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>         Even the Old Man, who, in his white linen suit should
> have been hard to miss, was hunched morose and grey in a corner,
> nursing one of those ancient, dusty bottles of his.
...
>         "OK," said Kate, that explains why the Editor was glum.

> Why are _you_ glum, Hound? Or are you just mirroring the
> Editor's mood like a good barkeep would?"
>
>         She glanced at the Old Man, who was dusting
> some of the infinite accumulation of dust off his familiar
> bottle. ...

>
>         "Is the Old Man getting ready for another run?" she said.
> "I thought I heard someone say he and the Cleric were about
> to load up the truck again but not what they were going to
> load it up _with_. Something about bringing in the sheaves?
> If so, I hope the next bunch isn't as flabby as the last bunch was.
> Nothing worse than a bunch of flabby sheaves lying around."

``So, why _are_ you so glum?'' said Kate to the Old Man.

The Old Man's scowl would have cowed an ordinary mortal.  But the target
of his scowl was Kate, who is not known to cower or be cowed (in spite of
what some malicious or misinformed people say about the FIDLIT invasion).

Kate pressed the Old Man.  ``Is that all you can say?''

``Oh, my wen--well-bred hostess,'' he bemoaned, ``there ain't no justice
in the world.  Especially not on the golf course.  The sheer natural
perversity of everything gangs up on me.  On ME!  What have I ever done
to deserve it?''

``You had a bad game?'' said the Editor.

``Bad game!  Oh, my Doll--my Doleful Madamoiselle, I got me a hole-in-one!''

``That's great!'' said the Editor.

``Oh, no it ain't!  Not the way I done it.''  He took another pull from
his bottle, a pull so long he must have emptied it twice (a skill he was
known to employ from time to time).  ``Y'see, I wasn't even on the course.
I was on the driving range.''

``And you hooked one off the range and onto the course?'' said Hound, who
had joined the group.

``No, I didn't hook one.''  The Old Man turned his scowl on Hound.

``You _sliced_ one off the range?''

``Lookee here, son,'' said the Old Man, climbing aboard his dignity,
``Who's telling this story?  You or me?''

``You,'' said the three in chorus.  Harry Claude Cat added something from
his post by the door.

``Good.  Just so we got that straight now.  I want you to understand,
I'm something of what they call a natural golfer.''

``All his swinging helps manicure the fairways,'' said Kate, ever so
sweetly.  The Old Man pointedly ignored her observation.

``A natural golfer, that's what I am.  But even I can use some polishing.
So I get the club pro out, and what does he do?  He starts trying to
change everything about my swing.  First, he ties my wrists up with a
hankie.  Then he wraps the whole Sunday paper around my elbow and tapes
it up with duct tape 'cuz he thinks I'm bending it.  The elbow, that is.
Which I ain't.  Then he doesn't like the way I turn, so he ties a rope from
one of my ankles to my other knee.  And after than, he ties another rope
around my _other_ elbow and ties it to my belt, 'cuz he doesn't like the
way I swing.''

Kate forebore to point out the belt loop that dangled, attached at only
one end, just visible where the Old Man's jacket had been pushed back by
his gesturing.

``So after he has me all tied up like a cat's cradle, what does he do?  He
takes away my old wood, my reliable, trusty, ancestral, _wooden_ wood and
he gives me this hollow metal thing that has `Titanium' stamped all over
it.  And he puts the ball on the tee, which I can't do because of how
he's got me all tied up and he tells me to swing at it.  Which I do.''

``And that's when you got the hole-in-one?'' said the Editor.

``Well, y'see, I kept my head down, just like I always do, but when I look
up, there's that blighted ball sittin' just three feet from where it was
when I hit it.  That's when I really look up.''

``You should'a seen the look in that pro's eyes,'' the Old Man said.
``Burn me, I ain't never seen anything like it.  You'd'a thought the
clubhouse just washed downhill or sumpthin'.''

``So how did you get that hole-in-one?'' said Hound.  Harry Claude was
lying down now, his right foreleg covering his eyes and his left forepaw
hiding his nose and mouth.

``I'm comin' to that.  I went to see what that madman was starin' at, and
I saw that hollow titanium clubhead flyin' through the air.  It banked
lef--to port, then changed its mind and veered to starboard.  I would'a
run after it if I hadn't been all tangled up in all those ropes, but I saw
it come down right smack over the fourth green.  The next thing I know, the
guy putting for that hole was jumpin' up and down like a lunatic, which
I'm beginnin' to think all golfers are.  He reaches down to that blasted
cup and pulls the metal clubhead out.''

``What happened next?'' said the Editor, her hands covering the tears
streaming over her cheeks.

``Well, after they get me untied, they blame me--ME!--for what happened.
I ask you, could I have done anything wrong?  Could I have done anything
at all?  I was bound hand and foot!  That silly metalheaded club must
have come apart from the sheer power of my swing.  But did they apologize
for making me make a fool of myself with the silly thing?  Did they?''

``No, they did not,'' he answered himself.  ``What they did was declare
that I'd broken a rule by not shoutin' `Fore!' and another by playin' a
hole out of turn, and then they suspended me from the club.''

``Is that justice?'' he intoned.  ``I ask you all, is that justice?''

Kate bit her knuckles, thinking that if it wasn't justice, it was probably
self-defence.  The editor's shoulders quivered, no doubt in outrage.  And
the sensitive Harry Claude Cat lay utterly motionless, save for the tips
of his whiskers, which were vibrating ever so slightly.

Hound slipped back behind the bar and put something on the grill.

``What's that?'' said the Old Man, suspiciously.

``Just what you need,'' said Hound.  ``Pour le merite!  It's a Blue Max.''

The Old Man began to whistle _Over There_.

