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Because I'm publishing it as it's being written, and can't create separate posts for each chapter, I must add each chapter to the bottom, crreating one long post.So Who Really Fired that First Shot? Following is my work-in-progress, a novel I'm calling So Who Really Fired that First Shot? I've decided to publish it here, as I go along, in the hope that it will help me push along, keep me on task I've determined that my work is protected by Internet copyright laws, which gives me a sense of security in this regard. Because I'm publishing it as it's being written, and can't create separate posts for each chapter, I must add each chapter to the bottom, crreating one long post. My apologies in advance for the need to scroll down to keep up with my writing.
So Who Really Fired that First Shot?
By
Mathew Paust
Chapter One
Some may think it ironic that the detective agency that stumbled into one of the more irritating mysteries surrounding the birth of the United States started out as a tax dodge. Not an illegal one, mind you, at least not that its founders intended it to be so. In fact, they took pains to ensure that it complied with the letter of all known applicable laws. The spirit of their endeavor on the other hand? Well…let’s just say their intentions at the time hearkened back to the passion that drove our Founding Fathers themselves.
“Taxes taxes taxes! They’re everywhere! They’re drowning us! This country’s turning into a socialist state!” The speaker is Dr. Clement Botticelli, retired family physician and head troublemaker with the Afternoon Bullshooting Society of Leicester County, and the words were spoken during a meeting of the Bullshooting Society in its usual meeting place, the darkened corner behind the potbelly stove at Fields, Woods and Waters, the only sporting goods store in Leicester County. As there exists no record of precisely what led up to Botticelli’s little tirade, considering the likelihood that it was merely another of his many impromptu grumblings, historians may well decide to start right here with these very words as those that planted the seed that quickly grew into ABS Investigative Services Inc.
“None of us is really feeling the pinch, at least not yet, are we?” asked Abner McNally, retired Circuit Court judge, who, despite being far and away the most distinguished of the ABS members, often disrupted the most important of the group’s conversations with his snoring.
Botticelli turned on McNally with a fierce look of incredulity. “So what?” the diminutive doctor barked. “It’s the principle that’s involved here!”
“Principle? What’s the principle?”
“Well, Judge, just because we may be safe from fiscal catastrophe…er…so far, at least, what about those who can’t handle it? More and more people are going under every day!”
“Now who’s talking like a socialist?” said the judge, fixing Botticelli with his infamous black laser stare and salting the wound with a smirk.
Charlie Campbell, facing the two and moving his protruding eyes back and forth as each one spoke, now shifted his considerable weight and leaned forward in the ratty stuffed chair that was nearest the stove, which, this being summer, supported a fan that drew some of the cool air from the window air conditioning unit on the other side of the store.
“Wait a minute,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Don’t be so quick to say we’re all safe from whatever the hell is happening in Washington.” The other four eyes turned to Campbell. “I’m not fixed as purdy as you two, you know. I might could use a little socialism if these damned taxes keep going up…HAW HAW HAW HAW HAWWWWWW!” The slap of his catcher’s mitt hand on his massive thigh was loud enough to be mistaken for one of Bud Jurgenson’s pistols discharging accidentally in the next room. In fact, the ruckus drew Jurgenson out of his gun room into the dimly lit corner where the three men were carrying on.
“What the hell’s going on out here?” Jurgenson’s appearance meant the day’s meeting of the Afternoon Bullshooting Society of Leicester County was officially called to order. He, as the owner/proprietor of Fields, Woods & Waters. was, of course, despite being the only member fully employed and thus its youngest member, was also its most important member. When Bud Jurgenson appeared from wherever else he’d been in the store, lowered himself into the cushions of the other ratty, stuffed chair, the one that was always left vacant for him, crossed his legs and exhaled a great sigh of relief, serious business ordinarily soon would begin.
And so it was this day. The conversation described above continued in a similar vein for another hour or so. Business was slow enough in the store that Jurgenson’s only employee, Jimmy daFerrell, could handle the customer trickle without need of assistance. It was Judge McNally who eventually said the magic words, “We could always set up some kind of tax shelter.”
