The Mask

So, this isn't another chapter in my novel (though I've started the next one for those who are waiting and still anticipate a release date before the end of the month), but an attempt to just write more in general.  I don't know that I'm going to develop any theme for this blog yet - outside of the novel - but what are most blogs if not random thoughts generated by one individual to be read by three other people before the whole concept is abandoned?

Today I'm asking why people refuse to wear a mask during the most pervasive pandemic since the Spanish Flu.  I know the ostensible reason: it's a violation of individual rights that Americans hold so dear.  The fear is that if we give into this one thing for the government, the slope will become ever more slippery.  

The problem with that argument is that we've already yielded our specific individual rights for a collective society that functions relatively well.  You can't simply speed through select traffic lights of your choice all the while screaming "Don't tread on me!" out the stuck window of your 4Runner.  Only the most hardcore libertarian would make that argument (and I've heard them do so). 

That's also a massive problem I have with extremist philosophies (of which libertarianism is one, as is, even though I lean relatively far left, communism).  While it's good to identify how things may devolve if we don't keep our eye on the ball, it's a big stretch to assume that as soon as you're required to put on a mask, we'll time warp back to 1984.

So, why do people fight it?  Fear.  Not of their rights but of an invisible disease over which we have no control.  If it's labeled a hoax or overblown or a conspiracy, people have a greater sense of control - something with intelligence is pulling the strings, so it can be solved and defeated.  It allows people to ignore the truth of what's happening in the world right now and taps them into the sense that they - and they alone - "really know what's going on, not like the other sheeple."

The other tenuous argument I hear about this is that if people choose not to wear a mask, they should stay home, because they have the right to do so without infringing on the liberties of others. I'd flip the argument though.  A mask protects other people, not you, so you're being a selfish prick not paying attention to the well-being of others in your freedom-loving society if you don't wear a mask, so shouldn't you have the right to stay home if you don't want to wear a mask.

The bitter irony here is that, according to well-established science, if we'd all mildly restricted our liberty for about 8 weeks, this wouldn't be a debate now.  We may still need to wear masks, but we also still need to wear pants, so I'm not really sure what the logical contention is.  It's a small price to pay to literally save the world (and I don't even mean the death toll, I mean the societal costs that add up during times of massive uncertainty and leads to small fractures in our normal routines).  If you're one of the idiots that questions the "well-established science" and is about to deep state me with some mindblowing argument from a sibling blog as prestigious as this one, well, then I ask - at what point will you ever change your mind?  Your news sources likely just reinforce your own thinking, which isn't a healthy way to live.  Fox News tells you all the Cheetoh diet is healthy?  You may like hearing it, but it'll kill you way quicker than that vaccine you refuse to get.  A little skepticism and a healthy counter-argument are good for the soul and the intellect.

I was skeptical at first, too.  It's no secret the press likes to make mountains out of molehills and this looked like other localized diseases where we've been warned to batten down the hatches but that turned out to be all for naught.  But at some point the evidence became obvious.  And, at some point, you have to believe someone.  Or you don't.  But if you don't, you'll just wind up being some rambling redneck, getting drunk in your garage lamenting the good ol' days when you only declared bankruptcy every 14 years instead of every 7.

So, think of what would've happened if we all just would've followed medically approved advice for a brief period of time rather than acting like spoiled children with loaded assault rifles - we would've had a recovery like Europe - scary and isolating for 6-8 weeks but then a summer where we could feel more confident about the economy and with some further minimal (and, yes, I'll admit) state-sanctioned prophylactics we'd be able to live relatively normal lives until a vaccine's available.  

Instead, we still insist on our emphatic right to die (or, realistically, let someone else die without realizing that "someone" could be ourselves, but we're smarter and more invincible than that, right, Nabokov?) and inflict more self-harm on our nation than a horny teenager with a razor blade stuffed in his right hand.  

Chapter 28 - A Quiet Night

Politicians took notice of Spinoza's campaign against corruption. Tired of looking like fools -they took notice that they'd been caught in their half-hearted attempts to hide the most brazen corruption, but failed to notice they'd also been skewered because they were too incompetent to manage the city properly - they implemented institutional changes to burnish their image.

Their most prominent change was the replacement of the existing police commissioner.  

The city's keepers were keenly aware that the cost in violence for their ignorance of prohibition laws and norms was becoming tiresome to the electorate.  From their gilded offices, they unceremoniously dumped the current commissioner (and unceremoniously thanked him for his service by installing him as the new commissioner of the streets and sanitation department, where he could manage his organized crime ties with less visibility and new-found freedom).  In his stead, they installed "The Mad Hungarian."

"The Mad Hungarian" was neither mad nor Hungarian.  He was born William T. Buttons of Edinburgh and affected a mildly German accent while fighting in World War I for reasons known only to The Mad Hungarian.  The German accent layered on top of his Scottish burr provided those not paying enough attention reasonable cause to create a backstory to fit the role they wanted him to play.