...
> ``On top of spaghetti!'' crooned the voice, ``All covered with cheese/I
> lost my poor meatball/When somebody sneezed.''
...
> ``It rolled 'cross the table, and fell to the floor/And then my poor
> meatball/Rolled right out the door ... Hey!  What the ...!  Whoaaaa!''
>
> The last sound was made by the organist as he flew through the air toward
> the Olympic-sized baptismal font.  At the last second, he pulled his knees
> up and grabbed them with his arms, hitting the water in a battleship-sized
> cannonball.
...
> Fiona and the once-Leigh stood at the edge of the pool to meet him.
> The Old Man climbed out, water dripping from his nose eyebrows, fingers,
> ears and chin.  Only his white linen suit was dry, perfectly dry.
>
> His scowl deepened, and his face became a convincing imitation of a
> thunderstorm.  The cleric froze.
``Lord love a duck, what is it about this town,'' the Old Man said to
nobody in particular.  ``Somebody announces a party and I come early to
practice a bit for the music, and then the two of you decide I have to
be baptized.  ME!''

``That playing ...'' began Fiona, but the Old Man was turning towards the
cleric.

``D'ya do this to all your new organists?'' he said.  ``Just airmail the
Unwashed into the pool?  Not even a few prayers on the steps?  Wouldn't
it be more canonical if I was to be singin' a psalm or something when you
threw me in?''

``For the party?'' said the cleric, several leaps of logic--or faith--behind
the Old Man.

``I was just warmin' up,'' said the Old Man.  ``I still had to practice
some polkas and a couple of waltzes.  Bring out the barrel!  We'll have a
barrel o--''

``Not that kind of party!'' shouted the cleric.

``What about the Liszt?'' said Fiona.  ``Was that for the party, too?''

``Well, no,'' said the Old Man.  ``But I had to take her out for a spin,
see what she has under the hood.''

``Under the hood!'' said Leigh-upon-a-time.  ``I'll show you what _she_
has under the hood.''  She grabbed his hand and pulled him down the nave,
across the narthex, and out the door.  ``Look!'' she said.

``I'm lookin','' said the Old Man.  ``I dunno what I'm lookin' at, though.''

``There!'' said the woman in the gown.  ``What's that?''

``That, my fatheads, is a puddle,'' said the Old Man, striding towards it.
``We musta' had a cloudburst.''

``Cloudburst my ... my ... my great-aunt's bustle!  You made that puddle
with your organ!''

``Me?'' said the Old Man.  ``My w-- ... I wasn't even there.  Besides, I
wouldn't go doing a thing like that in public where everyone could see.
Someone could get jealous an' start a stampede or somethin'.''

``Not THAT organ,'' said the cleric.  ``The organ upstairs.  You were
playin' the 64-foot pedal bombarde, weren't you?''

``Well, yes,'' said the Old Man.

``And you had the sforzando on.''

``No I didn't,'' said the Old Man, a look of offended innocence spreading
across his physiognamy.  ``It was the crescendo.  I had it all the way down.''

``Those low frequencies can be heard all over town,'' said Fiona.  ``It
was like an earthquake with a tidal wave.  Water from the font was
pouring out all over the square.''

``All over the square?  Well now, son,'' the Old Man said, oblivious to
the sex of his listeners, ``I guess that organ had a bit more horsepower
than I gave it credit for.''  His expression softened a bit.  ``But that
still don't give you an excuse for dunkin' me.  I'm an old man!  I mighta'
caught my death of pneumonia or somethin'. ''  He coughed experimentally a
couple of times and pounded on his chest.

He looked up again.  His audience was already walking back across the square.
The glower on his face turned to disgust.  Then that was driven away by
panic and the panic by determination.

He launched himself across the square at the retreating Fiona, the cleric,
and Leigh-no-more.  For the first half-second he seemed to lumber.  Then
the afterburners must have kicked in, because he moved faster than the
eye could follow.  He caught them, Fiona in one arm, lately-Leigh in the
other, and the cleric between them, and propelled them all at least three
yards.

If the eye couldn't follow him, it could follow a dark line on the ground
that had extended suddenly from one of the puddles right towards where the
two women had been.

``What the...!'' sputtered the woman in the now-rumpled gown.  The Old
Man turned them, then pointed at the dark line.  The line was still
lengthening, but more slowly, and it was growing faint.  The air above
it rippled, and in the ripples a van faded into visibility, one wet tire
resting on the end of the track it had made from the puddle.  The van
was just coming to a stop.

Officer Fiona put a whistle to her mouth and blew.  The truck remained
where it was.  She ran towards it, one hand pulling out her summons book
and the other hovering near her pistol.  Her companions followed at a
more sedate pace.

``I'm very sorry, ma'am,'' the driver was saying.  ``I'm new to town and
I didn't see any zebra crossings.  Then I hit that puddle, and I skidded a
bit.''

``That's not what I meant,'' said Fiona The Implacable. ``You were driving
a van with a cloaking device.''

``No ma'am,'' whimpered the driver, who looked remarkably like a student
working his way through college.

``No, Ma'am?'' said Fiona.  ``I saw you myself.  I mean I didn't see you
myself.  I mean--You nearly ran me over.''

``Yes, ma,am.''

`` ... Well?''

``It isn't my fault!'' the driver blurted out.  ``This is a Mentally
Invisible Van.  I'm not the one that doesn't see it.  You don't.''

``Don't what?''

``See it.''

``See _what_?''

``A Mentally Invisible Van!  Have you never read Chesterton?  The doorman
swore that nobody, duke or dustman, had gone through the doors, but the
Invisible Man's footprints went through the fresh snow right between where
the doorman's feet were planted!  He was a Mentally Invisible Man, dressed
in a handsome shade of blue with red and gold trim.  I can't help it if
nobody sees a Mentally Invisible Van!''

Fiona checked the colors of the van.  It was a rich blue, slightly lighter
than Navy, painted with red braids--no, red snakes--and lettered in
tastelessly rich gold letters ``Limerick Delivery.''

``You're going to the Hanks-a-Lot?'' said Fiona.

``Yes.  How ... how did you know?'' said the driver.

``They're expecting shipments of limericks.'' said Fiona.

``Oh, I'm not _deliverin'_ limericks,'' said the driver.  ``I've a delivery
_from_ Limerick.  Good Irish yarn, sheared an' span from local sheep.''

``Well, you can't drive that truck invisibly through town,'' said Fiona.
``Keep your speed down and turn your flasher on.''

``Yes, ma'am,'' the driver said.  The van's four-ways began to flash.