“Tax shelter?” This from a brightening Botticelli. Campbell’s face lit up with curiosity, as well.
“Some kind of corporation that could own property, such as our vehicles, land, even our homes, theoretically. If it didn’t earn any profit, the corporation could post losses. Any money we put into it we could count as losses on our personal income taxes. And if it’s set up as a nonprofit -- here’s the real kicker, fellows: the corporation would be exempt from all state and federal taxes.”
“You said state and federal,” piped up Jurgenson. “How about local? Is real estate exempt, too? If so I do hereby donate Fields, Woods and Waters to the noble cause.”
“Not unless it would be used as a church, and even then I’m not sure,” said the judge.
“A church?” said Campbell, his voice fraught with apprehension. “No, sir, your honor! We will not, we shall not turn this sacred building into a church!”
“Oh, I agree. I agree. No way do I advocate changing the utility of these hallowed walls in any way, shape or manner. I just mentioned the church bit as a hypothetical.
“But this brings us to a critical juncture, my friends. At some point, and it might as well be now, we must decide just what it is our corporation, whether it be standard or nonprofit or a limited liability or something else, assuming there is something else, would do.” He settled back, closed his eyes and yawned, a worrisome sign to the other Society members, who would agree unanimously that this was one helluva time for the judge to nod off into one of his periodic afternoon naps.
“Do? You mean we’d actually have to do something?” Doc Botticelli winked at Campbell and tilted his head at McNally, whose eyes remained closed, although he hadn’t yet begun to snore. The other members had too much respect for the judge to wake him, so they waited a couple of minutes until eventually the first snorts of a genuine snooze escaped his palate. The Society then continued its discussion of the matter, more quietly than before, at first, but gradually returning to its normal volumes, forgetting the judge pretty much altogether.
Judge McNally was still asleep when the others finally adjourned for the day, a little earlier than usual because Botticelli had to get home in time to get ready to take his wife to dinner to celebrate their anniversary. He’d forgotten the occasion again this year, he told the others, and was mortified to find the card she’d gotten him sitting in front of his plate at the breakfast table. Trying to recover without losing too much face, he did what he’d done the previous years he’d forgotten, and quickly made reservations at the nicest restaurant that came to mind that still had an opening -- this one in Williamsburg -- pretending he’d done it earlier but wouldn’t tell her because he wanted it to be a surprise. Whew, another narrow escape, he told his Society comrades. They suggested that this year he also buy her a piece of expensive jewelry, an idea he pooh poohed as too late, which prompted a discreet meeting of eyes among the others, who knew the real reason was that the doctor was too damned tight-fisted with a dollar.
By the time they’d agreed to adjourn, the Society members had come to no agreement on a mission for their proposed corporation, although several ideas had been placed on the table, including starting a community aid service for shut-ins, a firearms safety program for youngsters and a food bank for the needy. Suspecting, but not sure that any of these ideas would duplicate services already in existence in Leicester County, they decided to carefully “ask around” to find out before their next meeting, which would be in a day or two. Oddly, the idea that would catch fire, that of starting a detective agency, hadn’t yet entered any of their minds.
It would arise at their next meeting, to be greeted at first by a burst of irreverence from Charlie Campbell.
~~~~~
“HAW HAW HAW HAW HAWWWWW! Lordy, Doc wants to start a detective agency! HAW HAW HAWW…”
“What the hell’s wrong with that? It’s an idea. We want ideas, don’t we? What the hell’s wrong with starting an investigative service?” Doc Botticelli was furious. Glaring at Campbell, his face was turning purple, eyes bulging and his breathing becoming labored. Judge McNally hadn’t arrived yet, or his presence might have mitigated such displays of indecorum, although the doctor was so wrought -- so overwrought, to be precise -- that even a stern judicial countenance in this instance could possibly have gone unheeded.
