Chapter 11: They're Off, You Lose

The office was quickly becoming my second home which wasn’t a bad thing with Miss Iceland in tow. A semi-long ago ex listed among her litany of logic for breaking up with me that in nine months I had never once invited her to my abysmal abode. Of course, how enough recycled beer cans to make you think you missed a party (sadly, you hadn’t), dust bunnies multiplying faster than real ones and furnishings that could make the Kramden’s apartment look palatial was supposed to lengthen our liaison I’m not really sure. So having the office to retire to after our interview of Rick James was convenient and saved me from a bathroom project that, frankly, would take a team and untold amounts of cleaning products to tackle.

We seemed to have the place to ourselves so I liberated a pair of Natty Ices from the gulag of their 30 pack and we took up places across the desk in my office. I sat down gingerly. Making sure to keep my feet on the ground and not roll the desk chair back and smash into the wall like the pre-pubescent I usually am.

“So, you like Rick James for the murders,” she began.

“Do I like him for the murders?” I replied, trying to raise an eyebrow. “Yes, I do and after we prove it you can ‘Book ‘em, Danno.’”

“Shut the fuck up…you know what I mean.”

“OK, settle down Sipowicz,” I answered, sliding a Natty Ice across the desk towards her.

“Hey, thanks,” she said, eyeing up the can. “What were they outta Schlitz?”

She opened the can and took a pull with a deftness that stilled my heart. Meanwhile I fired up my computer and thought about her initial question. I still wasn’t convinced I “liked” Rick James for the murders. Based on what I had seen it was hard to like Rick James in anyway, frankly. He was on the radar no doubt, but I’d actually done some research between naps earlier that day and was itching to show her the results of my efforts since like most house parties I’m invited to I brought little to the table thus far.

I opened two internet pages on my laptop. One was the Miss Iceland’s daily, the Burlington Bee. The other was for a political webzine called Deeper Blue. On both I had called up recent articles by the hipster-geek reporter who had been mysteriously talking with Curly Carson’ ex at that morning’s press conference. “Check this out,” I beckoned and began to turn the monitor towards Miss Iceland. But before I could she’d slid around the desk to look over my shoulder, one hand suggestively (or so, at least, I thought) placed on my back.

“What am I looking at here?”

“Articles by that kid the Bee brought back to replace you on the Sheehan/Carson story,” I explained. “On the right are his stories for your paper. On the left is stuff he’s posting at the same time for the political blog he left the paper for.”

“What the hell kinda name is Deeper Blue?”

“I think it means it leans far left,” I explained as she looked confused. “You know red states are Republican, blue states are Democrat. Right?”

She scrunched up her face even more. “I just figured out which one was the elephant and which one the donkey…I got no freakin’ idea. What should I be looking for?”

“OK, his name is Jeremy Martel and he’s listed as Associate Editor and Contributor for this site. Here’s a list of his articles,” I said and began scrolling through links with synopses of his work. “Global warming, Russian hacking, immigration, Syria…and he’s not playing nice. He rips everyone on the right a new one. Now look at the pieces he did on Sheehan/Carson for the Courier.”

I closed the blog and brought up the newspaper page. Miss Iceland began reading. She leaned in to page down and I leaned back deeper into the palm of her hand and to cop a little “shoulder breast” because I’m still a sexual 7^th grader.

“What do you think?” I questioned, while guessing solid C-cup with my scapula.

“Well, I haven’t seen this many participles dangling since I worked the Patriots locker room during my internship with the Albany Times-Union,” she replied not moving her hand or “can” I noted.

“No, I’m talking ‘bout the content.”

“Not much there. It’s basic boilerplate, Journalism 101 stuff.”

I was so happy she was following my thread that I actually sat up into a less erogenous position. “Exactly, it’s bland as a backup catcher. It’s the tofu on a rice cake of writing. It’s the who, what, where, when and why did he bother writing this crap!”

“You’re right I mean I could shoot this off in my sleep and they wouldn’t have to pay him a stipend plus expenses probably,” she said pale blue eyes brightening.

“Not only that,” I added, “but this kid goes from protest marches in New York City and D.C. to coming back to write this garbage for some dinky daily…uh, no offense intended.”

“None taken…I mean at least I have a paper,” she said, smiling and staring into my eyes.