While not mad, his methods were ruthless and exaggerated. He took the city's "War on Prohibition" slogan to heart and drastically changed the rules of engagement between cops and bootleggers.

Previously, the two would wink and nod cheerfully at each other while exchanging bulky envelopes or glasses of bathtub gin.

Under the Mad Hungarian's direction, officers were expected to find any charge, however small, to arrest a scofflaw. If the suspect resisted, officers were encouraged to escalate their use of force to exceed the assailant's level of resistance.

Given the city's general historic enthusiasm for embracing modern (read knee-jerk changes following the political winds) tactics, it wasn't long before interactions between police and hoodlums varied somewhere between mild armed skirmishes at best and block to block battles lasting into the wee hours of the morning at worst.

Inevitably, there was the occasional collateral damage - a luckless dog walker here, a misplaced tourist there. Citizens understood that sacrifices were part of a greater cause and first took the effort in stride.

However, when the casualty numbers for non-combatants began to exceed those of combatants, public opinion changed.

City managers and police brass felt they were over a barrel. They only believed they had two options - allow the criminals to run awash over the city and attempt to ameliorate the rampant crime by setting up a stable system of graft to keep the violent crime hidden, but risk excoriation by the press. Or keep up a relentless paramilitary campaign that harmed the populace disproportionately but could be touted as a devoted law and order decision. And be excoriated by the press. 

It never occurred to them that they could champion legal reform and lead - with the knowledge that leadership meant potential career suicide for a greater good - thus finding a saner, more humane path that would leave the city in much better shape. They instead continued to follow the law and order path.

It was under these conditions that Tannehill was redeployed from desk duty to lead raids against bootleggers. The department heads felt safe in their self-assurance that having one of their heroes lead efforts against prohibition bootleggers would strike the balance between the public's need for peace and safety, the public's demand for liquor, and the equally important requirement to ensure things ran as before so they, and their political bosses, could continue to profit appropriately from their devotion to public service. 

Tannehill's raids were largely devoid of bloody confrontation.  Rather than utilize a massive show of force parading through streets with an ominous "thump-thump-thump" of municipality-issued boots that struck a note of dread in the hearts of both criminals as well as civilians (and also giving their adversaries advance warning and a chance to prepare for battle) he chose smaller, more nimble squads.  

He often used a small squad of 5-10 uniformed officers to lead the raid with another 5-10 plainclothes officers to scout the raids and confuse the targets.  Mobsters often complained that the plainclothed officers were "un-sportsmanlike" because they didn't provide highly visible targets during battle and could be mistaken for their comrades in the booze trade, thus making shootouts much less straightforward.

In Tannehill's raids, an exchange of gunfire wasn't a forgone conclusion, but there were still occasions where someone from either side may wind up in the hospital. Or the morgue. So, Tannehill always approached each raid with an abundance of caution and a sense of apprehension.

This particular night's raid was no different. The streets just outside of the tony back bay neighborhood were slick with recent heavy rain, dampening low-level background noise and accentuating the benign punctuations of sharp, random outbursts common to any city. The rain kept people indoors and cooled the air, which reduced the officers' baseline stress levels. 

The operation they were raiding was as straightforward as anyone they'd had in weeks - a cousin of a cousin of someone connected was permitted to make a bourbon barrel or two per week for easy profit with low risk - don't get busted, no problem. Get busted, no problem, it's small potatoes.

From the department's standpoint, the payoff was likely good too - low production meant low security and low likelihood of bloodshed. A successful raid was always a great public relations win, no matter how small. It could be spun as nipping a burgeoning operation in the bud before it grew into something more difficult to exterminate. The bonus of no violence also highlighted the success of modern police methods and meticulous preparation. 

The men made their way among the muted, refreshed tones of the city - only the crunch of their soles on the pavement seemed to offer any cadence to the otherwise silent night.  They moved from alley to alley, efficiently securing the area and ensuring no bootleggers were waiting in ambush to confound them from their night's duty.

They approached the final alley before the makeshift still that was to be the target of their raid.  Alone at the front of the alley stood a single, brand new trashcan - seemingly emanating light through the cloud-covered night. Without warning, the lid clattered cacophonously to the ground.  The can followed immediately thereafter, briefly filling the air with an incredible and confusing din.

Tannehill, pistol already primed for the raid, turned in the direction of the garbage can and fired down the alley.  Twice.

[Author's Note:  So I didn't manage to get a second installment out before the end of May, but with June, I bring an additional 1102 words and a new milestone - 30516 words total.]

Chapter 27 - Reach Out and Touch Someone

"Did you try the storage locker?" Spinoza's voice sounded tinny from the other end of the line.

"There was no storage locker attached to the building."