Had McNally been present with his anthracite eyes focused irrevocably on Botticelli’s, the scenario could have puzzled an onlooker who didn’t know the two men. This is because by most standard impressions, Botticelli looks more like a judge than does McNally. In the macro, Botticelli projects an uncanny resemblance, with its discerning, commanding gravitas, to the actor Edward G. Robinson in the character of his early gangster roles. McNally, too, comes across with a certain cinematic underworld mien -- skinny, nearly bald, with an edgy twitch and, most disturbing, the black stare. Appearances only. Illusions that quickly vanish when the men reveal their voices: Doc Botticelli‘s, an excitable tenor that almost always sounds defensive to the point of whining, is a yin to the yang of McNally‘s, as the judge, who maintains a solid composure when awake, speaks with a measured, dignified baritone in nearly all situations. In any case, the imagined vision of a serious confrontation between the two brings to mind tomcats in an alley staredown, or, for a more grandiose analogy, a face-off between the Civil War ironclads Monitor and Merrimac, which, in fact, had occurred several miles from Leicester County.
As it was, the confrontation between Campbell and the doctor had more the look of David and Goliath, but from easy chairs and without the slingshot. Charlie Campbell is a retired career cop, with a build and bearing fitting same. From his size, one might also guess credibly that he’d done a stint in the NFL stuffing quarterbacks or slamming ball carriers into the turf. If one didn’t know Campbell one might also guess credibly that his perpetual poker face, seemingly always at the edge of a scowl, was proof of a sour disposition. One would be dangerously off base to rely on the latter guess, for, although Campbell is indeed capable of a genuine scowl he is for the most part a pretty decent actor, quite adept at concealing an ample good nature.
“Dammit, Charlie, stop laughing a minute and tell why you think my idea is so damned funny!”
Campbell, who was half-faking the laugh, stopped abruptly and pointed a thick finger at Botticelli. “You!” he thundered. “It’s not your idea, it’s you! I just all of a sudden saw you in one of those Sam Spade hats with the brim turned down, and the suits with the high waist and baggy pants…haw haw haw haw…saying, ‘Hey, shweetheart, don’t you worry now. Doc…er, I mean…Detective Botticelli is on the job!’ Haw haw haw haw…OK, I’ll stop now. That better?”
“What you’re saying is you don’t think I’d make a good detective.” Botticelli was revving back down, but he had no intention of letting Campbell off easy, especially now that Bud Jurgenson had drifted over. Despite a flurry of customers, he was drawn to the ruckus.
“You guys keep it down here? Some of the customers are getting a little nervous,” he joked.
Campbell said, “Doc just tickled my funny bone with his idea that we should start up a detective agency.” He looked about to break into guffaws again, but coughed theatrically into his hand, instead.
“Detective agency?”
“Yeah,” said Botticelli. “It seemed like a good idea at the time, that is until somebody here -- who’s evidently off his meds -- had a laughing fit and damned near choked to death.” He shot a scathing look at his tormentor, who grinned merrily and did an elaborate what-the-hell shrug.
Jurgenson studied the two men, casting a glance back at the store, where Jimmy DaFerrell seemed to be in control of the traffic, and waited until Botticelli had finished. Then he said, looking at Campbell, “What would be wrong with starting a detective agency?”
“Nothing!” Campbell boomed. “Nothing at all! I was just having a little fun here with our friend the good doctor. I call it aerobic ribbing. Getting Doc riled up every now and again is good for his circulation.”
“Oh, is that right, Doctor Campbell? And what, pray tell, do you know about what’s good for Clement Botticelli? What medical school did you graduate from?”
“Easy, Doc, easy. Don’t be so damned prickly. You’ll live longer.”
“OK, Doctor Campbell. Thanks for that opinion. Now that we’ve got my health issues settled maybe we can get back to the topic at hand -- if, that is, as you say, there is nothing wrong with my idea to start an investigative service with our nonprofit corporation.”
“Looks like we’re making progress then,” Jurgenson offered. “The judge called to see if you two were here, and when I told him you were fighting he said he’d be right over. Actually, he laughed and then said he’d be right over. So I think I’ll get back in there and help Jimmy with the clientele, at least until his honor gets here.”