Without thinking (cause that’s the only way I’m not paralyzed into inaction) I leaned in with my signature first kiss face…lips leading, eyes a quarter open so as to limit the effects of Mace, but still able to catch myself if she pulls away. Miss Iceland, somewhat to my surprise, did neither. In fact, I sensed her also moving in and while it wasn’t as Kevin Costner’s character in Bull Durham described, a “long, slow, deep, soft, wet kiss that lasts three days” that was OK…because, frankly, that sounds disgusting and may be why he chose to make Waterworld…a case of mononucleosis delirium.

What it was was good enough to want more. And when she seemed willing I slipped one hand around the small of her back, buried the other in that silken blond hair, prepped my tongue for a tonsillectomy and…heard a door slam shut.

Gladys’s rubber soled, sensible shoes squeaked a b-line for my office. Miss Iceland and I untangled; she smoothing down her skirt and retreating to her previous seat; me pulling in my chair and sliding my legs under the desk for obvious reasons.

Fortunately, Gladys was back to her no-nonsense self and instead of asking questions about the fumbling noises she heard or even exchanging pleasantries she got down to business. “Did you talk to that guy?”

“Who? Marlo Thomas’s brother?” I cracked, realizing I wasn’t much better than Rick James himself. She arranged her features in a way that said, ‘I know that’s some kind of joke, but I don’t have time to decipher it and you’re an idiot’, all in one look. “Yes, we talked to Rick James of R. James Builders,” I told her. “He was running out, but we got enough to know he’s a character, a bit of a clown. Not a killer clown…like John Wayne Gacy. Just a sad, pathetic clown like…well, all the rest of them really.”

She knew I didn’t share her enthusiasm about his involvement in the killings, but came prepared to change my mind. “Yeah, well, a search of R. James Builders came up with four lawsuits against them in the past year.” I wasn’t sure if this was a lot or little so I pulled on my Natty Ice and returned my usual dim-witted stare. She continued, “And the plaintiff in each case began with a similar phrase…’The Estate of…’”

“You think Rick James killed these people for their property?” Miss Iceland blurted out.

I chuckled to think I was just kissing someone that young and naïve. Then I started second-guessing myself and added, “Wait, that’s not what you’re saying right?”

“Jeezus, maybe I shouldn’t have spoken to you two until the blood rushed back to your heads,” she smiled, indicating she had an idea of exactly what we’d been up to. “These are civil suits. R. James is apparently up to something shady involving the purchase of big tracts of land owned by the recently deceased.”

As a guy who was still trying to figure out whether Razzles was a candy or gum this was too much for me to wrap my head around. Miss Iceland apparently felt the same way and started to head for the exit.

“I’m gonna get going,” she stated a little too nonchalantly for my recently surging libido. “I have to meet with my editor in the morning about setting up a high school graduation coverage schedule…whoop-de-damn-doo. I’ll also see if I can find out more about what’s up with this Jeremy kid. Call you tomorrow.”

With that she was gone and my insecurity went into overdrive, reminding me just how relaxing celibacy could be. Gladys, on the other hand, was completely unfazed barely uttering a goodbye to that tremendous, departing blonde hair and ass combo. I stood at my desk and leaned sideways to follow it across the main office area and out the door until Gladys woke me from my erotic reveries.

“So, now that you’re thinking with the proper head tell me…Do you have another interview set up with R. James?”

“No,” I admitted, sitting back down and finishing off my Natty Ice. “But I have his contact info and he said he’ll be around the site so I’ll catch him.”

“I will say you clean up nice,” she said, finally noticing my uncharacteristic duds. “Though that shirt coulda done with the business end of an iron.”

“The shirt’s fine. It’s the body under it that’s wrinkled.”

She shook her head and I believe I saw the merest whisper of a smile. She then took a minute to recap the results of the other efforts that day. Semi-intrepid reporter Sandy Molesworth and comb-over photog Charlie Grissom had struck out at Artfield High where administration was looking to return to normalcy such as that is in a 21^st century high school. Barton and his fellow English teachers also found little at Sheehan’s place the police having covered their tracks well I thought. He’d be back at work tomorrow trying to keep football players awake through a reading of The Crucible if I wanted to go over what he did find. Finally, she circled back to the penultimate point, “So are you still gonna fight me on this Rick James thing?”

