Chapter 38 - The Incredible, Edible Egg

 Justice was swift for Tannehill's career as a policeman, but not necessarily impartial.  Scores of jealous peers, tired of years of watching Tannehill rise in the department without participating in requisite corruption that should be needed to secure status were willing to swear witness to his malevolent deeds the night of the shooting.

Each subsequent witness told a more fantastic story than the last.  By the end of the hearing, a bystander in the room could hardly be faulted if they believed a Tannehill, formed of smoke and fire, appeared on the slick city streets that night, stretching incendiary arms 10 feet wide in order to consume any small child in the vicinity while the police present at the scene shivered cowering from such evil and could do nothing to prevent such insidiousness from occurring.

The enormity of the exaggeration worked in Tannehill's favor.

Without it, the department would've had the opportunity to condemn him as a loose cannon - someone who'd become too entitled with his own sense of power and was callously indifferent to lives of those he swore to serve and protect.  This narrative would've opened him up to prosecution or worse. The department, in turn, would have the opportunity to show that they'd reformed their previously (perceived) corrupt ways and were in the process of weeding out the ne'er do wells among them. 

With it, the department would need to admit that they sanctioned allowing the devil incarnate walk through the city streets on their behalf with a group of agitated policeman following him around and speaking up only when the pinnacle of tragedy demanded it.

Instead, the department issued a statement indicating, that while a decorated war hero, a valuable member of the force, and a generally upstanding citizen, Tannehill had exercised poor judgment the night of the raid and, given the circumstances around the event and the growing chorus of voices within and outside the department expressing displeasure with his behavior, it was untenable to keep him employed as a sworn officer.

Surprisingly, this statement wasn't far from the truth.  Tannehill himself believed he exhibited poor judgment and didn't feel he was fit to perform his duties to maintain law and order within Capital City anymore.  He realized that, even in a city that wasn't rotten to the core, the fact that he was simply fired rather than persecuted was a gift he shouldn't overlook.  

Of course, what went unsaid were the institutional decisions and events that led to both the night in question and his firing that shouldn't have occurred in the first place.  He shouldn't have been taken off desk duty while still suffering from the trauma of the war. The department shouldn't have escalated the war on alcohol to the violent level it reached, and shouldn't have allowed the criminal enterprises to grow so large through its own need to bolster corruption and graft to line the pockets of its leaders.  Spinoza shouldn't have let his own singular focus and jealousy of his friend shade his reporting.  The Volstead Act probably shouldn't have been passed in the first place.  However, like most things in life, the most proximate and simple causes were taken to be the root ones, while the underlying infrastructure continues to elude all of those but the most diligent investigators.  And even the diligent typically remain silent, aware that, in whispering their secrets to others, they are simply Cassandra in the land of the deaf.

Posthumously, Charles Peabody's legend grew past what most 9-year olds or their parents could expect.  His penchant for simple jokes was elevated into a precocious rapier wit.  His mischievous streak became an unquenchable curiosity.  His boundless energy became a budding graceful athleticism.  Contrary to other cases in which the city often elevated the reputation of the most base individuals humanity could produce, Charles was an average, or even an above-average, if misdirected, child.  However, his status after death elevated him to the level of a saint for the anguished city.

In memoriam for such a prodigy with unlimited potential, the city named the new park located in the tony Backbay neighborhood "The Charles Peabody Memorial Park" and installed a bronze statue of his quasi-likeness at the entrance.  The park's intent was to remind all citizens of the sacrifices made in the name of justice and the tragic acts that accompanied those pursuits.  Sadly, the seagull citizens of Capital City didn't comprehend the metaphorical intent and took to shitting on the statue with thoughtless abandon, causing the statue to begin to discolor almost immediately.

As is typical with most sweeping change, the mechanism for movement is completely divorced from the underlying causes that brought the problems to bear.  Tannehill, Peabody and the other innocents gunned down, and even the griping police officers caught up in the corrupt workings of their department with little attention paid to their own self-awareness were all simply tangents to the main forces at play.  

Still, Spinoza's screed against Tannehill and the department began to have effects.  Citizens who previously assumed the department would protect its own at all costs began to believe that, if the department could cast out its most favored son, the city stood a chance at actual justice, however erroneous their assumptions may have been about the department's actual motives.  As a result, though, the department recognized the futility of a law that few wanted on the books and were too shamed by recent events to continue to buy into the naked corruption of associating (explicitly) with bootleggers.  Surprisingly, one of the most violent cities at the outset of Prohibition quickly became one of the most reasonable.  Rather than worry about staunching the flow of illegal liquor, Capital City focused on keeping the violence around turf wars in-check in order to avoid naming another public park after someone other than a local politician.