“What’s this about a fight?” Judge McNally’s sonorous voice appeared moments later, an instant before the judge, wearing faded jeans and a Brew Thru T-shirt, stepped around the potbelly stove and joined the others. The three exchanged perfunctory greetings as McNally eased onto the sofa that was situated between the two chairs. He sat on the opposite end of the sofa from Doc Botticelli, and fixed a steady gaze on the other two men for a heartbeat or two, making it clear that whatever shenanigans had been occurring would remain ceased and desisted. While it was obvious that Bud Jurgenson was too busy to join them, the judge, acting by default as second-in-command of the group (as a practical matter he was first-in-command, but graciously deferred to the host because of his being the host), opened the discussion as if there had been none preceding his arrival.
“My assistant’s done a little research,” he began. “It seems there could be some snags in setting up a nonprofit for what we have in mind.”
“Assistant?” This, from Doc Botticelli.
“Well, Alice still helps me out a couple days a week. I may be retired, but I still get calls to substitute. She keeps my little office in order and handles that sort of thing.”
“If you’re retired, why can’t you be retired?”
“That’s not the way it works in the Commonwealth, Doc. They can call me to substitute until I’m either found incompetent or they remove me for misconduct. I’m too old for the kind of misconduct you‘re imagining, I should think, but if I did do something to embarrass the robe, heaven forbid, they would most likely ease me out on some kind of medical excuse or other.”
“Did you say ’snags,’ Judge?” Charlie Campbell, nudging them back to the germane.
“Snags? Yes, she said the categories the IRS find most acceptable for exempting nonprofits are limited. We want to be careful about setting something up that raises red flags for our esteemed tax collectors.”
“What are the categories?” Botticelli.
“She printed out some documents that I haven’t gone over yet, but the main point is that we should proceed carefully, if this is in fact the way we want to go. It might be best at first just to start out as a simple corporation. Nonprofits -- at least the kind we’re considering -- are usually intended as a vehicle for receiving donations and grants. If we don’t make any profit, but in fact lose money -- the money that we ourselves put into it, as well as whatever hours we contribute to its operation, we’ll be able to report a loss on the corporation’s income tax filings, as well as being able to deduct on our individual tax filings our own contributions to the corporation.
“If whatever we decide to do eventually looks like it’s going to be a profitable venture, then we can start looking into the nonprofit aspect.”
“Sounds like the best way to go,” said Campbell. Then, turning his head to make a face at Botticelli, he added, “If we start a detective agency, like the good doctor here has suggested, we’ll probly lose money as long as we stay in business. Haw haw haw haw.”
“Detective agency?” asked the judge.
“Leicester doesn’t have one, I don’t think,” Botticelli said. “And I was thinking we could offer our services to the folks who couldn’t afford one if there was one. The kind of folks who have to have a court-appointed lawyer when they get in trouble, or who go to Legal Aid.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” said McNally. “There is some guy -- Perkins or Perry -- the local lawyers use for divorce cases. I don’t like him. But somebody to help the Legal Aid office, they could really use somebody like that. That’s really a pretty good idea, Doc.”
Before Botticelli could smirk at Campbell, the retired cop piped up, “Percevale. Andre Percevale. Couldn’t cut it with Newport News, so he went private. Making pretty good money, I hear, but I wouldn’t want him watching my six. There’s two or three other guys operating on the Peninsula. One of ‘em, Martin, I worked with when he was with ABC. Good cop. Then there‘s some guys I mostly don‘t know down in Norfolk, but otherwise, so far as I’m aware, Percevale’s the only one working this side of the river.”
“So whattaya think? Are we agreed on this?” McNally looked from face to face, receiving affirmative nods. “Does Bud know about this?”
“He’s on board,” said Campbell.
“Well, I guess it’s settled then. Any ideas for a name?”
“Investigative Services? Leicester Investigative Services? “ Botticelli.
“Why limit it to Leicester?” McNally. “We could say Middle Peninsula, but that sounds too, I dunno, hick? To me anyway. What’s that name we call ourselves here? Something bullshit society?”