Officer Fiona stepped back and the van began to move.  It started to
ripple but it didn't quite fade, and the flashing lights remained strong
and clear.  The snakes seemed to weave in the rippling.

``How are you plannin' on following him?'' said the Old Man.

``Following him?'' said Fiona.

The Old Man's jaw dropped.  ``Oh, my wench!'' he cried.  Fiona and
Leigh-in-the-past-perfect stiffened.  ``Don't you remember that THERE ARE
NO SNAKES IN IRELAND!  St. Patrick tossed them all out.  Excommunicated 'em,
or something.''

Fiona's eyes bulged for a second.  Then she turned and ran across the
square in the direction of the Hanks-a-lot.

``Wait!'' yelled the cleric.  She ran back to a red Chevy pickup parked in
the Font of Submission's front yard.  The Old Man and un-Leigh followed.
The cleric had the door open, but her jeans were too tight and she couldn't
step up into the truck.

The Old Man didn't hesitate.  He put one hand under her bottom and took her
arm in the other and LIFTED.  In she went.  He swung the pluperfect Leigh up
into the bed and, one foot on the cab's step, swung himself up after her.
His corporation got there first, but both made it into the truck.  ``GO!''
he shouted.

>He was wearing glacier glasses--the round sunglasses with the leather flaps
>around the glasses to prevent snow blindness.  The lenses looked solid black.

>``Hey!'' said the Old Man.  ``You're the fella' with the bandoliers and
>the black cape.''
>``Dammit, you found me!'' said the bartender.  ``Welcome to the Nick
>Talopes Cafe.''
>``Call me Chuck, Mr. Talopes'' I said.

``I see you've met,'' said Fiona.

``Not exactly,'' said the Old Man.  I was lookin' for an old friend and
this fella was huntin' pixies.  I think.''

``That's right,'' said the man with the black disks over his eyes.  They
looked like coins for the ferryman across the river to hell.  ``I can't
get rid of 'em down here.''

We looked at each other for a while.  Then the barkeep said ``Have a seat,
folks.  What'll you have?''

``Nothing from your back cabinet,'' said Fiona.  ``I'm Law and Order, and
you don't want me finding out you're slipping Oil of Iron to these good
citizens.''

I slid into a booth.  The Old Man adjusted his corporation with both hands
and slid in across from me.

Fiona sat down next to me.  She reached down between us and pulled out her
HT.  ``This doesn't work down here.''  She grinned and turned it off.

For those of you who don't remember when a walkie-talkie was an army radio
the size of a pullman loaf, it was.  The radio that cops and firemen carry
is offically called a `Handy Talkie'--shortened to `HT'.

``You gotta watch what you drink here,'' she explained, sliding in where the
HT used to be.  ``They serve some strange stuff, old recipies that no liquor
commission ever approved.  It's fun, but I'm not _that_ far off duty.''

The place was empty otherwise, so the bartender joined us after he brought
our drinks.  There was no single-malt scotch, but the stuff he brought
looked very, very old.  You can't have cobwebs _inside_ the scotch, but I
wished for a better light, 'cause there was _something_.  On second thought,
I decided the light was good enough.

``What do you know about the pixies?'' said the Old Man.

``Just that I can't get rid of them,'' said the man with the blacked-out
eyes.  ``There's three that keep coming back and making trouble.  If they
aren't slapping each other around or screaming like banshees, they're
breaking glasses or spilling my liquor.''

I started to get a bad feeling.

``What do _you_ know about them,'' he asked the Old Man.

``Weelll,'' said the Old Man, ``it isn't that I _know_, exactly.  But there
was this character I knew back in ... well, let's say they have a funny accent
there ... and she was a gypsy or sumthink like that.  If she wasn't a real
gypsy--and she wasn't--she was always fooling around with them and their
horses.  I think that must'a been the reason they let her hang around with
them.  She was as good as they were with horses.''

``When I left, she was mixed up with some people who were involved with
pixies,'' he said.

``Pixies are trouble to begin with,'' he went on. ``But even pixies got a
criminal element.  Most of 'em are just practical jokers that get out of hand,
but there are a few real troublemakers, too.''

He took a long sip of his drink.  There was no sugar for a rum punch, so he
settled for something the bartender called a Rum Thing.  `Exotic herbs and
spices,' was the list of ingredients.

``Y'see, my lubberly lunks, pixies don't worry too much about who owns what.
You can't get'em to steal for money unless they've gone rotten, but they'll
do it for a lark, or if you can offer'em something real beautiful.  Well,
this particular bunch of pixies, which was kinda' like a dukedom or something,
got in trouble with the Big People--that's us--and had to clean up their
act.  They got a whole bunch of judges and started to transport their
troublemakers.''

``Transport them where?'' I said.  Like I said, I had a bad feeling.

``Anywhere,'' said the Old Man.  ``When England started shipping their
troublemakers to Australia, that's what they called it--`Transportation.'
It's hard to keep a pixie locked up, though.  It has to do with them being
mythical or something.  So they started putting them in bottles.''

``What did they do with them?'' said Fiona.  ``Toss them in the sea?''

``Of course not,'' said the Old Man.  He pretended he was insulted.  ``They
paid people to carry them away and put'em to work.''

``That's where my old, er, acquiantance comes in.  Her name was Adrastus,
and she was just the sort to make a quick buck--or a quick guinea--off
somebody else's quick fix.''  He swallowed about half of his Rum Thing.

``I'm real afraid that Adrastus went selling these pixies as slave labor.''

``Adrastus is the bum on the horse?''  The drink was loosening me up and
the place seemed brighter.

``I'm pretty sure, burn me,'' said the Old Man.

At that point, Fiona interrupted.  I hadn't noticed, but we had our arms
around each other.  I don't remember what she wanted, but it seemed real
important at the time.

Eventually we checked out the jukebox.  I must have been dancing with Fiona,
though for some reason I remember looking into the face of Marylin Monroe.
I remember Yul Brenner spinning on his head to `Babies Go By, Just Counting
Their Toes,' but Brenner died a few years ago, so it must have been the Old
Man.