“Listen he’s shady as the ground around Chris Christie’s feet I’m not gonna lie, but I can’t see any connection to him, Sheehan and the Carsons,” I lamented. “Meanwhile, I’m still trying to figure out why Chief Bowden didn’t bring in the State Police to investigate the biggest crime this town has ever seen and then wrapped the thing up so quickly.”

Not a fan of confrontation or deep thinking I reached across the desk and took a long pull from Miss Iceland’s half full Natty Ice. “That’s disgusting,” said Gladys, a longtime germ-a-phobe.

“If you saw what we were doing as you walked in then I think you know the disgusting ship has sailed on that one.”

“Touché.”

“Yes, and I might be poking her with my metaphorical sword right now if you hadn’t shown up like a turd in my punchbowl,” I offered, draining the dregs. “Plus besides money, which he doesn’t seem to need so badly he’d kill three people, what is James’ motive? It seems excessive.”

She wasn’t buying it. “And what’s Chief Bowden’s motive? You don’t know the ends people will go for a big payday and this development is gonna be huge. It will change the whole tenor of this town.”

I thought for a second about James telling Miss Iceland and I about the makeover of downtown that was going to allow him to get the exorbitant prices he was asking for his units. “So what do we do?” I asked, thinking, like with my relations with Miss Iceland, I was getting in over my head.

“I’ll put Sandy Molesworth on it,” said the ever efficient one. “Isn’t her legislator in Montpelier a lawyer? If not they must be knee-deep in the bastards up there. I’m sure he can hook us up and we’ll find out what these lawsuits against R. James Builders amount to.”

As the anti-Harry Truman passing the proverbial buck was just fine by me. I’d still have to talk to James again in order to get Gladys off my back, but that was my goofy-ass cross to bear. Still I couldn’t let Bowden go.

“What about the police coverup? You still haven’t answered that.”

Gladys sighed like someone who felt they had to do everything around there which was pretty spot-on I have to admit. “That’s if it is a cover up. Sometimes it is what is.”

“Profound,” I answered, “but they shoulda still brought in the State Police.”

"They did in a sense,” she said, sniffing a strand of her graying hair before tucking it back behind her ear- the only real quirk she had…publicly at least. “The ballistics report is due tomorrow and for all you know they have the preliminary results already and it confirms everything.”

I had to admit Bowden and Wes Willard did look confident at that morning’s press conference. Then, like women all my life, when I thought I couldn’t get any lower she cut me down even more.

“Remember the robbery spree that happened around here right after you took over the paper,” she began in a slightly preachy tone I knew and loathed so well.

“Yeah, buncha bored kids from Burlington thinking they could outsmart the yokels,” I answered, realizing just how old I’d become when I didn’t give a second thought to using the term “yokels”.

“And remember how it ended?”

I longed for another Natty Ice, some P.G. Wodehouse and Miss Iceland. Sadly, as concerns my laggardly libido, in exactly that order. In lieu of those I replied only part facetiously, “I’ve logged a lotta Little League scores since then, refresh my memory.”

“When the police in the towns around here couldn’t solve the B&Es the State Police offered to help, but no one, least of all Artfield, took up the offer. All these stubborn, old Yankee farts run their towns like fiefdoms and think the rest of the world should keep out,” she concluded, folding her arms across her chest.

“Yes, but if I remember correctly the break-ins weren’t solved till the kids hit a summer house on Kenmore Lake. They don’t have a police department so the troopers came in and cleaned up in two days what Bowden and his buddies couldn’t crack in two months. Yet you expect me to believe they wrapped up a possible triple homicide in under a week,” I shot back a little too smugly.

The first six words of my last rant were ones that were never going to get you anywhere with a woman…in love or war. True to her gender Gladys wasn’t going to let me get off easy. And even truer to her gender she chose to attack me, though Lord knows she could’ve bashed my premise instead, but figured, I assume, let’s cut to the chase.

“Listen, I don’t mind you looking into Bowden,” she began, rising from her chair and making for the door, “but you have to follow up on everything if we’re gonna figure this out and maybe save the paper. You can’t be disappearing all afternoon and you might wanna cut back on the drinking, huh. You’ll need to be at your best especially if you plan on keeping up with Blondie MacBlondenstein.”

“Hey!” I shot out, a little too defensively. Maybe I was feeling something more than lust, as unlikely as that was, for Miss Iceland. “Don’t call her that. I mean she’s not Scottish…uh…or Jewish…not sure where you were going with that. I think she’s Scandinavian so that’s Blondie Blondufsson to you.”