Campbell, grinning broadly: “Afternoon Bullshooting Society of Leicester County, your honor.”
“Well, then,” said the judge. “I suggest we shorten it to ABS Investigative Services. And when we get our corporate charter, ABS Investigative Services Inc.”
Campbell: “Works for me!”
Botticelli nodding enthusiastically, waved Bud Jurgenson over to give him the good news.
“Where will we set up? In your office, Judge?” Jurgenson said.
“Nah. Too small. It’s in my house. Don’t you have a spare room in back here, Bud?”
“Well, yeah. Where Lloyd did his gunsmithing before he went back to Alaska. It’s full of junk, but we could clear it out. Has a back entrance. I guess it would work.”
Campbell: “And people might think we’re in a law office, That’s what I thought this was when I first heard somebody say, ‘Fields, Woods & Waters.’”
Jurgenson rolled his eyes and shook his head. “I hated to give up Bud’s Rods and Guns, but with that damned Alice Bigelow and her anti-gun campaign I had no choice. Guess it doesn‘t really matter, though. People around here know us.”
Judge McNally nodded, smiling, then shot a quick look at Charlie Campbell.
“That Alice is something else,” he said.
Chapter Two
The enterprise that is now Fields, Woods & Waters had been started three generations of Jurgensons ago, in a different location, as a small bait and tackle store. Bud’s fraternal grandfather, Olaf Jurgenson, had opened the store as an outgrowth of selling minnows and bloodworms from his modest home on Maundy‘s Creek in the marshy lowlands of Leicester County. The business continued to grow as Olaf expanded his inventory to include fishing tackle and boat supplies, and by the time he’d turned the Jurgenson’s Bait & Tackle over to his son, Olaf II, he’d added a hardware section, as well. Olaf II eventually moved the business again, to its present location on U.S. Route 17, leasing a larger building that had been built in the 1950s as a national retail men’s clothing outlet that folded after JFK nixed hats and ushered in a more casual look that caught the company napping. Olaf II started stocking guns and shooting accessories and clothing for hunting and fishing, and had erected a new sign proclaiming the place Jurgenson’s Sporting Goods when Olaf III, whom everyone called Bud, returned home a decorated hero from the Gulf War and joined the business. His dad retired two years later, and died the following year, and that’s when Bud, who had increased the inventory of guns threefold, or maybe even fourfold with the showcase/counter filled with handguns, changed the name of the business to Bud’s Rods and Guns.
And that’s about the time Alice Bigelow, who’d inherited ownership of the property from her father, decided to join the anti-gun movement. She balked when it came time to renew the lease, demanding that Bud stop selling guns. Her objection mainly was that for children visiting the store seeing the guns would stimulate their prurient imaginations. She was also concerned that burglars could have a field day in there, stealing guns and selling them on the street. Came then some tedious haggling, during which Judge McNally, for whom Alice worked as administrative assistant (unbeknownst to Bud), quietly mediated. The result was that Bud moved all firearms and ammunition into a separate room, installed a steel door to the room and bars on the window, and he posted a sign restricting admittance to adults. That he allowed youngsters into the room with a parent was common knowledge among regular customers, and, so far as he knew, his landlady had never set foot inside the place once their agreement was reached. Oh, and the last condition was changing the store’s name to something without the word “guns.”
“She is what? Alice Bigelow? You can’t be serious!” This was Bud Jurgenson’s reaction upon learning that the Afternoon Bullshooting Society of Leicester County was considering involving Judge McNally’s loyal assistant in the proposed ABS Investigations Inc. The idea had won preliminary approval from a quorum of the Society’s members and was now being broached to its most important member.
“That’s over with,” said McNally. “History. So far as I know she’s good with the agreement, and your lease has…what…another three years to go?”
“Judge, it’s like letting the fox guard the chickens. She’d just love to find some excuse to kick me out -- us out! How could you guys even think of something this…this crazy?”
Charlie Campbell’s eyes bulged at mention of the chicken analogy. He leaned forward as if to rise from his chair, and the shift made his presence loom like a gathering storm cloud. “ARE YOU CALLING US CHICKENS, YOUNG MAN?” he thundered.