The way out was easier than the way in.  Fiona couldn't find the switch on
her light, but there were red safety lights in pairs all over the place.

``Hey, Charlie, wake up!''  It was the Old Man.  ``It's after ten.  We
were supposed to see Minkminder this morning!''

I started to wake up, fast.  I turned over to face Marylin Monroe, whom
I'd just spent the night with.  Only it wasn't Marylin.  It was Fiona.

``You're not Tom Cruise,'' she said.

``And you're not Marylin Monroe,'' I said.  I blinked a few times, but
her hair just wouldn't turn blonde.

We both looked at the Old Man.  ``What's that on your head?'' we said
together.

A look of horror spread over his face.  He ran into the bathroom.  I
heard the water run, and then there was the sound of soap turning into
suds.  Fiona and I looked at each other again.

``Flip you for the shower?'' I said.  She looked at me.

The Old Man came out.  His scalp was clean again, but there were bright red
patches from my merthiolate bottle where he'd painted it.  One drop had run
right down the middle of his forehead, taken a slight bend this way, then
the other, and run down the side of his nose.

``I got somebody I gotta see before we talk to Minkminder,'' he said.
``I'll meet you there.''

How someone with that corporation can move that fast, I don't know.  But
I'll tell you this.  The only soil on his white linen suit was some odd
black blotches around the cuffs of his jacket.  They looked like inkstains.

``Flip you for the shower,'' I said again.  Fiona looked back at me.

``That would take too long, Dammit,'' she said.

``Call me Chuck.''

>Freylinghausen Minkminder had a funny way to say `hello.'  ``You cannot
>at my door knock without Dammit saying?''
>``Please, call me Chuck.''

The man in the doorway stared for a moment, then began to chuckle.

``I am sorry,'' he said.  ``I have been reading Hegel and I started
to forget my English grammar.  What a windbag he is!  At least Kant
has something to talk about.''

He looked us over.  ``What can I do for you?''

``We'd like to ask you some questions,'' I said.  ``And we'd like to
look at Mrs. Minkminder's word processor and look around the place where
she worked on it.''

``My wife was killed months ago,'' said the man in the door.

``It has been a while,'' I said.  ``I was detained.''

``Detained?''

``Yes.''  No use mincing words.  ``Forcibly detained.''

He was surprised.  I was sure of it.

``May we come in?'' said Officer Fiona.

``Of course,'' said Freylinghausen Minkminder, stepping back from the
doorway.  His knees were at different heights, too.  ``Would you like
to go upstairs?''

``Actually, I'd like to talk a little first.''

``Ah.  Have we been introduced?''  He said this as he slipped in front
of the Old Man.

``No, son, I don't think we have.  You are?''

``I ... why, I am Freylinghausen Augustus Polycroneus Minkminder.  And you?''

The Old Man looked down on Freylinghuasen Augustus Polycroneus Minkminder.
It's a good trick, because Minkminder was at least three inches taller than
him.  Someday I'll get him to tell me how he does it.  ``I'm the Old Man.''

``Well, yes.  You are.''  Minkminder looked defeated.  He stepped aside.
``Shall we sit down?''  He waved us into the living room.

``I was wonderin' when you were going to get to that,'' said the Old Man,
taking the chair that was obviously Minkminder's own.  Minkminder grabbed
his second choice before Fiona could sit down in it.

The place hadn't changed much since Janie's death.  The gin bottles
were gone, and so were the glasses, but there was still a small bar set up
in the dining room.  During the day, the place had been bright and sunny.
Now it was almost gloomy.  Or maybe it was the host or hostess.

Fiona took a third chair, and that left me the sofa.  I was going to sit
on it, but I remembered that Janie's fur had lain at that end.  I took a
footstool instead.

``Is there something wrong with my sofa, Mr. Dammit?''

I looked at him.  ``No.  I was just remembering your wife's fur.  It was
sitting over there when she died.''

``Ah.  And now what have you come for?''

``We'd like some background on you and your wife.  How long had she been
writing as Sharon Hotts?''

``Almost seven years.''

``So she started after you were married?''

``She did.''

``How did you feel about her writing?''

``You mean the romances?  Bah!  One fiction is as bad as another.''

``You don't read fiction?''

``I read too much of it.  Most of what is printed by the newspapers is
fiction in one or another way.''

``And you prefer fact?''

``I prefer Truth, Mr. Dammit.  Truth!''  The capital letters were his.

``How about the fact that she was writing anything at all?''

``It kept her from being bored.  Janie needed things to amuse her.''

``What sort of things?''

``Furs, jewelry, facelifts, detectives, and other distractions.  She
was not comfortable in her own thoughts.''

``The day she was killed, a body was found on the other side of this
block.  Did you know the victim?''

``No.  I did not.  The police asked me about that already.''

``Did Mrs. Minkminder know him?''

``I don't know.  Who was he?''

``He was a writer.''

``Then there is a very good chance that she knew him quite well.''

``Where did you go on your honeymoon?''

``Niagra Falls.''

``Your choice or hers?''

``Hers.  I by nature am not a romantic man, Mr. Dammit--not in that sense
romantic.''

``Or any other?''

``Only when I am standing for my ideas, Mr. Dammit.''

``You're a philosopher?''

``A Professor of Philosophy, Mr. Dammit.  Philosophers are not well paid.''

``Then your business is Truth?''  I was fishing.

``You say more than you know, Mr. Dammit!  In truth, Truth is my business.
It fills my ledger books.''

The Old Man glanced at me, then spoke.  ``Burn me, but ain't Truth the goal
of all philosophers?''

``It is not just my goal, Mr. Old Man.  It is my inventory, my capital,
my very stake in life.''

``They said you were a Universical Pan ... Pan ...''

``A Univeridical Panphysical Philosophatician, yes.''

``What is a `Philosophatician'?'' said Fiona.

``Ahhhh'' said Freylinghausen Augustus Polycroneus Minkminder.  ``Do you
know what an actuary is?  An actuary bets on life and death.  Your life and
my life, my death and your death.  And in order to bet, and to win, he
calculates the value of your life and everything you do.''