Spinoza's exultation was short-lived.  He realized that the city and the department enacted reforms for the wrong reasons, and that the benefits of change would be short-lived and narrowly scoped.  While Tannehill wasn't completely blameless, Spinoza realized much of the ire directed at his former friend was a result of events neither of them had much control over and tried to make amends in a style typical of the male of the species and the time - 

Both men met, staring the ground beneath them.

"Sorry to hear about your job," Spinoza mumbled as an opening gambit.

"Yeah, well," Tannehill trailed off in response, sighing.

"Look, I think there are some things I could've done differently," Spinoza countered.

"I think there are all things we could've done differently," Tannehill retorted with a philosophical flourish.

Still staring down at the ground, Spinoza awkwardly swung a rigid right paw to awkwardly connect with Tannehill's shoulder.  "Can I offer you food, by way of condolence?"

Tannehill cocked a subtle eyebrow, "what were you thinking?"

"Egg sandwich."

"Egg sandwich?  Just plain egg?"

"You'd be surprised how good they are."

Tannehill shrugged, "ok, where?"

"There's a new diner near your former precinct.  Named The Happy Hour.  It just opened.  I figure it's worth a shot."

Tannehill shrugged again in acceptance as the two men made their way toward the waterfront, suddenly overcome by hunger.

[Author's Note: Hope I don't get sued!  1204 words today for a total of 40996 in the novel.]

Chapter 37 - In Europe It's Known As Rocket

 "A complete manuscript?"  Tannehill slowly stirred a small bit of cream into his coffee.  A piping hot egg sandwich sat next to it.

Spinoza nodded, "the parchment didn't show any defects, so it had to be made for someone of note."

Tannehill whistled and paused, "Miniscule script or gothic?"

Vera's gaze bounced between the two men, "Am I the only one who hasn't taken a course on ancient dark ages manuscripts?"

"Technically," Spinoza was eyeing Tannehill's egg sandwich, "the dark ages occurred a few centuries prior to the creation of the illuminated manuscripts.  Don't worry, kid," he emphasized the last word, "you're just not familiar with the books because you weren't around when they were created, like we were."  He gestured with his pointer finger between himself and Tannehill, eyes temporarily distracted from the egg sandwich.  "I, for one, remember when Constantine sanctioned Christianity as a state religion and had a feeling that would cause trouble for my people."

Vera's mouth was drawn into a shallow pout, but she remained silent.

Tannehill continued, unphased by the exchange between his companions, "So, you think this is some sort of robbery ring against Jewish households?"

"Not exactly.  I don't think anyone's being robbed of goods, at least in the traditional sense."

"Not in the traditional sense?  What do you mean?"  With this last statement, Tannehill stuffed a quarter of the egg sandwich into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

"Given the volume of treasure and the fact that it appears to be predominately - if not exclusively - artifacts originating from Jewish households, I think these are valuables confiscated by the German government."

"The Nazis? I know they're not the friendliest of political parties, but governments enrich themselves through graft, corruption, and, in virtuous cases, taxation.  They don't participate in outright theft."

"You live in Capital City and you can say that with a straight face?"

"Fine," Tannehill amended his statement, "they don't do it at such an egregious rate and in plain view of everyone watching."

"The German government isn't a normal government and who says anyone's actually watching?"

"It's not out of the bounds of reality," Vera chimed in.

"That a modern Western government simply confiscates the property of its citizens without due process?"

"Ah," Vera countered, "but that's just it.  Jews are no longer citizens in Germany."

Tannehill recalled the article he'd read traveling downtown the night of Snell's death.  "Maybe so, but they were just stripped of their citizenship recently.  The accumulated wealth in that room alone - which I can only assume to be a minuscule fraction of what's probably still left back in Germany - indicates that this started long before the laws were enacted."

"This is a government that murdered it's most ardent supporters last summer without trial for no discernible reason." Spinoza's voice was calm but a thread of exasperation was beginning to creep into his tone.

"Ok," Tannehill responded in a placating tone, but one still bordered with skepticism, "if the German government has confiscated these items there's still a more pressing question surrounding them."

"Which is?"

"What are all these artifacts doing in a warehouse storage room 6000 miles from where they were taken?"

The three of them sat in silent contemplation of an answer.  Tannehill took the opportunity to indulge in another bite of his egg sandwich.

"This sandwich is really good," Tannehill's statement was barely comprehensible through a mouthful of bread, egg, and butter.

"We make good egg sandwiches here," Vera responded.

"I've had egg sandwiches here dozens of times and they've never tasted like this."  He picked up the remaining sandwich and inspected it for visual clues to its culinary excellence.

"Most of the sandwiches here are made from fried eggs, so they're either too messy or too over-cooked.  It's tough to do a fried egg right."

"Oh, yeah," Tannehill turned the sandwich to face him, "they're scrambled."