“A figure of speech, Mr. Campbell. No offense. Just a figure of speech.”
“FIGURE OF SPEECH? SO THAT’S WHAT IT WAS? WELL, JUST SO THERE’S NO MISTAKE HERE. WE ARE NOT A BUNCH OF CHICKENS!! NOT EVEN DOC HERE! AND I AM NOT MR. CAMPBELL TO YOU! MY FATHER WAS MR. CAMPBELL, AND HE’S BEEN DEAD FOR THIRTY YEARS. ARE WE CLEAR HERE, BUD?”
“Yep, Charlie. Sure thing. But my point is still valid. Alice Bigelow, so far as I’m concerned, is a snake in the grass and I don’t want her coming into my store.”
“Her store, Bud. Best not to forget that,” said McNally. “She owns the building. And if it will help matters, she does work for me. She was my administrative assistant for the fifteen years I was on the bench, and she still comes by a couple times a week to keep things straight in my office. She’s amazingly efficient, she knows everything that goes on in Leicester County and beyond, and, so far as I’m concerned, she’s as loyal as a blue tick hound.
“And I’ll tell you a little secret -- Boys, cover your ears. This is between me and Bud -- She kinda likes you, Bud. She’d never admit it, but that thing with the guns notwithstanding, she thinks you’re OK.”
“HAW HAW HAW HAW…”
“Charlie! I told you to cover your ears!”
“What’s that, Judge? I was just thinkin’ of sumpin’ Doc here told me awhile back. Funny as a tick in a blueberry pie…”
“Oh, yeah? Well, you’ll have to tell us about that sometime.” Rapping his knuckles for order on the upended wooden crate that served as an end table next to the moth-eaten sofa, the judge continued, “Gentlemen, I do believe we have a unanimous consensus here -- he turned to Jurgenson, who, after noticeable hesitation, finally shrugged and nodded assent -- of the…er…Afternoon Bullhocky Society of Leicester County, meeting as the steering committee for the establishment of a detective agency trading as ABS Investigations Incorporated, to appoint Alice Bigelow as secretary slash general manager of said detective agency slash corporation. Harrumph.”
Doc Botticelli spoke, for the first time this afternoon, “General manager?”
“Just a title, Doc,” said the judge. “She’ll keep the books, answer the phone, check emails, schedule appointments, you know, that sort of thing. She won’t be making any important decisions.”
“She’d better not,” warned Botticelli, his brow still furrowed in consternation.
Bud’s brow, too, remained furrowed, although his lips formed a bit of a smile. The overall effect was one of unsettled bemusement.
“Well, then,” Judge McNally said, concluding the formal part of the meeting, “I’ll give Alice the good news, and have her type up the articles of incorporation for us to look over. Then we’ll send them off to Richmond.
“So, Bud, when can we start getting this room you have for us set up and ready for business?”
“We can check it out right now, if y’all have a minute. I’m closing the store Saturday so Jimmy and his girlfriend can finish doing the inventory. We’ve got an ATF audit coming up this month. We can clear the room out Saturday. Shouldn’t take too long.”
“Sounds like a plan.” said Charlie Campbell. He rocked forward, then, with a growl and a couple of sharp pops from an old football-injury, pushed up out of the chair, rising to his full six feet and four inches of non-chicken stature. The three followed Jurgenson through a door behind the glass counter case filled with fly and spinning reels, knives, binoculars and other tools for outdoors sportsmen into a room evidently decorated by Packrat Interiors Unlimited.
“There a room in here somewhere?” Doc Botticelli asked after Jurgenson switched on the two fluorescent light tubes in a fixture on the ceiling. Towers of familiar boxes obscured most of whatever else might be in there. Charlie Campbell bumped one of the stacks with an elbow, collapsing it into a pile that blocked their path.
“Oops,” he said, “Looks like the pile of empties I got at home. Take up a lotta space.”
“Gotta keep ‘em,” said Jurgenson. “Most customers won’t buy the gun without the box, and now they’ve gotten so fancy, with the plastic and the extra mags and accessories and all.”