He stared at each one of us in turn.  ``Somewhere there is a mild little man,
on his nose mild little spectacles, with great big book or fast little
computer, calculating the value of your life.''

``Medieval priests were given penance books.  When a sinner confessed, the
priest turned to the book to find the penance to assign him, all neatly
computed ahead of time by some accountant of grace and sin.''

``This admirable, practical precision is not part of philosophy, but it is
the business of the Philosophatician.''

I had hooked the biggest fish of my life, and I didn't even know it.
Neither did the Old Man.  Not just then, anyhow.  It was small comfort.
We were both blind.  Blind to the answer--and blind to the question.

``The Univeridical Panphysicist Philosophatician begins with the Truth,''
continued Minkminder.  ``Truth and falsehood he values with precision.  When
people deny Truth they incur a cost.  The Philosophatician calculates that
cost, and applies it, with he practical precision of a number in dollars
and cents.  Dollars and cents, Officer, do not care about anything.  Like
numbers, they simply are.''

``The _ding-an-sich_?'' said the Old Man.  Fiona's eyes bulged.

``If you must call it that,'' said Minkminder.  ``But it is not a
thing-of-itself; is is a thing of its own kind.  It is a _kind_ of
thing of its own _kind_ of kind.''

That was enough.  ``We'd like to see your bedroom,'' I said.

The fish took the hook out of his own mouth and swam away.

``Of course,'' said Minkminder, standing up.  He led us upstairs and into
the bedroom where the lights were on.  There was a large double bed, a pair
of dressers, and a mirror.  There were two chairs, but no desk.  The window
was in front of us.

``You packed her word processor up?'' I said.

``No,'' said Freylinghausen A.P. Minkminder.

``I don't see it.''

``That is because it is not here.  Janie did not work in here.''

Out of the corner of my eye I saw the Old Man put his hand on the
wall lamp.

``She told me she worked in her bedroom,'' I said.

``She did.  This was _our_ bedroom.  _Her_ bedroom is through that door.''
He pointed to our right.  The Old Man went in first.  He fumbled with
the lamp on the wall, then found the light switch.

It was a small room.  There was a cot next to the door, and a desk opposite
the door with an old PC and a hard chair.  The monitor was off to one side,
so the person sitting at the desk could see out the window.

The Old Man's eyes caught mine.  I was pretty sure I knew what he was
thinking.

``This is where she worked?'' I said.

``This is where she worked,'' he said.  ``It is also where she slept
when a deadline was near.''

``And the rest of the time?'' I said.

``The rest of the time, my wife slept where she chose.''

``With you?''

``Sometimes.  At night, usually.''

I wondered how much I had to ask this husband to offend him.

The Old Man had pulled the chair out from Janie Minkminder's desk and
was sitting down.  ``Charlie,'' he said, feeling the bridge of his nose,
``see if I left my glasses downstairs.  Freylinghausen Augustus, you go
with him.''

I looked again.  I would have sworn the old sinner was wearing his glasses
when we walked into the other bedroom.

But one thing hadn't changed.  The Old Man wouldn't call me Chuck.

                Chuck Dammit, Private Investigator
                       dammit@private.eye

> ``Officer Fiona.''  She wrinkled her nose.  ...  ``The chief warned me

> about you.  Just my luck, Dammit.''

> ``You can call me `Chuck,' '' I said.

> ``And you can call me `Officer,' '' she replied.
                        ===== ======== =====

>Lady Leigh took half a step backward.  Then she began to take steps
>forward.  ``I TOLD you not to use that word 'round here!'' she fumed, as
>the big man took his first step backward.  ``Not to my staff!'' she said
>as he took his second step backwards.  ``Not to me!'' she said as he
>took his third and fourth steps.  ``I don't care if I go to the federal
>pen for life!'' she almost shouted, the big man matching her step for
>syllable.  ``You are not to call me--or anyone here--`my wen--OoOOF!''

>[Note: This chronicler is indebted to the business owner known to the
> community as `Lady Leigh' for her version of this event.  As can be
> seen, the other participants would find it hard to describe the events
> both accurately and completely.  Fortunately, L.L. was in a unique
> position in this incident.]

                        ===== ======== =====

I finished my burger and left Kate's Bar and Grille with Officer Fiona.

``Did the Captain fill you in?'' I said.

``We're going to the Minkminder house where you will see what is visible
from the upstairs rooms--assuming that Feylerhous ... Freyerling ...
Fengerhouse ... Mr. Minkminder lets you in.  That's why you have me.''

``Freylinghausen,'' I said.  I looked up at the sky.  ``That's right.  I
didn't realize it was so late.  We may not have much light.''

``Then I can go home,'' said Fiona, drifting toward the other side of the
pavement.''

``Not so fast,'' I said, slipping around to her other side.  ``I think we
can start asking questions tonight.  We might even get some answers.''

``What sort of questions?'' said Officer Fiona.

``Oh, how long they've been married--''

``Eight years, ten and one third months--'' said Fiona.

``And how long their honymoon was,'' I said.

``Their honeymoon?'' said Fiona

``And their engagement,'' I said.

``What?''

``And whether Janie was Sharon Hotts before she knew Freylinghausen, or
after they met, or after they were married.''

``Do you study history for fun?,'' said Officer Fiona.

``Just gettin' background on the victim,'' I said.

``Some background.  You're getting to know her up close and personal.''

I figured that Janie Minkminder introduced herself to me up close and
personal, too, but I wasn't going into that with Fiona.  Nor did I
describe the way Mrs. Minkminder wrapped her lips around a cigarette.
Some things you just don't explain.

``They say she was pretty,'' Fiona said.

I glanced sideways at her.  ``Not bad, if you want the best body
money can buy.''

We turned the corner.  Halfway up the block, she said ``Must be nice
to have money.''

She didn't finish the sentence, and neither did I.  ``... or a nice
body.''  Fiona was almost talking to me now so I said ``Couldn't say, I'm
_sure_.'' Started to say it, anyway.  I never got past the first word.

There was a commotion off to our left.  Some woman had just lost her
temper and it was runnin' amok around the neighborhood.  It sounded
like it it was heading our way.  I looked left, but it was too late.