“Can’t believe I’ve put up with you for years,” answered Gladys, shaking her head and walking out.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly draw the long straw with you either,” I said, but I couldn’t keep the smile from my face. I did need to hold up my end for these next weeks. I’d start by eschewing a longed for third Natty Ice, getting something to eat and staying up at least long enough to devise a plan for tomorrow.

I set about this by first creating space between myself and the 30-pack cooling a hole in the office fridge. I locked things up, went to the rear lot and fired up the Falcon to the extent that it could be. Earlier that day Derf had sent a text indicating he conned his employer into approving a motel room due to some imagined sausage emergency that needed tending in southeastern Vermont. Considering they hired Derf in the first place one had to figure they weren’t exactly running a tight ship back at Sausage Central and it would be nice to have the support.

This in mind I tooled out of town onto Highway 5 headed toward the New York border and the only place Derf could possibly be…Green Mountain Racecourse. Of course Green Mountain was a racecourse in name only; hadn’t been such for about seven years. Instead, the rusting hulk and dilapidated property was kept afloat by simulcasting: the video transmission of tracks from across the country for the wagering pleasure of compulsives like Derf and those for whom internet porn just wasn’t getting it done anymore…I’m assuming.

The present bleakness and devastating drear aside Green Mountain was once an animal racing triple threat featuring mid-level thoroughbred, harness and dog racing on a nine month rotating basis. It was a license to print money in the early 60s as a night out with the added bonus of gambling thrown in. It was glamorous, classy- at least at the Clubhouse level and above -and swelled the state budget without even trying until the ubiquity of TV halved the crowd and sent the expensive thoroughbreds packing. The cheaper harness game carried on till 70s cable TV and the proliferation of the lottery halved the half. Dog racing then carried the flickering torch until a 60 Minutes hatchet job exposed the seedy underbelly of that business or as Brian the Dog from The Family Guy angrily summed it up, “Dog racing? That’s our Holocaust, man!”

Outside of glamour tracks like Saratoga or Belmont racing in the Northeast is mostly propped up these days by slot machines or full blown casinos running simultaneously on site. Derf thinks this portends a historical type Renaissance, but it more likely is the calm before the plague. As soon as developers like Rick James can convince politicians the multitude of land taken up by a racetrack could better be used for development around the already existing casinos then it’s just a matter of working out the kickback deal before another American tradition goes South in a fleet of vans full of taped together horseflesh and illegal immigrants.

I paid two bucks to get in and five more for a program as thick and jam-packed as a New Jersey diner menu. It featured the past performances of hundreds of horses at eight different tracks printed in font size-2 and with ink cheap enough to leave you with the hands of a West Virginia coal miner.

I found Derf standing slightly removed from one of the five or six groups that were  huddled around banks of TVs piping in racing from such bastions of equine talent as Sam Houston, Wheeling Downs and Pompano Park. Derf alternated between peering into the program and gazing up at the odds on the screen. He did more of the latter and less of the former, his wagering driven more by what kind of payout he might get than say form, pace or speed figures; or as he was apt to say when a 3-5 shot romped home easily, “I’m glad I didn’t have that.” It was not a recipe for long term success, but Derf was of the school that felt the greatest thrill in life was gambling and winning, the second greatest thrill, gambling and losing. Grinding out a profit, limiting losses or, worse still, breaking even wasn’t going to provide him the fix he needed.

“Funny finding you here,” I cracked, sliding in alongside and beginning the same program to TV screen head-bob the rest of the crowd was doing.

“Yeah, well, everyone has their ‘safe place’,” he responded, mocking modern psychology while juggling odds, post times and potential trifecta combinations in his head. And Derf really was in his element. He loved the desperate gamblers, the challenge, the excitement while all I saw was a place where the windows cleaned the people (metaphorically I mean…in reality the stench of BO was overwhelming).

“Been here long?”

“Since about three. I hit a dollar tri at Aqueduct early and I’ve been working my way through that ever since,” he answered.

Derf wasn’t going to leave till he’d given everything and what he came with back or won enough to pay off his ever metamorphosing debt; an astronomical amount owed to various entities that was known only as “The Bill”.

“Not enough to cover The Bill, huh?” I rhetorically questioned.

“Not even close. I thought I could parlay it into something big, but it’s been all chalk at the West Coast tracks…no prices. That’s why I switched to playing Sam Houston.”