“Hurts the resale value without the box,” offered Campbell.
Jurgenson kicked fallen boxes aside to clear a path further into the room. “We can put a lot of these boxes in the gun room. I’ll stack some on the safe and keep some under the long counter. We might have to put some in our corner, though,” he said, turning back to the other Society members.
“Our corner?” said Botticelli. “Well…they wouldn’t be secure out there. What if none of us are there?”
“Not to worry, guys. I can put ‘em inside a big box and keep it next to the soda machine. Keep a case of toilet paper or something on top of it. It doesn’t have to be conspicuous.”
Botticelli: “I dunno, Bud. People coming back there to get something when we’re having a meeting. Not a good idea.”
Jurgenson cleared some more space and lifted a box of assorted tools to the floor, exposing half of a gunsmith’s bench, complete with a clamped-on vise and magnifying glass/LED lamp assembly that was also attached to the bench.
Campbell: “Ever hear from Lloyd?”
“Got a postcard couple months after he left. Said he was set up in a shop in Anchorage. Doing a little panning for gold, as well.”
“Sounds like Lloyd. Pretty good gunsmith, though.”
“Not bad. When he felt like it. I think he got bored after I moved him out of the front room. He spent a lotta time yakking with the customers.”
“Yeah, he was a talker. Any other prospects? Be a nice job here for a good one.”
“Nah. It’s a dying craft, Charlie. At least around here. Hey, you know, this bench could be converted into a desk for you…I mean us. For our office. Take the vise off and the other stuff. Get a nice swivel chair. Be room for another desk for…um…ahh…you guys really think it’s a good idea to bring Alice here?” Jurgenson looked from face to face, searching for a sign that maybe they’d been putting him on, that they weren’t serious about involving the woman who, not so long ago, wanted to shut him down. He found no such indication. Charlie Campbell looked him hard in the eye.
“Don’t worry, Bud. We care about this place as much as you do. So long as you don’t tick off the judge, he’ll keep Alice Bigelow in line.”
McNally laughed. “That’s right, Bud. Free ammo, as much as I can shoot, until I’m too old to see the target, and I’m afraid that won’t be too much longer now.”
“All due respect, Judge, that’s blackmail,” said Jurgenson.
“Extortion, maybe, son. Extortion. There’s a fine distinction between those concepts. I wouldn’t blackmail a friend…oops!” McNally jumped back, but too late to avoid knocking over a stack of empty gun boxes he’d bumped while turning back to needle his host. “Well, whattaya know,” he said when the fallen boxes partially revealed the store’s earlier sign, the one that proclaimed Bud’s Rods & Guns. It lay on a table that the boxes had fallen from.
Jurgenson pulled the old plywood sign out from under some winter hunting jackets and held it up. “Oh, well,” he said. “I thought I’d tossed this.”
Campbell: “About the right size for what we’ll be needing?”
McNally: “It’s probably a little more than we need. I was thinking something more like a lawyer’s shingle. But we can use this. Save us money.”
Botticelli: “Yeah, we’re supposed to be saving money with this deal aren’t we?”
“Taxes, Doc,” said the judge. “The idea is to spend a little money so we can pay less taxes. Not sure how it will balance out in the end, but it’s the principle that counts here, as I understand it.”
Jurgenson: “Well, I can ask Jimmy’s girlfriend to do the sign for us. She has a sign-painting business. Does good work.”
Botticelli: “She do the sign you have now?”
“That she did. You like it?”
“It’s OK. It’s good,” said Botticelli. “How much you think she’d charge to do ours?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I think I paid her a couple hundred for the one out front. It’s bigger than this one. Maybe a hundred, hundred fifty.”
“So when do we transfer our vehicle titles to the corporation?” Botticelli.