The landslide was white and bigger than a breadbox.  Much bigger.  It
was much bigger than me, and with all my muscle starved away I never
had a chance.  It hit me and I went down flat on my back.  My new hat
got pushed down over my eyes.

Then the avalanche came down on top of me.

When the lights came back on, Fiona and another woman were helping a
big man in a white suit get back on his feet.

It was the Old Man, and he wasn't even grateful that I'd softened his
landing.  ``Dammit!'' he growled, like I was the one who interrupted
_him_.

I pulled some air into my lungs.  I couldn't help noticing that the
other woman was noticing me.  She was a looker!

Then I looked past her and the Old Man.  This was the alley behind
Kate's, and it had been cleaned up, and that must be where MWville's
own House of the Setting Sun was installed.

Well, maybe `looker' wasn't quite the right word.  But there was nothing
cheap about her; she was the goods, even if it did seem she was more
interested in my almost-new hat than in my newly slimmed physique.  And
the Old Sinner was up to his ... er, tricks.

``Now, son,'' he said, ``I'm here on business.''

I started to get up and Fiona and the Old Man's businesswoman moved in to
help.  She got a bit too close and I stepped on her foot.

``You mule!'' she said.  ``You stepped on my toe, Dammit.''

``The name's Chuck,'' I said.  ``Chuck Dammit.''

My reputation must've preceded me.  She stepped back and stared.

That was my cue.  I turned to the Old Man.  ``Just the man I wanted to
see,'' I said, winking at Officer Fiona.  ``Come on, we're going to the
Minkminder place to see Freylinghausen.''

``Who's Finkhausen?'' he sputtered, as Fiona and I dragged him away from
his high-octane rendevous.

``Freylinghausen is a Univeridical Panphysical Philosophatician,'' I said,
``according to Cullen.''

``What's _that_?'' said the Old Man.  ``And who's Cullen?''

``I don't know, but he was Janie Minkminder's professor husband.  And
Cullen is Kate's new bartender and he has a taste for Milk Bones.''

``For the love of Esau, why didn't you say so?'' said the Old Man, as he
climbed back aboard his dignity.  ``Charlie, why do you got to go getting
everything all mixed up?''

I glanced around his corporation at Fiona.  Fiona glanced at her eyebrows.

``I don't know why people always get things mixed up,'' he confided.
``Take the time that I was supposed to get reservations for the Hilton at
Diamondhead.  They ended up putting me in the Diamond at Hiltonhead.  And
then there was the time ...''

I let him talk.  We were walking in the right direction.

Officer Fiona leaned over to me.

``Is he always like this, Dammit?''

``Naw,'' I said.  ``This is one of his good days.  And you can call
me Chuck.''

I'd been open about an hour when Dammit came in.  He was thin as a rail,
and his fedora looked like a truck had parked on it.  I set him up with a
double Highland Park and slapped a burger on the grille for another Blue
Max.
"So, how's the gumshoe?" I asked, putting the jar of breadsticks in front
of him.  "Any progress on the Janie case?"

He crunched a breadstick and spread crumbs all over the bar.  "It goes.  I
don't have much to tell you.  What little I know, I don't want to spread
around."

"Fair enough," I said. I put the Blue Max in front of him, raised my glass
and said, "Pour le merite"

"Huh?"

"I said, 'pour le merite.' 'For merit' in French.  That's what was printed
on the Blue Max.  It was the highest honor a German soldier could receive
in World War I. I thought you knew that, Dammit."

He just looked at me, then started eating. I went off and served a few
other customers, then stopped back by.

"There were a few pixies in here looking for you yesterday," I said.
Chuck jumped and dropped the burger into his lap.  "Easy, Chuck. I sent
'em out of here.  There's no love lost between me and the little
critters." I handed him a bar towel to clean up his lap and put another
burger on the grill for him.

"Did they say what they wanted?"  he asked, eyeing the door.

I busied myself with the grill. "Nope.  There were three of them, they
just asked if I'd seen you.  I told them I don't give out information on
my customers. They tried asking a few other customers, so I ran them out
of here.  I don't want the clientele bothered."

"Just what I need. Another complication."

"No," I said, "Here's what you need. Another burger."  I put the new Blue
Max in front of him, and poured him another scotch.  He ate quickly, then
knocked back the drink like he needed it.

"I'm on my way," he said, trying to straighten his hat.  "If the pixies
come back--"

"I know, you were never here. No one's ever here, Chuck" I went back to
the grill and put a burger on for myself.

"Thanks, Cullen" he said.

"It's Hound, Dammit.  Call me Hound"

> When I was done, [the Old Man] opened the other eye to look at me.  I had
> another glass of his rum concoction at my lips.

[>> ``Only you, Dammit.'' ]
>I was about full of rum punch, liver, and onions, in that order.  I
>guessed the Old Man was about full of me.
>
>And my ears were burning.
>
>I wondered if it was someone else who won't call me by my first name.
I felt well fortified for the trip back to town.  But the Old Man went
back to thinking with his eyes closed.  I tried to do the same thing, but
I didn't get anywhere.  Worked hard at it, and got an awful headache.

When I opened my eyes, it was the next morning, and there was a horrible
face grinning at me.

It was the Old Man.  He was ready with my breakfast.  Chipped beef on toast.
In the army we called it SOS--It on a Shingle.  Yeah, `it' doesn't start
with an `sh'.

``What are you going to do?'' I asked, with my mouth full.  It didn't
taste any better now than it did then.

``Me?  I'm just gonna sit here and wait for something to turn up.''  He'd
eaten two helpings--and it wasn't even his kitchen.

``You're stumped,'' I said.

``Well now, I wouldn't say that, son.''  The old so-and-so looked like
the cat that ate the canary.

``But you are.''

``Let's just say I need a few more facts.''

``And I'm going to get them?''

``Up to you, son.''  He refused to look me in the face.

What did the crusty old baronet know that I didn't?  Or did he?

A few more meals would put some meat on the bones, and enough hours in my
do-it-yourself gym would harden them up again, but my clothing was beyond
hope.  At the town haberdashery, I picked out some pants and shirts, and
a new trench coat and fedora to replace the ones I lost while I was pixie-
dusted.  That would take my income for the month--the month before I was
captured.  I waited in the store for them to alter the trousers and coat.