"But you were by the loading docks? The place where literally tons of goods are loaded, unloaded, and..." Pause. "... stored every day?" Spinoza had framed his response as a question, though it was rhetorical to its very heart.

"Yes, but that doesn't mean every rented business on the waterfront receives free storage." Tannehill was beginning to regret recounting the day's events to his friend.

"No, you're right, but a few extra minutes of detective work is probably worth the effort, isn't it?"

"Yes." Tannehill was growing peevish at the journalist's less-than-subtle recommendations about his chosen profession.  The interaction began to dredge up painful experiences the two of them faced in the still not-too-distant past.

Spinoza may have sensed this as well by the curtness of Tannehill's reply.  "Look," his tone was more reconciled now, "my workload isn't as cumbersome as I originally expected it to be yesterday. I can meet you later this afternoon. We'll go back to the bakery and see if..." - he paused looking for a less accusatory phrase than "there's something you missed" - "... see if there's another clue or two."

Tannehill tried to curtail some of the relief in his voice for fear of sounding desperate. "Thanks. I'll wait for you at The Happy Hour." He hung up.

Tannehill surveyed his office. The smell of bleach had faded significantly in the last few days adding a strange sense of normalcy to the underlying one of recent tragedy. The silence of the room wasn't out of the ordinary, since Snell seldom visited the office in life. Tannehill snorted in response half-bemused that, in an ironic twist, this was where Snell died.

The sharp ring of the phone broke the silence. Something about its shrill sense of urgency signaled more bad news. "Hello?" Tannehill spoke warily.

"Can you come down to the precinct today?" Lt. Murphy's voice was measured, but there was a sense of purpose behind it.

"I'm not under arrest am I?"

Murphy sighed in response to Tannehill's standard sarcastic retort, "No Tannehill, you're not under arrest. There have been some...developments in the case."

"Some...developments" was never a positive sign. No one ever indicated that "some...developments" occurred before announcing the case had been cracked. "Yes," the resignation in Tannehill's voice was apparent, "I can make it.  When?"

"1 PM."

"OK." The two men hung up simultaneously.

---

"I need to make a brief call, Shorty." Another day another interaction with the desk sergeant.

"Is it local?"

"Yes it's local. I need to let someone know I won't be able to make an appointment since I'm, well, here.."

"It's not long-distance?"

"Unless local and long-distance can coexist peacefully in space and time, no."

Shorty pushed the phone reluctantly toward Tannehill. Tannehill rang through to Spinoza's extension at the paper. Ring. Ring. No answer.

"Shit." Tannehill muttered quietly, silenced the receiver, and paused briefly with his finger on the lever. He then placed a call to the Happy Hour. Shorty stared at him, eyes bulging.

"Hello," the voice was tired, thick, and confused on the other end.

"Hello. I'd like to leave a message for Vera."

"Vera ain't here. She works a split shift and gets in at two." Tannehill recognized the other conversant by the voice and the proclivity to give out slightly too much information. It was Flo, the waitress he'd encountered when Vera was off the other day.

"Yes, I know. I'd like to leave a message for her." Shorty tapped his wrist with his right index finger. Tannehill turned away from him.

"OK." Prolonged, unintelligible pseudo-silence punctuated by the occasional rasp of drawn breath followed on the other end of the line.

"Are you ready?"

"For what?"

"To take a message." There was an interminable wait for the discovery of a writing instrument on the other end of the line. Tannehill had turned back toward Shorty, whose eyes continued to bulge in impatience. Tannehill turned away again.

"OK," Flo coughed, "ready."

"Please tell Vera that Tannehill won't be able to make it. If she sees a tall, thin man with dark hair who looks a little like William Powell and answers to Spinoza, then she should accompany him to the bakery."

"OK, but there's no one here who looks like William Powell."

Dealing with this woman would infinitely expand the bounds of anyone's patience. "I understand." Each word was measured. "But he'll show up soon. I just need her to get the message."

"OK." The scribbling that persisted seemed to last for ten minutes, "which bakery?"

"It doesn't matter" - words still measured - "she'll know which bakery."

"Right," pause and more writing, "got it." Tannehill very much doubted that fact but had no other options.

"Thank you." They hung up.

"You said one phone call."

"I did," Lt. Murphy emerged from the door to the precinct's back office to retrieve Tannehill, "but I realized I needed to make an emergency call to Hong Kong."

Tannehill disappeared behind the door catch a glimpse of Shorty's mouth framed in a perfect 'O' of shock before collapsing into a line of annoyance.

Murphy led Tannehill back to his office and motioned for him to sit. The office fern drooped solemnly in Tannehill's direction acknowledging his arrival.

Murphy rounded his desk and descended in his chair, cheeks placed squarely between his hands. His eyes fixed on Tannehill. "How are things, CH?"

"Find," Tannehill drawled, "considering the present-day circumstances."