"CH is may know medieval manuscripts, but epicurean he ain't," Spinoza added in defense of his friend's rather obvious statement.

"Ok." Vera said hesitantly, expecting that the fine line between epicurean and not was more nuanced than being able to identify how eggs were prepared.

"Anything else make the sandwich special?"

"It's got more butter than most.  And it's dressed with arugula."

"With what?" Spinoza asked.  Tannehill's look of confusion echoed Spinoza's tone.

"It's like mini-lettuce," Vera deadpanned, a dawning awareness that neither of her companions would likely qualify as epicurean.

Tannehill swallowed his final bite. "How do you know so much about the sandwich?"

"I made it."

Both Spinoza and Tannehill nodded in dawning understanding and appreciation at Vera's declaration.

"What news, ho," Vera quipped, changing the subject, worried that the men would soon begin waxing poetic on the virtues of iceberg lettuce.

"Hmm?"

"You said you had news as well when you arrived at the diner?"

"Oh yeah," Tannehill swallowed a remnant bit of mini-lettuce, "Bertucci's dead."

"Who?"

"Sorry, I mean Bellucci."

"Who?"

"Beederman."

"Who?"

"The john.  Brunner's john."

"Wait, Brunner's a prostitute?  That's new information.  It adds a new complication."

"No, wait.  That's not what I... It's just, well, I don't know what to call him."

"Lover?" She offered.

"It didn't look like love to me.  And I don't think they're married."

"I don't think love and marriage are necessary and sufficient conditions for being together."

"No, that's not what I meant either, I just..."

"Who's Brenner?" Spinoza interjected aware he was two paces behind Vera, who was apparently two paces behind Tannehill in the unfolding of the tale.

"Brunner." Tannehill exhaled.  "Brunner is the woman I caught having sex with Bellucci, Beederman - whatever! - the night Snell was murdered.  She and her goon of a partner," he slowed his speech deliberately unaware if he was annoyed with himself for not communicating clearly before or with his audience for asking too many questions, "Otto.  His name is Otto.  She and her goon of a partner had some connection with Snell and this treasure stash.  Otto admitted to roughing Snell up to find out the stash's location, but swears he didn't kill him."

"And now Otto Beederman is dead?" Spinoza murmured, eager to keep up.

Tannehill exhaled again, "No.  Otto and Beederman are two different people.  Beederman (or Bellucci) is dead.  Apparently strangled himself in his cell even though the laws of physics seem to prove otherwise.  Otto's still lurking around the city.  Probably looking to brain someone else for a good time."

"Looks like any working theory we've got needs a little more work first," Vera picked up Tannehill's empty plate and headed toward the kitchen. She looked over her shoulder and pointed a backward-facing index finger toward Spinoza, "you want an egg sandwich?"

Spinoza nodded vigorously.

"Good.  I'll add extra arugula.  I'll also put on a fresh pot of coffee, because it looks like we may be here a while."

[Author's Note: Today's edition is 1137 words for a running total of 39792.  It was relatively easy to confuse Beederman/Bellucci/Bertucci's name, since I constantly have to go back to previous chapters in order to remember his name].

Chapter 36 - Alliteration Sells

 CARELESS COP CAVALIERLY GUNS DOWN CURIOUS KID

DATELINE - CAPITAL CITY

In what's become an all too common occurrence within our city environs lately, the Capital City Police Department engaged in a pitched gun battle with suspected bootleggers last night, throwing caution to the wind and leading to the tragic death of 9-year-old Charles "Chuckie" Peabody.

During what was described as a "routine" raid by Superintendent William Buttons, the lead detective on the case, Detective Charles Tannehill, fired indiscriminately at what fellow officers on the raid assumed was an alleycat prior to the commencement of the raid.

"He gave no warning.  He just drew his weapon and fired into the alley with no apparent cause for provocation.  We all could have been killed," remarked Patrolman Liam "Whisky" O'Shaugnessy of the night's events.

"What made it worse is that he tipped off the bootleggers with his little 'William Tell' stunt," Patrolman John Sutton added.  "Some little kid's dead in the gutter, and the city has nothing to show for it. Those punks got away scot-free."

Unbeknownst to Sutton at the time of publication, the two operators of the establishment targeted for the raid were found dead a few blocks away.  Each had a single gunshot wound to the head.  Though identification has not been confirmed, neither operator is known to be one of the major crime figures inhabiting the city.  Though this is pure speculation, there are unconfirmed reports that the executions were carried out by the police department itself in a misguided attempt to frame the suspects for the child's murder and exact a "street justice" for revenge.

"Nah, it was definitely Tannehill who shot [him]," O'Shaugnessy confirmed.  "Laughed about it and said 'good' when told the kid was dead, too," O'Shaugnessy added.  "Guess these Golden Boy types think they can get away with anything if they have the backing of the [police] brass."