There was a sound--a `KLOCK!'--like two coconuts knocking together.  It
seemed to come from a closet where the built-in suit racks turned away
from the wall.  I slipped over to the door.  There were voices behind it.

I started to open the door when I realized that the voices were familiar.
The crack I'd opened it let out a ratcheting noise--_KRA-KRA-KRA-KRA-KRA-
KRA-KRAT!_ _KRA-KRA-KRA-KRA-KRA-KRA-KRAT!_ _KRA-KRA-KRA-KRA-KRA-KRA-KRAT!_
``And this is for you!''  _Pop!_ _Pop!_ _POP!_  ``Now shut up you two
clowns and listen!''

``We're in this up to our hair,'' the voice went on.

``_You're_ in it up to your hair!'' said another one.

``And you're in it up to that bowling ball you call a head!'' said a third
one.

There was a deep growling--deep by their standards.  ``Awright, you two
wisenheimers, that's enough!  We're in trouble with the Boss for catching
the shamus--''

It was pixies.  Three of them, if starvation hadn't ruined my arithmetic.

``How could we know?'' said the second voice.

``Yeah, we _saw_ him with the dame,'' said the third.

``You think the boss cares?'' said the first one.  ``He's gonna put us
back in the bottles and--''

``Yahh-ahh-ahh-hahh-aa-aa-aaa-aaaa--aaaaaaaa!''

``Shaddap!  Why did I ever let you two talk me into the bottles anyway?''

``It was that or the Rotisserie.  You heard what the judge said when he
found out we were the ones who--''

``Excuse me, sir.''  It was the haberdasher's fitter.  ``We've hemmed
your trousers, and we're about to do the waists and then the coat.  I was
just wondering, sir, about how you wanted them so loose.  Are you sure?''

``I've been ill,'' I lied.  ``Like I told your salesman, I'm going to
be putting the weight back on.''

``I'm sorry to hear that.  I hope you're feeling better.''

``Much better, thank you.''

``We'll get right to work on the trousers.''  He was gone.  I went back to
listening.  The pixies were still arguing.

``... with the guy that hired us when he finds we're not down in the
subway like he told us.''

``It's not our fault,'' the third one said.  ``We _went_ down there.''

``Yeah, and you two chickened out.''

``_You_ were in front,'' said the second one.

``Shaddap!  He told us to find out what those red eyes were in the dark,
and we're going to find out.''

``Sez who!''

``Yeah, sez who?''

``Sez me!  Now move it!''

It sounded like a couple of schoolgirls sticking out their tongues.
There were more knocks, and then some scuffling.  There must have
been another way out of that closet, because the noise died away.

I opened the closet and looked in.  It was piled with boxes, plastic
hangers, plastic bags, brightly colored belts, and those little black
plastic dinguses they use to hang socks on the pegboard hooks.

``Excuse me, sir.''  It was the shop's owner.  ``No customers allowed
in there.''

``Sorry,'' I said.  ``I thought I heard something fall.''

He looked in.  ``You probably did,'' he said.  ``Who could tell?''

When my clothing was ready, I paid for it, then changed into it.  I
got a bag from the clerk, and stuffed my old clothes in it.

What was this about a subway?  Had the town changed that much?  I went
looking for the telltale stairways on the streetcorners, but I couldn't
see any.

I dropped the bag off in front of the church on the town square.  Then
I went to the police department.  Captain Chair was in.  As usual, I
spent almost five minutes finding which thirteenth floors he was on.

I knocked on his door, and opened it when he called.

``Where have you been, Dammit!'' was all he could say.

One of these days, he'll call me Chuck.

Maybe when he retires.

The Case of Inedible Chocolates
                                   VI

>"And then?"  I echoed Elf's question.
>
>"And that's when Charlie came to me for help," said the Old Man.

"And he's been 'helping' me ever since," said Chuck.  Something in his
voice said he wasn't sure about the honor.

"Never mind that," said Elf, "how did this all start?"

"It began," said Chuck, "when a Mr. Rolls found Hollis Roger's body in
an alley two years ago."

"It _began_," I corrected him, "when Janie and Hollis Rogers showed up
in my barn a few months before that."

"It BEGAN," growled the Old Man, "in Tunisia, North Africa, 1944."

He'd done it again.  We all turned towards him, except Gunsel who
hadn't recovered from his last scene, and who had mistakenly been
called Bingle, and who would undoubtably take offense at that, as soon
as he was able.

Having taken possession of our attention, the Old Man was in no hurry
to relinquish it.  He poured himself another three fingers of Rum and
swirled it around in his glass before beginning.  "Near the end of the
war," he began, "a destroyer escort in the Mediterranean developed
engine trouble and had to drop back from its convoy.  The rest of the
floatilla was-- well, let us just say there wasn't any way to
corroborate the story."

He had us hooked.  We ignored flamewars, calls to for RFDs in town,
entire mobs chasing newbies through the diner, Pat's transformation
into a Soap/Porn star, and Hound's subsequent sulking as the only
working character in town.  We ignored all that and we watched while
The Old Man finished the Rum and dribbled more into the glass before
continuing.  "The USS Smart was limping East some hundred or two miles
from Tunis when it had to divert North.  It came upon debris from an
Italian freighter that had been torpedoed.  They found a small life-
boat with two men in it.  One was dead, the other dying.  Lashed to
the side of the boat was a large crate.  The Smart picked up the
survivor and, at his hysterical prodding, brought his crate along. 
It was labelled 'Chocolates.' 

"The man died before the Smart reached Tunis, but his ravings were
extraordinary.  Few members of the crew could speak Italian, but what
was understood made the officers uneasy.  It was never determined what
exactly killed the man.  He had so many wounds, it wasn't clear if
he'd picked up one more on board the Smart.  Shortly after he died,
his crate disappeared, along with a Midshipman named Hershey."

"How do you know this?" demanded Elf, voicing what the rest of us were
thinking. 

The Old Man smiled.  "Because, after the War, I was assigned to find
out what happened to Midshipman Hershey, and his crate."