"Good to hear," Murphy placed one hand on the desk, and absent-mindedly began drumming with his fingertips, "good to hear."

"Is there something you wanted to tell me Murph?"

"Yeah," the drumming stopped briefly before resuming at a more rapid pace. "Remember the suspect we brought in for Snell's murder?  Beederman?" The drumming stopped again in anticipation.

Tannehill's response crawled at a snail's pace. "What about him?"

Murphy flattened his palm on the desk, looked briefly at the fern for reassurance, and then back down at his palm. "We found him this morning in his cell."

Tannehill stared at Murphy waiting for the next sentence, though he had a good idea about what was coming.

Murphy exhaled sharply. "He strangled himself overnight. He's dead."

[Author's Note: The first edition of May is a respectable 1047 words. With any luck, even though there are only a few days left, it won't be the last edition of May.  The running total for the novel is 29414 words.]

Chapter 26 - Croissants Baked Fresh Daily

"You're late," Vera sat in a booth doodling on the blank sheets of her order pad.

"Sorry, I lost track of time. Got caught up reading the newspaper."

Vera shrugged indifferently. "Ready then?" She stood up in anticipation without waiting for a response.

Tannehill nodded. "the place isn't too far from here. We could take a bus but it would only save us about a half mile and would probably take twice the time to get there. Do you mind walking?"

"And ruin my good shoes?" They both looked down at her feet at this comment. She was wearing the same monk straps with scuffed heels from their excursion at The Tritone a few nights prior.

"Don't you ever give a straight answer?"

"Perhaps."

"Keep this up and I'll rethink bringing you along."

"Keep that up and I'll rethink helping you along on this case."

Tannehill paused sullenly. "What are you doodling?" he responded quietly.

"A few sketches for my folks back home. I try to send them some sign that I'm alive every few days."

"That's the first time I've heard you mention anything about your past."

"That makes one of us. Other than the fact that I know you had a partner, you're a veritable man of mystery"

"Touché."

They stood in silence for a beat. "Shall we?" Vera gestured toward the door.

They walked along a gray stretch of industrial melancholy under a light mist. Both of them excited by the prospect of discovery and lost in their own worlds.

Loving's Bakery originally had been an oddity in the neighborhood it inhabited. Where the other buildings around it housed the typical distribution warehouses and processing plants that went fallow with the Great Depression, Loving's was a small standalone structure with large windows on its front exterior - not all that different from the diner they'd just departed from. The establishment's name called out prominently in large, generic, cherry red script above the front door.

At least, that's how the building would've appeared several years prior. Recent neglect helped it establish equity with its neighbors. The white façade had faded to a dull gray. The large front windows had their pick of being cracked, shattered, or boarded-up. The sign's 'g' had dropped to the ground, so now the script simply read "Lovin 's" in some representation of an actor's poor attempt at an antebellum accent.

They walked toward the storefront. Vera peered through one of the cracked windows. "Hard to tell, but there doesn't appear to be anything of value here."

"Of course it's hard to tell if you're peering through a cracked window," Tannehill responded, half his torso jutting over one of the shattered windows.

"True, but I'm no fan of French methods of execution. One misstep and you'll be fleetingly living through your own Reign of Terror, Robespierre" she pointed to the jagged plate glass edge sitting precariously below his extended body.

Tannehill carefully glanced down at the shards below him, backed away, and flashed an accepting grimace. He pulled the key out of his pocket and walked toward the front door. "Shall we?"

He placed the key in the lock and turned. Or tried to. The latch didn't move. Perplexed, he pushed against the door frame and tried again. The latch still didn't move. "What now?"

Vera looked around and found a tin garbage can nearby. She grabbed the lid, walked over to the window guillotine and dispensed with the larger shards. "We improvise." She tossed the lid aside with a clatter and gestured at Tannehill with an extended hand. "C'mon. Help me up."

He held her hand as she hopped on the sill and over the shattered window remains. She proffered her own hand in return once she was inside the bakery.

"Doesn't look like much of a gold mine does it?" he exclaimed in concert with the glass crunching beneath his feet. Overturn bakery trays, paper, sawdust, and a thick coating of dust plastered the interior. As with any abandoned building, flotsam and jetsam unassociated with the building's prior tenants also presided. In one near corner, a naked doll stared up at them pleadingly. In another, empty tins of baked beans crowded the floor.

"Unless we're looking for a Goldmine of Creepy, I don't think your partner's treasure is in here."

"Let's check the back room." They moved to the back of the building when a 6-inch rat scuttled past. Vera shoved Tannehill into the wall and squealed while dancing gracelessly away from the rodent.

"Really?" he rubbed his shoulder, "that's what scares you?"

"Rats killed 1/3 of the world population. I think it's completely reasonable to show them some respect," she sniffed indignantly.