When questioned about his own reputation as a department enforcer and his current pending hearing on extortion charges, O'Shaugnessy demurred.  "There are a few dark corners a policeman needs to inhabit in order to keep the city safe," O'Shaughnessy said.  "Regarding the trumped-up extortion charge, my lawyer has advised me to keep quiet in case the penny-ante liar who brought the complaint finds another reason to use another innocent remark I've made out of context."

When reminded that his accuser currently has his jaw wired shut, O'Shaugnessy waived the claim away and continued.  "It takes a real low-life to shoot a kid in cold blood and brag about it afterward.  I guess the College Boy didn't get enough target practice growing up in Chicago and decided to live a Wild West fantasy once he moved out here."

Detective Tannehill is a native of Chicago, IL who joined the Capital City Police Department in 1913.  His ascendancy through the ranks to date has been rapid.  As some members of the force have speculated, this may have been due to a desire to burnish the department's image with a supposedly "honest" man, rather than based on merit.  Most notably he served as department spokesman for major crimes.  As is typical with many men his age, he served in the war.  Though the department notes that he served "with honorable distinction," the veracity of that claim has been called into question by several sources.

Recently, as a high-profile "war hero", Tannehill has taken over the raids in the enforcement of the Volstead Act with mixed results.  This latest raid is another black eye against the department's current policies of enabling politically connected personnel to lead their tactical operations without appropriate training. 

Charles Peabody could often be seen parading through the neighborhood, wearing a bedsheet as a cape, and chatting up the local policemen on the beat.  No question was too insignificant to ask in regard to their procedural duties and any chance he had to handle a piece of police memorabilia - a tin badge, the patrolman's cap, his manacles - resulted in a squeal of delight.  "If there weren't an age barrier for entry into the department, Chuckie probably would've made sergeant by this time," his father, Richard, reminisced, a tinge of sadness in his voice.

"It breaks my heart to think that the very dream he was chasing was what killed him.  His ma and I know that the city is a dangerous place, but we always expected he'd be protected if he was in the presence of the 'Boys in Blue' as he and I and liked to call the force.  I guess we were wrong."

"It's a tragedy, certainly," Buttons maintained when being questioned on the next steps in the investigation.  "Unfortunately, this city has faced its share of hard times and is likely to face many more before our war against the criminal under element that's done nothing but laugh in the face of law and order is won.  Though Detective Tannehill acted with poor judgment, I feel that the other patrolmen on the scene may have misinterpreted the lens through which they perceived his actions."

"The department is competitive and Detective Tannehill is highly decorated.  It's not out of the question to assume that jealousy plays a subconscious part when giving their statements.  I have zero doubt at all that any officer on the Capital City police force behaves with anything but the pinnacle of professionalism that's expected of them."

"Rest assured that the department will spare no expense in determining the details behind this tragedy, nor in examining the vigilante justice that ensnared the two assailants whose very existence set this horrible night in motion.  Detective Tannehill will have a full and fair hearing in front of his superiors.  As always the Capital City Police Department is here to protect and serve its fine denizens and ensure that impartial, but swift, justice is served towards those who decide to run afoul of its laws and its law enforcers."

At the time of this posting, no hearing for Detective Tannehill has been scheduled.  Unknown suspects in connection to the deaths of the unnamed assailants remain at large.  Charles Peabody will be laid to rest at Our Lady of Eternal Mercy cemetery on Thursday.

- Phil Spinoza

Lead Crime Reporter

Capital City Daily Courier

[Author's Note: Sibilance sells superbly, but the headline didn't lend itself to multiple S's.  This chapter comes in at 1036 words.  The running total is 38655.]

Chapter 35 - Do You Think The Chandelier is AC or DC?

 Vera peered into the room at vague, static shapes filling the square space.  The room looked to be the same size as the other storage areas, but, even in the dim light, it was apparent that it had been cared for, unlike the rat hotel or the haphazard haberdashery.  

She peered further into the darkness before a cascade of light appeared above her.  A small crystal chandler illuminated the space, revealing a cache of treasure that would impress even Aladdin or Long John Silver.  Spinoza's hand crept around the wall to her left, affixed to a light switch.

Small shelves interspersed at regular intervals throughout the room held sundry glittering objects mingled with large cardboard boxes.  Even larger cardboard boxes stood as intermediaries between the shelves, containing even greater mysteries.

Spinoza whistled, "What a haul, huh? That chandelier isn't some cheap knock off.  It looks like it's something from pre-Edisonian times that's been wired for electricity.  Pretty deft touch by Snell to use it as the light fixture in here.  Gives the place some atmosphere."