I looked at the monitor. Ten minutes to the 4^th race at Sam Houston. I flipped through the encyclopedic program till I found it. Two year old maidens (never won a race) at four furlongs, 14 horses entered and only one had ever taken to the track in anger, number nine, and he’d given the Winner’s Circle a wide berth never finishing closer than 18 lengths back in seven starts…yet he was the favorite. “Who you like?”

“Everybody, but the nine,” he replied, focusing on a screen crammed with so many flickering numbers and names (odds, exacta prices, pools, scratches, jockey changes…) that it looked like one of John Nash’s conspiracy delusions. However, a ‘beautiful mind’ was not necessary to handicap this race.

“Why toss the nine? He’s the only horse to ever run,” I asked, naively.

“The nine’s already proven he’s a loser. At least with the others you can hope they can run,” he explained. “Plus he’s the favorite, if I needed anymore disincentive.”

“So you take a sorta Schrodinger’s Cat approach to these Maiden races?”

“You gotta a better theory? Now let’s see if Schrodinger can pick the double…,” and with that he lurched off to the betting windows.

I, in turn, shuffled off to the lone concession stand where the assortment of cancer stick-hot dogs and hockey puck-hamburgers did not meet up to the standards of even my far less than discerning palate. Turning back I noticed the crowd consisted of the usual ‘All-Male Revue’. Derf often fantasized of meeting the woman of his semi-twisted dreams at the track, but like a hot cashier at the Dollar Store there must be something seriously wrong beneath the surface for her to wind up in this place.

We made our respective ways back across the sticky linoleum floor, me empty-handed, Derf with one breast pocket bulging with tickets like a transvestite at the beginning of a sex change installment plan, and met up in the exact same spot with three minutes still to post at Sam Houston. “So what did you do all day?” I asked to fill the time while several ‘too big to be jockeys’ backstretch workers tried to load thirteen skittish first-time starters into the gate.

“I was working…,” he started, “uh, you know on the murders,” he concluded just in case I was thinking he’d been running around trying to sell sausage all day (I wasn’t).

“How so?”

He reminded me he’d established the strange link between Chief Bowden and Johnny Java’s which reminded me I never followed up on what that link was which reminded me Gladys was very much right about me needing to change my slothful ways, which reminded me… Fortunately, before I could continue this usual spiral of self-loathing Derf went on. “…and see that degenerate over there.”

“It’s a Wednesday night simulcast you’ll have to be more specific than that,” I replied, looking at the sketchy crowd surrounding the adjacent bank of TVs.

“The one with the curly hair and a little drool coming over his lip. Bouncing from foot-to-foot. That’s The Jester”

The curly hair and drool only narrowed the search down to three, but the bouncing was unmistakable. The so-called, Jester was about 5’7” and 125 pounds with the sunken cheeks and hollow eyes of the star of a late-night Sally Struthers infomercial and a case of ADHD that could fell a prized Canadian heifer. He hopped back and forth like he was standing over a mine fire while delivering a monologue that sprayed saliva liberally down the front of his faded leather jacket.

“Who the hell is that and what does he have to do with our matter?” was all I could respond as I stared half frightened, half amazed.

“The Jester is a New England racing staple. I’ve seen him at every track from Scarborough Harness in Maine to Finger Lakes outside Buffalo,” he began, oblivious to how he was painting himself with the same degenerate brush. “He’s got the best disability scam in the business.”

“What’s his disability?”

“Take your pick. It’s not about collecting disability- Lord knows he deserves that –it’s how he uses his status,” Derf informed. Then with a touch of jealousy in his voice he continued. “Any payoff of $600 or more on a $2 bet is subject to immediate IRS withholding. Though it may not look like it the crowd around The Jester there pushes a lot of money through the windows and cashes a fair share of trifectas, pick 4s and other big winners. They’re also not the kind of people that like to pay 25% in taxes or fill out government forms. The Jester, though, is tax-exempt so he cashes their tickets for a 10% fee. As far as the IRS knows he’s the greatest handicapper alive.”

Derf stared at the drooling dervish wistfully with the rare, especially in the case of The Jester, ‘but for the curse of God go I’ look. Feeling we’d gone astray I tried to reel him back in as several uneager equines continued to refuse the gate at Sam Houston. “So how does he figure into our escapade?”