He darted his eyes toward her briefly in response and then back into the shadows of the kitchen. There were two lighter shades of paint against a wall of caked-on dough that indicated the former position of two long evacuated industrial ovens. The overturned bakery trays and sundry items that littered the customer area multiplied copiously in the dark recesses of the kitchen.  A singular cheap, splintered, laminated wood panel door faced them near the outline of the ovens. Tannehill walked over to the door, shot the bolt, and opened it.

The door opened onto a dingy alley tinged with the standing pools of the morning's rain.

"What now?" Vera asked.

"Now we go back to the diner and do a bit more thinking."

"That's an anticlimactic answer."

Tannehill could do nothing but shrug in response, "We're in an anticlimactic moment.  It can't be too complicated.  We're trying to out-think Richard Snell, not Professor Moriarity."

The return trip to the diner was equally as silent as the originating trip. Both of them trading the isolation of their own worlds for solitude over solving Snell's puzzle.

Their goodbyes at the door of the restaurant were brief and distracted.

As a result, both of them failed to notice the blonde woman with the funny accident sitting across the street staring at them.

[Author's Note: I was beginning to miss Vera and Tannehill, so I took advantage of our social distancing measures to get reacquainted with them.  With any luck,  the curve of my entries will trend up while the curve of the virus flattens.  Today's edition was 1001 words and the running total, if you've lost count over the ensuing weeks, is 28,367. ]

Chapter 25 - You've Got Something in Your Teeth

"Sorry," Spinoza responded from the other end of the line, "I've got a mountain of work ahead of me for the next few days and the city hasn't fulfilled its promise to stop being violent for a few days so I can lend you a hand."

Tannehill chewed on his lower lip as Phil spoke, "that's alright, I've got other options. When you do have time, I'd like you to take a look though."

"Yeah, sure. My pleasure," Spinoza answered with no hint of pleasure in his voice. "Chat soon." He hung up abruptly.

Tannehill leaned back in the phone booth and wondered what an excursion to Loving's Bakery would uncover. Snell hadn't been bothered much by a moral compass and had no problems flaunting his indelicacies in the open. So, for him to spend effort hiding something, the secret must point to something of high value or nefariousness. Or both.

He left the booth and took an express bus that landed him home at the debatably reasonable hour of 10 PM. He undressed, downed a large glass of water, and crawled beneath the blankets. He placed his revolver in the drawer of his nightstand. He didn't know if Otto had access to his home address and he wasn't relishing the prospect of an unwanted excursion on his property in the middle of the night.

He turned out the light and inhaled a deep, contented breath in the pitch-black air. Still suffering the after-effects of the recent sleepless nights he fell asleep within five minutes.

He awoke nine hours later, shortly after 7 AM. He felt generally refreshed with only some residual grogginess that a strong cup of coffee could easily cure. He showered, dressed, holstered his revolver and headed for The Happy Hour.

He'd debated restricting his movements but hadn't given much credence to Otto's strategic planning. He knew he wasn't up against a criminal enterprise, so his adversaries could only spend so much time tracking his movements - if they even had the wherewithal to think that far ahead.

When he arrived, Vera eagerly seated him and poured him a cup of coffee. She serviced a couple of other customers and bussed a third table before returning to greet him formally.

She pulled a pencil from behind her ear with her order pad in hand. "So?"

"I'll have the spinach omelet."

She kicked him under the booth table and widened her eyes in a combined expression of exasperation and anticipation.

"OK," he said, bending down to rub his shin, "I'll have the spinach omelet after I tell you what happened last night."

"You have expensive tastes for a penny-pinching PI living through the worst economic downturn in US history."

"What can I say? I appreciate the finer things."

"I'm waiting."

"You're the one chit-chatting," he took a slow pull of coffee as Vera rapidly tapped her pencil against the pad. "I can start off by saying that they certainly aren't happy with me. They were expecting me to hand off the information we discovered yesterday. When that didn't happen, they tried to threaten me."

"How?"

"By implying that they had people lurking around our meeting location waiting to shake me down."

"And that doesn't concern you?"

"No, I cased the place for a couple of hours before they arrived. No one else appeared for back up and no one else was tailing me after I left. If this thing is about money - which it almost always is - they'd want to keep their operation as small as possible."

"Aren't you worried that they're following you now?"

"I don't think they're that smart."

Vera frowned mildly. Tannehill pointed at the table and mouthed "omelet." She turned away muttering very un-ladylike phrases on the way back to the counter.

10 minutes later she re-appeared with his omelet and a second cup of coffee.

"Thanks, I'm good," Tannehill pointed to his own cup.

"It's not for you. It's for me," she sat abruptly in the booth seat across from him.

A disembodied voice from the back yelled out, "Vera we've got customers!"

"I'm on break and we've got five customers, all of whom have received their orders in the last five minutes!" The voice didn't respond. "So what else did you find out?"

"Beederman's real name."