On the shelves against the left wall, there was a greater inventory of crystal goblets - some lined in gold - alongside a stack of silver platters.  In the far corner, a thick stack of rolled carpeting occupied the niche between the shelves on the left and the shelves pressed against the back wall.

Spinoza walked over to the corner with Vera in pursuit.  He grabbed the first carpet, unrolled it slightly, and rubbed the material between his thumb and forefinger.  "Silk.  These are real Turkish rugs."

Vera's eyes were wide, less in the recognition of the value of the items in the room than with Spinoza's ability to quickly estimate their value and sourcing.  "How do you know all of this?"

"I spent a few years in Europe after the war and took the opportunity to get more acquainted with the history of the continent."

They moved to the next corner of the storage area and observed a stack of paintings, some still housed in ornate frames, some rolled casually up in piled groupings, nestled between another set of shelves.

"What about these paintings?  Do you know anything about them?"

"Not too much.  Given the nature of their subject matter, their verisimilitude, and the attention to detail," he pointed to a dark shadow on one painting illuminated by the overhead chandelier, "I'd say they're likely paintings from Dutch masters.  See how even in the darkest spots on the painting, you can still make out a clear delineation of shapes? That was typical of Dutch renaissance style."

Vera peered closer, paused, moved her head for further adjustment, and then nodded in appreciation.

Finally, they turned toward the wall on the storage room's right.  There, on every shelf, were menorahs piled on top of one another.  Some were simple silver structures.  Others were embossed with ornate designs.  Still others were solid gold, while a select group was decorated with jewels.  

Spinoza grunted in growing comprehension of the room's purpose.  He pulled a box from the shelf housing the menorahs and opened it, unsurprised by its contents.  He lifted a garment from the box and, as with the carpet, rubbed the material between his thumb and forefinger.

"What is it?"

"It's called a tallit.  It's a Jewish prayer shawl.  This one's silk.  I expect the others folded up in these boxes are likely silk as well.  Or wool. Something higher end and well-made at any rate."  He paused and folded the shawl carefully before placing it back in the box.  "Let's check a few more boxes."

They moved back to the center wall and pulled one of the lower boxes from the shelf.  The weight of the box caused it to land with a muted thud on the floor.  Spinoza lifted one of the flaps back and stuck a hand inside.  A brief look of perplexity on his face caused temporary panic in Vera, who was still suspecting a literal rat at every turn.  Her fear abated as he calmly lifted the other flap, revealing the box's contents.

"Books?"

"I don't think they're just any books."  He lifted the top volume from its resting place and the two of them examined it.  It was bound in embossed leather with a golden clasp holding its pages secure.  Spinoza popped the clasp and the book sprung open slightly, but perceptibly with a small sigh and a creak.  He carefully turned page after page.

"Can you read Latin?" Vera asked, expecting after the other talents he'd revealed in the last couple of minutes that answer would be a resounding 'yes.'

"Nothing past the basic roots.  Can you?"

She shook her head but continued to stare, transfixed by the colors and gold leafing reflecting light from every page.  "It's beautiful."

They perused more pages, the light seemingly emanating from the manuscript rather than from the chandelier above them.  The images composed of vibrant primary colors.  "Do you think it was illustrated by monks?"

He shrugged, "most likely.  Monks were typically the literate ones for the time period.  But that's not what's most interesting about this edition."

She glanced at him, perplexed.

"All of the stories - they're Old Testament.  Not a picture of Jesus to be had in the book."

"Is that unusual?  Maybe it was a prelude to another edition containing scenes from the New Testament."

Spinoza shook his head slowly.  "During a time when an entire continent was adamant against professing - and waging war on behalf of - its faith?  Doubtful."  He paused in thought.  "There are instances of Jewish manuscripts that were often produced by Christian miniaturists.  Europe wasn't openly hostile to Judaism for every moment of the last millennium.  Just most of them."

Vera stared at Spinoza in astonishment.  "How..."

"This is actually pretty standard art history stuff, and I took a few classes in college.  I audited a few more when I was in Europe."

"So, why do you think the manuscript landed here?"

"Well, I've got a theory," he pointed to another shelf of boxed merchandise, "but let's open a few more just to be sure."

Vera scrambled to the next available box and eagerly pried it open, pulling out a thick sheaf of identical documents labeled in what looked like gothic font with government seals affixed to them.  

"German treasury bonds," Spinoza responded before Vera could formulate the question.  "Keep digging."

She did as asked and immediately pulled out another batch of documents nearly identical to one another, but this time with familiar lettering and the faces of Jackson, Grant, and Franklin rubber-banded together.  She looked straight at Spinoza.  "What's your theory?  Some sort of local burglary ring?"

"No," Spinoza shook his head mournfully.  "All of these artifacts are Jewish or likely to show up in wealthy European residences.  I think this is plunder from looted Jewish households in Germany.  Our friends are probably here to sell it to interested bidders."

