consisted of nothing but barked words, all three gangsters jumped out of their hiding places and resumed running toward the scene of the action.

"Aw, to hell with those Goddamned goons!" Sally said and opened fire. Her first shot went wide, but the second slammed into the thigh of one of the attackers. The impact of the 9mm slug made blood spew from the wound and sent the man sprawling onto the wet street.

Moaning out loud, the hoodlum repeatedly slammed his fist onto the cracked pavement as a tidal wave of pain rolled over him; a moment later, he seemed to realize it was better to get off the street and out of the firing line. He rolled over onto his belly and began to crawl away.

The other two returned fire at once - the shooting war Sally had hoped to avoid was underway. The chief bruiser had a revolver while the other carried a pistol. Both blasted away at full song while they ran closer and closer to the mouth of the alley.

"Dammit!" Sally barked and raced toward the alley. Once she had ducked behind the corner, she spun around and fired two, three, four further rounds at the chasing pack. One appeared to clip the main bruiser as he roared out in pain, but the torrent of lead he sent in the other direction meant he couldn't have been more than grazed.

Clumps of mortar and soot-stained chips of the bricks that were hit rained down upon Sally's fedora that once again had to endure plenty of abuse. Ducking away from the corner, she took careful aim at the second of the attackers before she squeezed the trigger and fired the final round in that magazine. A howl proved she had hit something, but she had no time to investigate.

Quickly ducking behind the corner, she ejected the spent magazine, stuffed it into her coat pocket, grabbed a new one from her holster and inserted it into the Browning Hi-Power - all done in a single, fluid motion that she had practiced a hundred times if not more.

"Sally!" Maureen cried from further down the alley in a high-pitched, terrified voice. "We're ready!  But your car only has two seats!"

"Tell me somethin' I don't know, darlin'!" Sally roared as she ducked out from behind the corner - she came to a dead stop as she found herself only fifteen feet away from the second of their attackers. She had indeed plugged his left arm, but it didn't give her much to work with as he was a right-handed fellow.

A mask of pure steel fell over Sally's face; at the same time, shock and surprise were etched onto the goon's coarse mug. A moment later, Sally's trigger finger made sure he had none.

The drastic action made the lead bruiser spin around and run away, but Sally knew it would only be a matter of seconds before he had recovered - or reloaded - and would return.

Storming away from the corner and the bleeding corpse on the ground, she raced back to the Ford at such a speed she needed to clamp down on her fedora. She let out a growl when she realized Gennaro and Maureen had yet to get in. "Are youse guys waitin' for a written invitation?!  Get in!  Get in now!" she cried as she jumped behind the steering wheel and switched on the engine.

Gennaro jumped onto the passenger seat and pulled Maureen onto his lap. He didn't even have time to say "Ready!" before Sally had floored the throttle and shot out of the mouth of the alley like an old-fashioned cannonball.

Out on Fennimore Street, Maureen shrieked at the hideous sight of the dead body and the blood, bone and brains that had run into the gutter, but there was no time to calm her nerves.

Sally let out a rasping "Sonovabitch!" when she clapped eyes on the chief bruiser's pale-blue Chevrolet that was only fifty feet away and approaching fast. Maureen shrieked again as the oncoming car seemed to be aimed squarely at the spot where she sat. Sally just growled and mashed the gas until her gum-shoe nearly buckled the floorboards.

The turn onto Kingston Road was taken on two wheels that squealed just as loudly as Maureen Brazelton had done. The well-used, pre-war Ford Coupe had never been the world's most powerful automobile, and carrying three people up front and a load of luggage in the back only made it even more breathless. Despite those setbacks, the speed soon increased to fifty miles per hour which was plenty around the rain-soaked mean streets of Mooresburg City.

The more potent Chevrolet soon caught up to the Coupe. Racing along mere inches behind the Ford's dented and buckled rear-end, the blue car ducked left, then right, then left again while the engine roared and the skinny tires squealed for all they were worth. The last man standing of the three attackers, the original wharf rat bruiser, soon rolled down the driver's side window and stuck out a dark-gray, long-barreled revolver. He was unable to get a good aim at first despite the meager distance, but the moment soon arose when the Ford zigged and he zagged.

A fraction of a second after the shot had rung out, the Ford's rear window exploded in a shower of shards. The bullet continued straight through the old vehicle before it disappeared out through the windshield - it missed the rear-view mirror by less than an inch.

Maureen shrieked even louder while Sally cursed a blue streak that shared many similarities with an open cesspool. She yanked at the unassisted steering wheel to make a sharp right-hand turn onto Scott Street, but she hadn't counted on the reduced traction offered by the rain-slick surface.