"Any reason why he hid it?" Tannehill shrugged. Vera continued, "I assume you're going to Loving's to see what's there?" Tannehill nodded. "I assume you know I'm coming with you?"

"It might be dangerous. I don't want to put you in harm's way."

"From everything you've told me about Snell he seems more like to be a simple boob than a booby trapper. Besides I've done quite a bit to help you out so far.  And, you just said that you don't think your adversaries are likely to qualify the varsity chess squad."

Tannehill sighed, "Didn't you say that you have to work your hooker job on the docks?  I don't want to get you in trouble with your pimp."

"I'll check with him, but we're reviewing Chaucer and Middle English exhausts me, so missing one appointment with a john should be acceptable.  He's really a nice guy.  He's just misunderstood like all of the working gals he takes care of are."

Tannehill shrugged again in resignation. "OK, I'll come get you shortly after 10."

Vera smiled, took a brief sip of her coffee, bared her teeth and made an up and down motion with her index finger while pointing to her central incisors. Then she left the booth.

[Author's Note: March is coming in like a lion with another 922 words.  I've completed my broad outline, so I hope to be back on my regular cadence going forward.  The running total for the story is 27,366 words.]

Chapter 24 - The City Defender

In the ensuing years between Tannehill's arrival back in the United States and Spinoza's, the PR machine of the Capital City Police Department had moved into high gear.

The department couldn't admit that one of their most promising employees had been anything more than a one-man display of unquestionable heroics and patriotism in Europe. So, when Tannehill had returned home with mild indications of shell shock, the brass promoted him to detective and assigned him to light desk duty.

The official story was that he was leading the department's efforts on new methods of detection. Behind the scenes, they were concerned about his jittery response to loud noises and his tendency to trail off occasionally during mid-thought.

In truth, Tannehill was happy for the change of pace. He actually *was* researching modern methods of detecting and using his status as a perceived war hero to request funding for lab equipment and a team to operate the equipment. And, as his time away from Europe grew longer, the symptoms of his shell shock grew less pronounced.

His recuperation occurred at a fortuitous time as the city faced a new challenge - prohibition.

At the start, the department, swept up in patriotic fervor, zealously enforced the new constitutional amendment. The drunk tanks overflowed with scofflaws while other offenders on the street paid for their negligence with creative taxes - often in the form of a split lip or a well-placed punch to the gut and a warning to obey the laws of the land.

Eventually, though, the department returned to what it knew best - investing in business propositions that enriched its coffers and those of its champions. The populace's demand for booze was just too great and the black market was just too broad for the government's strict enforcement of the law.

Instead, the department - in conjunction with the noble fathers of the city - decided to employ practical methods of judicial enforcement. They realized that their decision would sacrifice some minor law and order issues on the margins of the city's society. But they did so for the city's long term greater good. They also understood that, in order to execute their strategy successfully, they'd need to receive reasonable stipends on their own behalves, as it's difficult to realize grand political visions while under the constant threat of penury.

From the department's standpoint, the strategy worked.  The bosses of the criminal organization kicked back an unofficial municipal tax to various members of the city when asked.  When the bosses needed additional provisions from the city they'd pay additional unofficial taxes to expedite their requests.  City officials would ensure that the taxes were earmarked for the appropriate municipal projects to enhance the city's standing.

In return, the criminal organizations were permitted to enforce the liquor distribution and territory divisions in a manner they collectively judged to be the most efficient.  In order to demonstrate to the federal government that the city was following a targeted, practical strategy of enforcement instead of simply flouting the law and indulging in corruption, the department would occasionally stage showcase raids for the benefit of Washington.

When Spinoza returned from France, he resumed his crime beat in the city. The streets had been marred by bloody violence as turf wars between gangs became increasingly common and brazen. The gangs understood that, as long as they continued to bribe officials, those officials would look the other way in the name of progressive values.

When the department did stage raids, it did so with long advanced notice to the establishments it was raiding. Though the speakeasies weren't permitted divest themselves of their entire inventory prior to the raid - that would make the tip-off seem too conspicuous - they would offload much of it in order to escape the most onerous penalties. Notable members of society would be warned not to attend on those days in order to avoid any discomfort that may be associated with negative press associated with the raids.

Often as a sign of willing participation, proprietors of the establishment would offer a round (or several) on the house to the uniformed officers participating in the raid. This often led to the rather confusing image of having the officers leave the establishment drunker than the patrons they were attempting to roust.

Spinoza quickly grew frustrated with the incompetence and the corruption of the city. He wasn't naive but he'd been encapsulated by a cynical shell since the war. His take wasn't so much "Why hasn't the city taken steps to improve?" but more "Why can't this city get its shit together?"

Everywhere he looked, he found laziness, expediency, and greed. In his eyes, most of the violence was the result of others too self-interested to perform their duties properly, even if it meant people died.