Judge McNally squinted at Botticelli and shook his head. “Doc, we have to become a corporation first. We just came up with this idea. It will take a little bit. Alice is putting the paperwork together right now. Once she sends it in, with the filing fee, of course, it shouldn’t take more than a week or two -- I know, I know, what’s the filing fee? I’m not sure, but I know it’s nominal. Less than a hundred bucks, most likely. But with that and the sign and a few things we haven’t thought of yet, it’s obvious we’re going to have to pony up a little cash to get this thing rolling.”
Campbell pursed his lips, bugged his eyes and rubbed a thumb and fingers together in the air. Botticelli bent over, coughing.
Still hacking, gasping for breath, the doctor suddenly wheeled and stumbled out of the room, bumping past Campbell, who had entered behind him. Jurgenson started after him, but Campbell held a hand up and shook his head.
“Let him go. Doc’s OK. He gets funny sometimes in close quarters.”
“He was choking, Charlie,” said Jurgenson, continuing toward the door. Campbell stepped aside and let the owner past. When Jurgenson was out of the room, Campbell turned back to Judge McNally.
“That cough is just an act. Doc was a prisoner in Hanoi for damned near six years. He never told me what they did to him, but he can get a little squirrelly from time to time. Hates crowds.”
McNally scratched his shiny pate, tilting his head to one side. “Doc was in Vietnam? I didn’t know that. But even so, we’re hardly a crowd. I thought maybe it was the mention of money.”
Campbell allowed a muted chuckle. “Mighta been that, too, Abner. Doc sure does hate to part with a dime. I suppose we ought to get back in there. Make sure the old boy’s still kicking.”
“Haven’t heard any sirens. That’s probably a good sign,” said the judge.
Campbell eased the door open and peered into the store, then motioned for McNally to follow. “He’s OK, Judge. Bud’s got him drinking a Pepsi.”
Chapter Three
She stood in the doorway for what seemed like an hour, watching the man fuss with something behind what looked like a kind of crude desk. Evidently he was kneeling on the floor, as her only view of him, partially blocked by a padded office chair, was of his shoulders and the back of his head. The room was small, no bigger than the kitchen in a modest farmhouse. It had only one window, next to the entrance and the only other source of light was a fixture on the ceiling that held a couple of fluorescent bulbs. A small wooden table, laden with piles of books and several cardboard boxes, sat against the wall across from the desk. Next to the table was a metal filing cabinet with its price tag dangling by a plastic loop from one of the drawer handles. More boxes were stacked on the floor on either side of the cabinet. There was another door, directly across from where she stood, but it was closed.
“Hello! Excuse me!” she said again, having gotten no response to her rapping on the door before entering and calling out in an effort to be heard over the ballgame noise coming from a small TV on the desk. Evidently something important happened in the game, causing the noise to swell into pandemonium.
“Sonofabitch!” shouted the man as his head turned to look at the TV screen. That’s when he saw her.
“Oh, sorry! I didn’t know you were there.” he said in a squeaky voice as he rose unsteadily to his feet, his face registering surprise and embarrassment. “I’m Clem Botticelli. How can I help you?”
Motionless and largely silhouetted by the backlight from outside, she appeared spectral. From Botticelli’s viewpoint she was tallish, although a quick glance at her feet revealed high heels, which he computed into the equation along with the tailored slacks that draped stylishly over gracefully positioned legs. She wore a waist-length jacket, and her hair was either short or put up in some kind of do, such as a bun, or -- his heart skipped a beat -- a French braid down the back. He reached across the desk and lowered the TV’s volume. The woman stepped to one side, closing the door behind her. She moved efficiently with an athlete’s poise . In the light, Botticelli saw that her lips exhibited the beginnings of a smile and that her brown hair was indeed done up in back and that her brown leather jacket was open and that her bosom was ample if just shy of aggressive. She turned back toward him. She had a pleasant face, with a good bone structure and dark-irised eyes a tad too close to a modestly prominent nose to be gorgeous, he decided. Her smile widened when the eyes met his.
“Would this be the office of ABS Investigations?” Her voice was pitched low, but with a confident modulation. Botticelli’s initial smile also stretched further, almost reaching his ears. Our first client, he thought, and on my watch!
“Yes it is, ma’am. You’ve come to the rig
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