Chapter 47 - Say Hello To My Little Friend

 "I'm still unclear why we needed to wait until morning to show up at Loving's." Vera's voice was hoarse with three martinis and a shot of whisky.  The unaccommodating bumps in the road made her misery that much more acute.

"I'll explain it all in a bit."  Tannehill, aware that his plan could easily fall apart if he'd consumed too many martinis over the course of the night, prudently stopped at one.  Otto, who was driving, and Emily, seated next to him in the passenger's seat, hadn't and seemed to feel the bumps as viscerally as Vera.

"I also don't understand why Spinoza left this morning."

"I'll explain..."

"...it all in a bit.  Yeah, I've memorized that line already," Vera hiccupped.

Before leaving Emily's apartment, Tannehill had phoned ahead to the precinct, telling Lieutenant Murphy to bring a squad to the bakery to inventory and secure the stolen goods and arrest Snell's and Bellucci's murderers.

At 9 AM, the disheveled and groggy group arrived improbably, but exactly, on time, coming to rest in one of the many shallow potholes filled with the previous day's rainwater that dotted the building's crushed gravel driveway.

20 yards ahead, just in front of the entrance was a single, dark, unmarked government vehicle.  Lieutenant Murphy's head peering over the roof from behind the car at the approaching party in keen interest.

Tannehill watched carefully as Emily, Otto, and Vera exited in succession from their own vehicle and then followed slowly.  He'd drawn his revolver - which had been holstered for most of the trip over - before closing the door.  Upon seeing the lieutenant, he prominently indicated that he was securing his own weapon in his shoulder holster and posed no threat.  

"Mornin' Murph."

"Mornin' CH."

Tannehill glanced around in dramatic fashion at the lack of a police presence.  "Your back up's a little light.   Been paying too much overtime to the crew lately?"

Murphy chuckled mirthlessly and reached through the driver's side window before moving over to the hood of the car.  He leveled a Thompson submachine gun at the four hapless pedestrians.  "I think I can handle this on my own.  "If you don't mind, CH, stop where you're at and raise your hands and keep them where I can see them.  You've gone far enough."

Though the response was directed at CH, everyone stopped suddenly and did as commanded.  That is, with the exception of Emily, who doubled over briefly and, with a deftness and violence that surprised her, vomited. The act was due less to the shock of what was unfolding in front of them than from the gin heavy martinis she'd been guzzling since the previous afternoon and the sudden change in equilibrium from exiting the moving vehicle.  She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.  "Excuse me," she belched quietly before staring back at the weapon pointed at her and raising her arms belatedly.

"I agree, Murph," Tannehill continued, ignoring Emily's act of social transgression, "don't want to go too far."

Vera looked down at the splattered expectorant on the crushed gravel and then back at the tall man pointing a machine gun at them, "if this is a performance art piece, I don't get it."

"You don't look too surprised at this turn of events that we're facing on this fine morning, CH."

Tannehill shrugged, "I suppose it's not out of the question that someone on the force decides to participate in extracurricular activities.  In my experience, it's better to follow orders and keep your head down in hopes of getting out alive.  But, no, I didn't expect you'd be pointing a machine gun at me."

Due to the distance between the two men, they had to shout in order to make themselves heard, but there was no danger of anyone hearing their conversation.  The area was equally as deserted at the start of the workday as it had been on the previous visits.  Only the rats were aware of the ignominious acts now occurring.

Murphy clucked his tongue and yelled back, "that's good advice to follow, CH." 

"Yup," Tannehill drawled.

"Then I suggest we don't waste time and get started.  You'll have to excuse me.  While I'm aware of what we're looking for, I'm not quite sure where it is, so you'll have to lead the way."

"We're headed to the storage rooms behind the building."

"Fine by me," Murphy motioned with the weapon for everyone to walk in front of him.  "Though I don't believe that it bears a reminder, I'll say it anyway - no sudden moves, or I fear that the last meal Miss Brunner ejected will have been her - and your - last."

Vera briefly considered pointing out that the group of them hadn't previously dined on Emily's vomit collectively, but thought better of it, given the serious expression on everyone's faces.

"Who is this man and how does he know Miss Brunner's name?" Otto whispered over the crunching gravel beneath their feet.

"He's your silent partner." Tannehill made no effort to lower his volume in response.

Murphy chuckled when he overheard Tannehill's quip, aware of what the German had likely asked and why he was also confused by the situation.  He decided to play along.

"You see, Otto...  It's Otto, right?" 

Otto stopped and turned, answering slowly in a steady state of confusion, "Yes." 

Murphy motioned with the Thompson to keep moving.  Otto complied.  "You see Otto, when you move the amount of, umm, merchandise," Murphy grinned widely though none of them could see it with their backs facing him, "that you have through our fair city here without notifying the proper authorities of its value, we tend to get a little agitated."

Murphy's sarcasm was lost on Otto.  "Why would I notify the police about stolen goods from Germany?"

Murphy continued without breaking character.  "The police department in Capital City functions a little differently than what you'd expect." He stopped and stood thoughtfully before resuming.  "Then again, where you're from, it shouldn't be all that unexpected," and guffawed at his own joke.

When they reached the storage lockers, Tannehill asked Vera which of the lockers was the one they were seeking.  She paused briefly, debating whether or not she should indicate the literal rats' nest as a decoy in hopes of finding a seam for bursting their current execrable situation open.  Tannehill caught the deliberation behind her pause and shook his head slowly and subtly to dissuade her from any heroics.  She stuck her arm out hesitantly and pointed toward the locked treasure trove she and Spinoza had uncovered days before.  The group shuffled across the rain-soaked courtyard, climbed the stairs to the entrance, and stopped.

"I'm going to reach slowly into my pants pocket and pull out the key, Murph.  I don't intend any funny business, but I can let you perform the honors if you'd prefer."

"It seems to me, CH, it'd be funnier business if I reached my own hand into your pants pocket rather than let you handle it." Feeling relaxed at reaching his goal, Murphy chortled again at his own unintended double entendre.  "Just make sure everything moves nice and slow."

Tannehill did as instructed and pulled the key from his pocket.  He inserted it and slowly turned the knob to open the door.

As the door began to swing open, