robbing trains?”
“Stagecoaches.”
“Much more elegant. I need a cigar box.”
“Excuse me?” His eyes snapped back down and refocused, and he looked a little pissed that I had interrupted his reverie.
“You know, one of those little wood things with phony brass hinges and circus graphics on the lid? I think cigars used to come in them once, though I can’t honestly say I’ve ever seen any.”
“I know what a cigar box is, Herman. I’m an educated man. What I don’t know is why you would come to me for one. Try maybe an antique store. Hell, try a cigar store. I’m not in the box business.”
“I will make no comment on what kind of business you’re in, Pete. Do you have one or not?”
“I might could find one. Mind telling me what you want it for?”
“It’s kind of a long story.”
“So give me the made-for-TV version.”
“Okay, the short take is this: it’s possible that I’m being followed right now. If that’s true, I want my shadow to see me come out of a pawn shop carrying a ratty-looking old box that you just might have been holding for me.”
“That all sounds very B-movie-ish. Which by the way, I got a good assortment of. I even got Beta.”
“Beta is deader than Elvis, Pete.”
“No it’s not. It’s good stuff, always was. I got the players, too, is the thing. Give you just a hell of a deal on a whole package.”
“We were talking about boxes, I believe.”
“Yeah, yeah, all right then.” This time he gave me his Oscar-quality sigh. “You care if anything is in this box?”
“It might actually be better if there is.”
“How about a pasteboard item that’s held together by a couple of big rubber bands and is full of some costume jewelry that’s so crappy, even I can’t peddle it?”
“Sounds perfect. Stick a phony claim ticket on it and it will be better yet.”
“The things I do for you.”
***
The box turned out to be white, with a picture of a two-corona owl on the front, and it looked suitably junky and also light-colored enough to be seen from a good distance away. I borrowed a Magic Marker from Pete, peeled back the rubber band temporarily, and wrote:
CHARLIE VICTOR—-HIS BOX OPEN WITH CAUTION
I smiled at my handiwork and gave him back the marker. He didn’t charge me for the box.
“But you realize, of course, that now you really do owe me a lunch?”
“Fair enough, Pete.”
“Damn straight it is. Just don’t make good on it until you lose your tail, whoever it is, okay? What I do not need in what’s left of my wretched old life is a bunch of cloak and dagger shit, is what.”
“Got it.” I put the box conspicuously under my arm and headed back out into the crisp air. Time to visit the fourth estate.
***
Three blocks later, I was back on Cedar, at the main office of the Pioneer Press . The place had a grand lobby at street level that actually contained nothing but a desk for receiving mail, a lot of photomurals, and a big spiral staircase that led up to the skyway level. There, a pretty receptionist at a tiny desk managed to look cheerful and sweet while she mostly told people to go away.
“I’d like to talk to a reporter, please.”
“Do you have a news story for us, or are you concerned about one that we’ve already printed?”
“I’m concerned about one that you should have printed but didn’t. I’d like to find out why.”
“And what is your point of view, sir, if I may ask?”
“I was a witness.” What a nice way of asking me if I’m a nut case with an axe to grind. I gave her what I hoped was a bland smile, just to show her I wasn’t dangerous.
“A witness to…?”
“A fire.” That’s good, Jackson. Keep it simple. Stay away from the conspiracy-theory stuff .
“You mean like a house fire?”
“More like an area fire, down in Connemara Gulch.”
“Like a brush fire, you mean? I don’t think we—”
“Not brush. Something directed at homeless people. Somebody was deliberately torching their
“Stagecoaches.”
“Much more elegant. I need a cigar box.”
“Excuse me?” His eyes snapped back down and refocused, and he looked a little pissed that I had interrupted his reverie.
“You know, one of those little wood things with phony brass hinges and circus graphics on the lid? I think cigars used to come in them once, though I can’t honestly say I’ve ever seen any.”
“I know what a cigar box is, Herman. I’m an educated man. What I don’t know is why you would come to me for one. Try maybe an antique store. Hell, try a cigar store. I’m not in the box business.”
“I will make no comment on what kind of business you’re in, Pete. Do you have one or not?”
“I might could find one. Mind telling me what you want it for?”
“It’s kind of a long story.”
“So give me the made-for-TV version.”
“Okay, the short take is this: it’s possible that I’m being followed right now. If that’s true, I want my shadow to see me come out of a pawn shop carrying a ratty-looking old box that you just might have been holding for me.”
“That all sounds very B-movie-ish. Which by the way, I got a good assortment of. I even got Beta.”
“Beta is deader than Elvis, Pete.”
“No it’s not. It’s good stuff, always was. I got the players, too, is the thing. Give you just a hell of a deal on a whole package.”
“We were talking about boxes, I believe.”
“Yeah, yeah, all right then.” This time he gave me his Oscar-quality sigh. “You care if anything is in this box?”
“It might actually be better if there is.”
“How about a pasteboard item that’s held together by a couple of big rubber bands and is full of some costume jewelry that’s so crappy, even I can’t peddle it?”
“Sounds perfect. Stick a phony claim ticket on it and it will be better yet.”
“The things I do for you.”
***
The box turned out to be white, with a picture of a two-corona owl on the front, and it looked suitably junky and also light-colored enough to be seen from a good distance away. I borrowed a Magic Marker from Pete, peeled back the rubber band temporarily, and wrote:
CHARLIE VICTOR—-HIS BOX OPEN WITH CAUTION
I smiled at my handiwork and gave him back the marker. He didn’t charge me for the box.
“But you realize, of course, that now you really do owe me a lunch?”
“Fair enough, Pete.”
“Damn straight it is. Just don’t make good on it until you lose your tail, whoever it is, okay? What I do not need in what’s left of my wretched old life is a bunch of cloak and dagger shit, is what.”
“Got it.” I put the box conspicuously under my arm and headed back out into the crisp air. Time to visit the fourth estate.
***
Three blocks later, I was back on Cedar, at the main office of the Pioneer Press . The place had a grand lobby at street level that actually contained nothing but a desk for receiving mail, a lot of photomurals, and a big spiral staircase that led up to the skyway level. There, a pretty receptionist at a tiny desk managed to look cheerful and sweet while she mostly told people to go away.
“I’d like to talk to a reporter, please.”
“Do you have a news story for us, or are you concerned about one that we’ve already printed?”
“I’m concerned about one that you should have printed but didn’t. I’d like to find out why.”
“And what is your point of view, sir, if I may ask?”
“I was a witness.” What a nice way of asking me if I’m a nut case with an axe to grind. I gave her what I hoped was a bland smile, just to show her I wasn’t dangerous.
“A witness to…?”
“A fire.” That’s good, Jackson. Keep it simple. Stay away from the conspiracy-theory stuff .
“You mean like a house fire?”
“More like an area fire, down in Connemara Gulch.”
“Like a brush fire, you mean? I don’t think we—”
“Not brush. Something directed at homeless people. Somebody was deliberately torching their
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