“The Jester also supplements his income as a runner for bookies; collecting debts, making payments and such. When I told him my story about your Police Chief and the hundred dollar bill he said the guy’s a full-blown compulsive. Owes money everywhere.”

“I thought bookies were passé. That everybody bet with those online offshore places these days.”

“Passe?” Derf said, raising an eyebrow then went on to enlighten me in the ways of his chosen sub-culture. “You have to have money on account to play offshore. Bookies give credit, so there will always be bookies. Anyway, The Jester’s been trying to collect from him for months with no luck. Says it’s gotten to the NWB stage.”  

“What’s the NWB stage?” I asked, tentatively.

Derf did the prerequisite white guy head-swivel then informed me, “Let’s call it ‘Negroes With Bats’ though The Jester doesn’t put it quite so delicately.”

I had more questions, but they were in the gate at Sam Houston and Derf lost interest in all else. If Gladys wanted to play the “Follow the Money” game in solving this Derf’s info just kicked Chief Bowden several notches up the suspect list. Of course, I was already a champion of Bowden’s involvement in the murders so this just cemented that conviction. The question was how it led to Curly Carson, Ted Sheehan and the girl. I thought about approaching The Jester but with the race at Sam Houston off and several other tracks just minutes to post he was hopping and spewing saliva at an increased rate. To try and talk to him now would be like sitting front row at a Gallagher show and not wearing my rain-slicker.

Then suddenly a thunderous “Fuck!!” burst forth from the crowd in front of us as they hit the wire at Sam Houston. A shower of ripped tickets followed from the same general area and Derf, who had taken his own losing with a well-practiced equanimity, cracked, “Another satisfied customer.” With that he slid off to bet the three other tracks that were under five minutes to post and with nearly a dozen other hippodromes in full swing I figured I’d gotten more than I could’ve expected from this rendezvous and surreptitiously slipped out.

As I headed back home I felt I could eat a horse as they say- probably one of those from the just concluded race at Sam Houston that was one more 8^th place finish from fast food filler. My choices were basically go home to the dismal digestive choices therein or venture to Pete’s Pub which my woeful wallet rendered pretty much a non-starter. Then in a misleading moment of motivation that occasionally drifts through the transom of my otherwise purposeless life I considered returning to the office to write up some notes remembering the frozen pizza my well-wishers had stocked for just such an occasion.

To that end I tooled the car through Artfield. A light was still on in the office of the Episcopal Church and a figure I assumed to be Reverend Brooks was moving around inside. He may have been packing in preparation of following through on his promise of ditching this burg and it reminded me that the distasteful duty of trying to interview said nut-job regarding his hatred of Java Joe’s and anything he had on Curly Carson probably had to take place toot-sweet. Tonight was neither toot nor sweet so I continued on to the office and turned on as many lights as possible so as not to let the rare occurrence of my working late go unnoticed on the off-chance Gladys passed by.

As the toaster oven was busy turning two frozen slabs of cardboard into something resembling pizza I was actually writing up a to-do list for tomorrow…

1. Check in w/Barton-Artfield High

2. Talk to Rev. Brooks re: Curly Carson, AA meetings, Johnny Java's 

3. Contact Miriam-Town Hall re: Johnny Java’s ownership

…when I heard a car pull up and someone come in the rear entrance. Though I’d had a beer at the track and was working on my second Natty Ice here I hadn’t gone around the bend enough to be paranoid. They weren’t exactly stealthy in their arrival and shut the back door loudly. My first thought was Gladys so I stood and took up my schedule proudly like some over-eager schoolboy in a Dickens story. Next it crossed my mind Miss Iceland might be back for a little more sugar which made me grimace, not over Miss Iceland, but at the thought of me even thinking of myself as a “little sugar”.

            Unlike characters in a Victorian novel that’s the only thoughts that could pass through my head in the three seconds it took for the person to reach my door. A knife-like shadow crossed the threshold and in the next instant Curly Carson’s ex-wife, Debra Townes was standing across from me.

            “I was hoping it was you here,” she stated, demurely. She was wrapped in a knee-length black raincoat that looked like it was a sturdy tug away from going around her rail-thin figure again and her lank black hair was tied back revealing an expanse of forehead so vast she could’ve been the bastard offspring of a drunken Tom Hanks/Christina Ricci/Martina Hingis three-way.

            “Hey, Ms. Townes, can I help you with something?” I asked, what I thought was innocently enough. And that is when things got WEIRD…