"And did you find him?"

"Him, I found.  More or less."  He leered at us.  If he was expecting
someone to ask him what he meant by that, there wasn't anybody at that
table with a weak enough imagination to need to ask--.

"What d'ya mean, more or less?"  It was a small voice.  Gunsel's,
actually.  The pixie was sitting up in the satchel and holding his
head like it hurt.

The Old Man leaned close to the pixie.  "I found enough of him to
identify.  Parts that made it certain that the rest of him wasn't
going on by itself."  He glared at him as if to dare him to ask for
more.

"How'd ya identify 'im?"  Funny how a headache didn't seem to curb the
pixie's curiosity. 

"Dental records," said the Old Man.

"You found his teeth?"

"A bit more than that.  But I had to dig them out of a hardened
block."

"Of concrete?" offered Elf.

"No."  He looked at us funny.  "Of Chocolate."  The Old Man sat back
and the rest of us exchanged glances.  Except Gunsel--he looked like
he was taking notes.

"I tracked the sailor to a chocolate festival in a coastal town.  His
was a tortured road which took him across Europe, leaving behind him a
string of kisses and broken hearts, to end his days on the Black Sea
coast near Odesa.  He had become one with a large orange-chocolate
bunny.  Once I found him, my--ahem--employers were satisfied, but I
was not.  I wanted to find that crate.  I knew something of it
already--."

"What?"  I shouted.  "This talk of crates is making me nervous!  What
about it?"

"As well you should be, but patience!" the Old Man demanded.  And to
ensure he drummed the lesson in he took his time finishing his glass
and refilling it before continuing.  "The crate, or rather its
contents, were discovered by an archeologist just before the war. 
He'd been doing research into the lost biblical city of Tannis, and
had found and excavated the mysterious Well of Godiva, expecting to
find the remains of the Lady.  What he found instead was packed into a
crate for shipment to England.  How the Nazi's learned of his
discovery--."

"Nazis!  I knew there'd be Nazis!"  I said. 

"I _hate_ those guys," muttered Doktor Fraud.

"--I never learned, but they hijacked the shipment and repacked it as
a crate of Chocolates, sending it to Germany on a well-guarded Italian
freighter.  Bad luck seemed to dog the crate from that point on.  The
freighter got separated from its entourage in a fog, having the bad
luck to be encountered and sunk by an American submarine with one
torpedo.  All hands but two were lost.  The tale of the USS Smart you
know.  What remained was to discover the nature of the discovery, and
what had become of it.  A shadowy Russian named Colonel Dove next came
into the picture--."

"Russians!  I knew there'd be Russians!" said Elf.

"I _hate_ those guys," muttered Chuck.

The Old Man glared us into silence before continuing.  "I was never
able to meet Colonel Dove, but we were aware of each other.  I heard
that he'd taken the contents of the crate for his own personal
collection.  Sometime, while in his possession, the items acquired a
thick coat of tempered chocolate armor.  Then, with the fall of the
Soviet Union, Colonel Dove consolidated his fortune and shipped it
all, bar none, to Morocco, where a friend of his had opened an
American Cafe.  He'd labelled the crate Maltese Chocolates to throw me
off the track, but I got word of his maneuver.  Too late to stop him,
I reached the airport in Casablanca in a thick fog in time to see the
plane leave.  I eavesdropped on a conversation out on the tarmac which
led me to believe that his friend Rick had a new partner, and that the
Russian himself had gone on to England."

"I was at the end of my rope.  I had no more finances for chasing
after the elusive Russian.  I was about to leave, when what should I
see?  The airlines had misplaced the Russian's luggage!--"

"Airlines!  I knew there'd be Airlines!" said Gunsel.

"I _hate_ those guys," muttered Hound.

The Old Man ignored them.  "There sat the crate, on the tarmac with
the rest of the suitcases.  I hastily exchanged the claim tag with one
from another suitcase nearby and made a note of it's new destination
and owner.  I booked myself on that flight and managed to arrange a
seat near the young couple.  Their name was Rogers.  Hollis and Janie
Rogers."

He let that sink in for a minute while he let another Rum sink in
himself.  I decided to stop counting.

"I pretended to sleep on the plane, while listening to their
conversation.  What I heard alarmed me.  They were professional
smugglers, and I had just handed them, I assumed, the biggest prize of
their lives.  Fortunately, the weren't aware that their luggage had
been switched, so if I could get to baggage claim first--."  He broke
off as the rest of us stared at both of them, him and his stomach.  "I
am not speaking of a footrace," he declared, indignantly.  "There are
ways to ensure a party has difficulty deplaning.  Unfortunately, I was
not successful.  Instead I was detained by airline security and when I
finally made my way to baggage claim, they, and the crate, were gone. 
They'd left me their suitcase.  I won't mention what it contained."

"Why?"  Gunsel was insatiable.

"Because it contained unmentionables!"

"I knew there'd be unmentionables"

"Oh shut up, dammit!"

"Call me Chuck."

"Wait, WAIT!" I shouted.  "You still haven't told us what's so
all-fired important about what's in that crate!  And you haven't tied
it to Freling-- Frelinghouse--"

"Frelinghausen Augustus Polychronius Minkminder," filled in Doktor
Fraud.  We all stared at him.  "Vell, zat iss his name!"

"Did I mention," added the Old Man, "that the archaeologist who start-
ed everything's name was Minkminder?"

"Freylinghausen?" said Chuck.

"Probably his father," said Doktor Fraud.  He pronounced 'his father'
"hiss fassa."

"Yes," said the Old Man.  "Dr. Augustus Polychronius Iglesiaus
Minkminder.  His friends called him Julio."

"Ok, ok," I said.  "So what's this got to do with my crate of Polish
Chocolates, and _WHAT'S IN THAT CRATE_?"

"Polish chocolates?" the Old Man looked at me blankly.

"Yes.  My crate has 'Polish Chocolates' stencelled in the side."

He looked around at each of us in turn, then leaned back and closed
his eyes.  "Oops.  My mistake.  Forget I said anything.

No luck with the google groups. Youtube co-operated.