[Author's Note: Today's edition is 1153 words for a running total of 37619.  I highly recommend Khan Academy's course on art history.  It helps provide details for describing luxurious scenes.]

Chapter 34 - Are You Now Or Have You Ever Been a Prostitute?

"Have you ever been a waitress before?"

"No."

"Have you ever been a maid?"

"No."

"Have you ever been a homemaker?"

"Do I look old enough to have a husband and kids?"

Happy shrugged as though the question were perfectly reasonable and continued the interview.  "So, why should I hire you over all of the other girls that have wandered in here?"  

Vera glanced at the woman who introduced herself as Flo earlier and thought that if Flo was a "girl," the best she could hope for was the status of newborn babe if not simply a fetus.  She kept her tone steady and unperturbed.  "I can play an instrument."

"Is that code for something?  I'm not into prostitution here." 

"Where are you into prostitution?"

After a brief look of confusion and then shock, the man attempted a smile, but with jowls that permanently pulled his face down, the best he could muster was a friendly sneer.  The name Happy was obviously an ironic moniker.  

"Are you a prostitute?" he blurted out, casting aside all aspersions of subtlety. This last line wasn't fashioned as a proposition but as a matter-of-fact statement to emphasize that the Happy Hour diner wasn't a place that condoned prostitution as a side business.

"No.  I play the trumpet."  Catching herself to put aside any mistaken double entendres, she added, "the actual trumpet."

"And why would that make you a good waitress?"

"At the very least, I could entertain the clientele."

Happy's jowls sagged a bit more in reluctance. "Are you sure..."

"Yup.  Still sure I'm not a prostitute.  You don't interact with many women do you?" She caught sight of Flo wandering distractedly in the distance.

"I'm still not certain that I should take a chance on someone with no experience."

"Well, combining the time I spent waiting for you to sit for this interview and the time that we've actually been conducting this interview, I've seen one customer enter in the past 30 minutes.  And he's obviously a regular."

"How do you know he's a regular?" Happy scowled skeptically.

"He's been sitting at the counter for 10 minutes, reading the paper, with no expectation of being served anytime soon."

"Well, it's past lunch rush," Happy blustered indignantly.

"It's 1 PM now.  Does everyone in this diner eat on East Coast time or am I missing what the concept of the word 'rush' means in this context?"

Happy, insulted by Vera's perception that his business plan hadn't yet met his expectations, continued.  "Do you have any other skills?"

"I'm good at math."

"Why would I need a waitress who's good at math?"

"So she doesn't short change you or the customers, for starters."

Happy's jowls sagged slightly less. "What else can you do?"

"I'm good at managing my time."

"Why does that matter?"

Vera sighed.  "It means I'm reliable when showing up for a shift.  It means that I can be flexible in scheduling when called upon.  It means that I'm taking this opportunity to better myself by attending college while also working what I expect will be a full-time job."

"Oh," Happy responded in a tone that some straddled the line between cheerful and morose.  "What will you be studying?"

"I haven't decided yet."

"I'm not sure I want a girl who isn't decisive."

"I'm going into engineering," she fired back.

Happy raised an eyebrow at this remark.

"What?  Now I'm sure I'm being too impulsive in deciding so quickly, right?"

Happy's jowls sagged again.

"Look.  There's really not a lot that you have to lose in giving me an opportunity.  You're not quite at the pinnacle of your fiduciary prowess yet, so it's not like I'm going to lose you any business if I'm initially slow on the uptake."  She glanced at Flo, who'd discovered lint somewhere in her hair and was now inspecting it thoroughly. "And I don't think the barrier to becoming a waitress here is particularly high."

Happy raised a finger, ready to issue an objection, but Vera cut him off.  "I'm happy assisting with management duties as well.  I can help you schedule the staff."  She looked toward Flo again who had the particular treasure from her coiffure pinned against the counter being slowly pulled apart.  "Hell, I can even help with the books and cook if needed."

"It's unbecoming of a lady to use that type of language."

"I'm not a lady.  I'm a prostitute."

"A-ha!" Happy's face lit up in the act of discovery as he prepared to launch into a speech he'd apparently been preparing the entire interview about the dangers of loose morales.

Vera sunk her face into her hands before meeting his gaze again evenly.  "I'm kidding."  The look of disappointment on Happy's face almost made her regret that she didn't let him give his speech before letting him off the hook.

"So, extra-curricular nightlife excursions aside, do I get the job?"

Happy munched on his lower lip, eyes cast downward. 

Vera glanced around at the diner.  Flo sat on a stool at the counter, staring at the wall.  The lone customer had fallen asleep amid his crumpled newspaper.  Somewhere in the distance, she thought she heard a lone crow caw.  "Well?"