When he contrasted the folly and indolence of the city with the endless ocean of death he saw in Europe, the equation he'd formulated in his head simply didn't add up. Each act of graft he witnessed during the Prohibition Era in Capital City was an insult to each act of suffering experienced in the Great War.

The primary target of his ire was the Capital City Police Department. The institution specifically chartered to protect and serve turned a blind eye as its charges were gunned down. Even more detestably, officers were often intimately complicit in these shocking acts of violence against the innocent.

That ire was further sharpened against Tannehill. Tannehill, who, during the deafening noise of daily violence, remained within the walls of the precinct hiding from the world. Tannehill, who when asked to speak on behalf of the department, would breezily talk about its progressive agenda and defense of its citizenry. Tannehill, who didn't have the decency to accept a proper bribe and at least embrace the evil he so willingly surrounded himself with. Tannehill, who received a goddamn hero's welcome and war honors when all he ever faced was one unfortunate event that challenged his sanity while Spinoza saw worse several times a day for months.

Upon his return to the city, Spinoza vowed to call out every act of corruption he witnessed until the department repented or the city collapsed under the weight of its own shame.

[Author's note - Today's version?  1036 words for a total of 26444 over 24 chapters.  I may be delayed again for the next chapter.  I've got to outline a few major plot points for the next few installments and I don't want to rush the quality product that I'm delivering to you dear reader.]

Chapter 23 - You Bring the Champagne. I'll Bring the Brie.

"Hello?"  The accent was as clipped as the previous night with a new note of tension that replaced the original note of confidence Tannehill first encountered.

"It's Tannehill."  Tannehill was in a payphone booth a few blocks from Emily Brunner's apartment.  The early night air was refreshingly clear and he could hear the evening's last few seagulls - he hesitated to call them night owls for fear of offending them - squawking over the back bay.  Even the bus ride downtown had only taken a breezy 45 minutes.

There was a pause, "yes?"

"It's still Tannehill."

"Yes, I know that," the tension gave way to exasperation on the other end of the line, "what do you want?"

"I wanted to see if you and Miss Brunner would like to hold a cocktail party with me.  You're responsible for the decorations and music.  I'll be in charge of the guest list and crudites."

Another pause, "I don't understand."  And it was true, there was significant confusion in Otto's voice on the other end of the line.

Now it was Tannehill's turn for exasperation, "I wanted to see if you and Miss Brunner would like to meet," he lowered his voice conspiratorially for no reason other than dramatic effect for his own amusement, "about the information."

"Oh yes," Otto responded, unwittingly lowering his voice as well, "we would like to meet about that."  He imparted all of this in a tone that showed no indication that he and Tannehill had agreed to the phone call they were currently having the night before.  Tannehill began to wonder who'd suffered the concussion from their encounter or how traumatic a kick to the nuts could be.

"Why don't we meet at Miss Brunner's flat?" Otto continued.

"Why don't we not?" Tannehill countered.

"Does that mean we are meeting at her flat or we're not?"

"We're not.  See the thing is, Otto, I'm famished and I don't want to put you and Miss Brunner out by obligating you to cook for me."

"I see.  That is indeed very kind of you."

"There's a diner near her flat where we can meet at, say, eight o'clock?"  Tannehill had originally thought of meeting at the Happy Hour Diner.  It was on his turf and close to his old precinct.  Though he was no welcome guest at the police station, he still had a few sympathetic ears there that he could bend when he was in trouble.  Then he thought of Vera.  He wanted to make sure Otto and Emily stayed as far away from her as possible.  He awaited Otto's response.

"So, eight o'clock?"  He could hear Otto speaking German on the other side of the line and what sounded like ascent from a female voice.

"Yes," Otto responded, "we can send someone to pick you up."

"Thanks, but I'm not really a member of the tophat and chauffeur set.  The bus should be fine for me.  I'll leave now."  Tannehill provided the diner's address and hung up.  His watch read a few minutes past 6 pm.  He walked toward the diner and found a spot in an alley with a clear view of the entrance.  He patted the revolver in his shoulder holster for reassurance, leaned against the alley wall and stared into the diner.  Currently, there were three customers seated at the counter - a woman in a red dress and her male companion and another gentleman with his back to Tannehill.  A cook crouched near them attending to the evening's duties.  He thought the scene would make a good still life representation of the city at night.  A waitress sat in the far end of the diner waiting for the dinner shift to pick up.  Over the next 30 minutes, those customers left and were replaced by other hungry sojourners completing their workday.

10 minutes before eight, Tannehill spotted Brunner and Otto with a third person trailing shortly behind them.  Otto and Brunner entered the diner and sat down at a booth - both facing the same direction.  Tannehill concentrated on the third person as he stood in front of the diner.  Two minutes later, a well-dressed woman appeared and linked arms with him as the two moved further downtown.