The skinny tires gave up the unequal struggle with gravity almost at once which made the Ford enter a lurid slide toward a lamp post. At the last moment before they would have given the post a broadside it wouldn't have forgotten in a hurry, she yanked the steering wheel back in the other direction and stomped her gum-shoe down onto the throttle.

The old Ford let out a cough, a belch and a puff of black smoke, but the engine cleared itself out and allowed the vehicle to steer clear of the lamp post and tear up Scott Street. It was only when another car came straight at them honking and flashing its headlights that Sally realized she had made a turn onto a one-way street. "Aw, damn!" she barked and made a hard left into a connecting alley.

She checked the rear-view mirror that had a clear view of the street behind them now the glass had been blown out of the window. The Chevrolet had followed them down the one-way street and even into the alley. Her foot was kept firmly on the floorboards which sent the old Ford hurtling along at breakneck speed - or so it seemed due to the closeness of the alley's walls.

"Attento!  Ah… look out!  Look out!" Gennaro suddenly howled directly into Sally's ear. She whipped her eyes off the rear-view mirror to see an oil drum come at them fast. It was of the type used by the homeless as a source of heat, and the person who had used it last had left it smack in the middle of the filthy alley.

"Awwww-crap!  Hang on!" Sally cried and took a firmer grip on the steering wheel - Maureen squealed and buried her face in her hands. There wasn't any room to steer clear of the obstacle so Sally had no choice but to let the front bumper headbutt the drum. A small stroke of good fortune finally came their way when it wasn't alight like it would have been later in the year.

After the drum had bounced off the front of the Ford, it rolled along the alley for a good distance until the Chevrolet reached it. Unlike Sally, the bruiser drove straight over it. The demolished drum got the last laugh by snagging on the Chevrolet's steering gear which sent the speeding vehicle careening into the brick wall on the right-hand side. A huge plume of red dust exploded from the bricks as the car's fender plowed a furrow in the wall - it rocked like a bucking bronco for nearly sixty feet before the flattened drum was disposed of and escaped out the back as a flying saucer.

By then, Sally had already made a ninety-degree left-hand turn onto Deighton Street that she knew led to several abandoned factories and warehouses. Railroad tracks had been built into the street when the plants had been in operation, and the long sections of iron were so slippery she nearly lost control as they crossed over them. The skinny tires squealed some more before she had managed to get the steering wheel lined up straight.

"Gotcha!" Sally suddenly cried; Gennaro tried to crane his neck to see what their driver had meant, but he soon had his hands full holding onto a squealing, trembling Maureen while trying to remain in an upright position.

Sally yanked at the steering wheel to make the Ford take an oblique left-hand turn off Deighton Street and toward a forecourt of an old chemical plant. They blasted across a short stretch of gravel that peppered the undercarriage with such strength and volume that it sounded like a war-time Flak battery had joined the fight.

The car jerked up and down as it went across the gravel which made the three passengers bounce around on the seats, but the ride grew a little smoother as it passed over a concrete floor left over from the plant's operational days.

Sally kept her foot on the gas for another fifty yards; by then, they had reached several massive concrete pillars that supported the structure's upper floors. After standing on the brake pedal with both feet to get the Ford slowed down to a more manageable speed, she eventually yanked the steering wheel right which made them duck behind one of the pillars.

As they came to a screeching halt - that was mirrored by the howl produced by Maureen Brazelton - Sally tore from the vehicle, drew her Hi-Power and ducked behind the corner of the pillar to wait for the bruiser in the Chevrolet.

Nearly twenty-five seconds went by before the pale-blue vehicle showed up out on Deighton Street. Going at full chat, it was in even worse shape than before following the wall-scraping incident: the headlight on the right-hand side had been torn from the fender, a column of steam akin to a runaway tea kettle shot up from the radiator, and the exhaust rattled along the ground - the amount of sparks it created enough to mimic a New Year's fireworks display in mid-September.

The noisy exhaust note soon grew less and less as the car moved further along Deighton Street at high speed. As those sounds eased off, police sirens somewhere in the middle distance grew louder to fill the gap.

Taking a deep breath to calm down, Sally pulled back her sleeve to look at her wristwatch. She waited two full minutes before she stood up straight and inserted the Browning into its holster. More police sirens had joined the disharmonic orchestra, but they all seemed to be concentrated down south on Fennimore Street and thus presented no immediate threat to herself or her Very Important Passengers.

Grunting, she strolled back to the Ford and calmly opened the hood to look for possible damage. It ticked a great deal and let out small puffs of steam and a few drops of oil, but that was nothing new after such a tough street race.

She noted two pairs of saucer-wide eyes staring at her as she closed the hood. Chuckling, she moved back behind the steering wheel and made herself comfortable. "Nothin' to it. Gee whiz, now you have a neat story to tell the kiddies. Eh?  Next stop, home sweet home… my office on Eighty-seventh Street."

Continued

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