"Ok," his tone had the timbre of a defeated parent giving into their child's whim for the latest toy spotted in a department store.  "But you need to be able to pull your weight."

Vera looked over at Flo, who had now also fallen asleep.  "Great!  I can help with recipes."

"Yeah?" his eyes shot suddenly upward.  "Do you know a good meatloaf recipe?  Mine has too much flour in it."

"I'm sure we can change it up a bit.  Maybe replace it with something exotic.  Like breadcrumbs.  Speaking of exotic, maybe we can add the occasional Continental dish for spice, like ratatouille or tuna niçoise.  We're in a big city.  People tend to be more cosmopolitan."  The customer at the counter let out a bellowing snore.

"Are you French?"

"No, I'm not French.  I grew up on a farm with access to a library nearby.  They had a few recipe books for French foods and I had access to produce, so I gave it a whirl."

"Do you have a recipe for spaghetti and meatballs?"

Vera put a finger to her lips in mock pensiveness.  "I'm sure I can dream something up."

"Good.  I don't want to start with anything too exotic.  And we have a pretty large Italian population in the city now, so I want them to feel at home."

Vera didn't have the heart to tell him that spaghetti and meatballs was invented in America.  Though, she suspected many of the "Italians" Happy was referring to were likely born here, so they wouldn't quibble too much at the distinction, as long as the food was decent.

Instead, she added, "Ok.  Also, I've got a great recipe for the best egg sandwich you've ever tasted."

[Author's Note:  If I do wind up short of my 50K word goal, I think my best option is to turn Vera loose to chew the scenery.  I hadn't intended to flush out her backstory more than the original piece, but she's not someone who shies away from further character exposition.  Today: 1156 words.  Total: 36466]

Chapter 33 - Click

Click. The lock yielded and Vera stood up, smoothing her skirt before peering inside.

[Author's Note: There.  I've opened the door in 14 words.  The book inches along at 35310.]

Chapter 32 - I Dabble

Vera and Spinoza bounded toward Loving's with a vibrancy not present in the first voyage.  Vera was energized with a new, promising sense of adventure while Spinoza was unencumbered by the same troubles - solving his partner's murder - that weighed down Tannehill in his trek to the bakery.

Shortly after exiting the diner, Spinoza questioned Vera with a sharp note of concern in his voice. "You're not worried about walking out on your employer during your shift?  Now's not exactly the best time to bet on continued employment."

"No, I'm not worried."  She kept pace three feet in front of him without looking back to explain further.

"Care to elaborate?"

She stopped and squared to face him, "the blackmail scheme I've enmeshed them in runs so deep that if you pulled any thread of it, the entire city would fall apart."

"Doubtful.  Especially not this city."

"Right, I forgot," she started walking again,  "You're the city's premier crime reporter.  Well, the real answer is more mundane.  In addition to simply serving customers, many of whom are creepy, middle-aged men who come in simply to ogle me, present company excluded..."

Spinoza harumphed something along the lines of "not being middle-aged" before Vera continued.

"...I also handle the books, manage the schedules, and provide recipes," and now she took her own turn to mutter under her breath "even though they butcher them."  She returned to normal volume, "I also provide them with the location of the latest hotspots for jazz when they want to try something new.  And, to be clear, I wouldn't walk out on Happy if I were worried he'd get buried during a rush.  He's good people."

"Wait, the owner's name actually is Happy? So it's his Hour?"

"Well, Stanislaw, but no one ever calls him that, just like no one apparently refers to your or your gumshoe friend by their proper, Christian names."

"I'm Jewish. You do accounting?"

"I dabble."

On the jaunt over, they continued to chat and found commonality in the novels they read in recent years and a shared appreciation of jazz.  They reached the door of Loving's in a vanishingly short time.  

"What do you think their specialty was, savory or sweet goods?" Spinoza asked distractedly.

"More like savory or sweet rodent," Vera crinkled her nose, perceiving movement deep in the bakery's kitchen.  

"Well, let's take a look around inside, shall we?"  Spinoza inched nearer toward the guillotine ledge.

"No thanks, I've already been on the tour once, I'll wait until your sojourn is over." There was no more movement in the kitchen - if there ever was - but she had no desire to buy into the betrayal of her lying eyes.

"Ok, I'll be back momentarily," he stepped on the ledge and was quickly swallowed in the semi-darkness of the store.  Vera watched eagerly as he waded through the shambles and exhaled a disinterested "huh" here and a half-hearted "hmm," there.  She lost sight of him momentarily as disappeared into the kitchen, listening intently for a blood-curdling scream or shout of pained surprise upon discovering a rat the size of a toy poodle.  No scream or shout issued forth.