Tannehill continued to watch Otto and Brunner until 8:20 pm.  They ordered coffee or tea and sat staring forward, neither conversing nor betraying any exasperation at the lateness of their guest.  Their hands remained above the table the entire time.  He straightened and walked toward the diner checking his peripheral vision for any blurry movement headed in his direction.  There was none.

He entered the diner and sat down in the booth facing them.  "Sorry I'm late.  You know how the buses run in the city."

"I'm not familiar with your transportation systems," Otto answered.

Tannehill shrugged in response with a slight good-natured smirk before continuing, "well, the good news is that I was able to find the information you've been after.  The bad news is I'm not sure which information it is exactly."

"I'm not sure I follow," Brunner responded.  Otto looked down into his coffee/tea stirring absentmindedly.

Before Tannehill could respond, the waitress interrupted him to ask for an order.

"Egg sandwich, extra butter.  And a glass of milk."

As the waitress wandered away, he continued his previous conversational thread.  "Turns out Snell had his fingers in a lot of pies.  I found where he keeps his information but I need a few more details to make sure I'm giving you the right information."

Otto looked up from his drink and sniffed loudly, "I thought you already had the information?"

"I lied."

"Then why should we trust what you're saying now?" Brunner interjected.

"You don't have any other options."

"We could use the same conversational tactics we did with Mr. Snell," Brunner looked directly at Tannehill with her response and smiled slightly.

"How'd that work out for you the first time?"  Her smile faded.

"Why don't you let us examine all of the information and we'll only take what we need?" Otto chimed in.  Both Brunner and Tannehill stared wide-eyed at Otto.  Both remained silent.

"Maybe.  But, why don't you tell me a little more about the night of Snell's mishap first."

"I did not murder him."

"I suppose that's helpful and does tell me a little more.  Why don't you tell me a lot more, instead?  You waited to chat with him in the same manner you waited to chat with me? By hiding behind the door and ambushing him?"

"No."

"No?"

"No, he was expecting me.  He let me in."  Tannehill had forgotten that detail.  Snell had been in a rush to get him out of the office.  Of course he was expecting company.

"Go on."

"When I arrived, he was very casual.  He was in his undershirt.  I think he was expecting someone else to come with me."

"You were alone?"

"Yes, I was alone."

"Go on."

"I'm not sure what the purpose of your questions is," Brunner sighed.

"I need to know what Otto and Snell discussed in order to make sure I'm giving you the right information."

Brunner sighed in reluctant acquiescence to continue.

"Go on," Tannehill repeated.

"He was drinking the whiskey from the bottom drawer of your desk.  He commented that you should buy something better that was worth him borrowing and then laughed."

Tannehill frowned briefly, "and then?"

"I asked him for the location of our shared interests and he laughed again."

"Your shared interests?"

"I thought you and Snell shared information," Brunner interrupted.

"I told you, I lied about that.  I did stumble across the location of your shared interests though."

"It's in your best interest to provide us with the information."

Tannehill shrugged, "Maybe.  For the moment you need me enough not to do anything rash."

"We have associates surrounding this diner who can be more persuasive than Otto was with your partner." At the mention of his name, Otto jerked his head in her direction and then lowered his head disappointedly.

"No you don't.  I watched you enter the diner and waited to see if there were any stragglers.  What happened after Snell laughed again?" Tannehill turned his gaze to Otto and resumed his questioning without waiting for a response from Brunner.

"He angered me.  I hit him."

"In the head?"

"Yes."

"With the brass knuckles?"

"Yes."

"And then?"

"And then he became difficult.  He stopped making sense.  He would not respond correctly when I asked him for information."

"How did he respond?"

"He was confused.  He kept calling me 'Sweetheart' after every question."

"Huh," Tannehill paused, "and that angered you more?"

"Yes.  Exactly."

"And you hit him more?"

"Yes."

Tannehill stood up from the booth.  "You two really are quite the pair.  Your routine needs a little polishing, though.  Maybe I should talk to your other partner to get his perspective?"

"Bellucci?" Brunner exclaimed and then swore under her breath immediately afterward.

Tannehill smiled broadly.  "Exactly.  Feel free to eat my egg sandwich.  I'm afraid I have to run."  He turned to leave and then turned back, "oh, don't bother following me right now.  I've taken certain precautions to keep myself safe and you don't want to see what happens when I get jittery."

Brunner glared at him as he left the diner.

Tannehill zigzagged through the downtown city streets to make sure that Brunner and Otto followed his advice and then dropped into a phone booth.  "Phil?  It's Tannehill.  I have a favor to ask of you."

[Author's Note:  Well, we've arrived at the halfway point - 25408 after today's edition of 1585 words.  I'm surprised I've made it this far.  Without stretching, I'm relatively certain I have at least another 8000 words in me if not the entire 24592 I need to hit my goal.  Still, at regular type spacing what I've written so far would stretch to about 100 pages, which is definitely novella territory.]