"Confirmed.  There's nothing of value inside the joint," Spinoza exclaimed clambering back over the guillotine ledge into daylight.

"I think a cursory inspection of the outside would have clued anyone into that conclusion," Vera quipped.  "So, what now?"

"We're at the waterfront.  This is, quite literally, where everything entering the West Coast of the United States gets its ingress papers.   I think we have a few more leads we can chase down."

They walked around the side of the building to the splintered door in the back and surveyed the landscape from a vantage point near the heat-shrunk stagnant pool of water that so prominently warned off the adventurers the day before.

In front of them stood an imposing two-story gallery of wrought iron fencing and dark gray doors upon light gray cinder block, serving as a depressing motel structure for forgotten items.  Even the bright day permitted brief passage to a cloud scored black on its undercarriage as a foreshadowing acknowledgment of their discovery.  The gentle lapping of the ocean waves just behind the structure echoed quietly throughout the gallery, but the building's bleak design offered no evidence that just beyond it lay thousands of miles of sunlit expanse.

"Up or down?" Spinoza grunted matter-of-factly pointing to the gallery's bi-levels.

Vera glanced to her left at the winding spiral staircase beginning to rust in its near-marine environs.  Though the structure looked solid enough, a few tell-tale brown spots along the column urged her to take the safer bet.  "Down."

They wandered to the left, near the stairwell and climbed the three feet to platform, examining the first door the encountered.  Spinoza wiped some of the grime from the facade and examined the stenciling.  Though the salt air had taken its toll, they could clearly make out the back half of a crescent illuminating the lettering of niture.  

"Unless Loving's had a side business, we probably want to keep moving on." Spinoza wiped the grime on a nearby column and gestured for Vera to continue walking.  

They passed the next four doors with no lettering, aware that they may be embarking on a fool's errand of looking for the proverbial needle.  The fifth door had no lock, so they pressed their luck.  Vera opened the door and spotted two rats in an otherwise empty 10x12 space.  The rats squeaked in warning that they had sublet this particular unit first and Vera screamed in agreement, slammed the door with near-supernatural strength and kicked it twice as hard for emphasis.

"That could've been Loving's. It had the same demographic make-up I saw during my assessment of the bakery," Spinoza informed his wild-eyed, red-faced companion with a bemused twinkle in his eyes.  He could only make out her "...off" as she turned and began examining the other doors.  

They turned the corner of the gallery and now faced a row of doors opposite the back entrance of Loving's but separated by an imposing distance of about 30 yards.

They followed along this row of doors until finding another one with a hollowed-out lock.  Vera sighed, gulped, and tried the doorknob.  The door swung inward with little fanfare illuminating row upon row of poorly made fedoras stacked from floor to ceiling.

One row contained solid-colored water-stained hats for the large gentleman.  Others contained garish technicolor combinations for fashion trends yet to be.  Back rows leaned heavily on other back rows ashamed of the sartorial sins they represented en masse.  

"Well, let's see," Spinoza chuckled, "We've got rats and hats.  If the next unlocked door contains cats, then our first unlocked door problem will be solved."

"If you're going to make a joke, at least give it some effort," she exhaled.

"Could be bats," he continued ignoring her advice.

"Anyway, not Loving's" she responded, ignoring him in turn and continuing down the center walkway.

A few doors further, directly across from the battered back door of the bakery, they spotted "Loving's Bakery" in the typical semi-circle underlined with "Storage" to ensure that any confused would-be customers could discern the difference between the bakery behind them and the storage unit in front of them.  

Vera held out her hand.  "Key."

"I don't have it."  Vera pursed her lips and frowned at the man.  "What?  I was supposed to meet Tannehill at the diner.  He's got the key," he sniffed indignantly.

Vera muttered something else under her breath approximating "...a fine pair."  Slowly she reached into her hair and produced two bobby pins, letting her hair fall forward briefly and annoyingly in front of her eyes before pushing it back behind her ears.  She inched her skirt up above the knee to keep it from getting soiled and knelt down in front of the door.  She carefully straightened the pins and inserted them into the lock, beginning to work the tumblers.

"Where'd you learn to do that?!"  Spinoza couldn't tell if he was impressed, horrified, jealous or some combination of the three.

"Well, when the lord of the manor's away, one needs to be able to manipulate one's chastity belt for one's own needs and desires."

Vera could feel Spinoza's shocked response to her comment and her newly unearthed talent roll off her shoulders, but ignored him and continued her lock picking in earnest.

[Author's Note: At some point that door's going to open, but not in today's 1401 word edition.  After 32 chapters we're now at 35296 words.  I feel pretty confident I can hit 40000 words, but 50?  We'll see...Then again I didn't know I'd be able to get this far.  If I fall short, I've always got a few Quixotic tricks up my sleeve.]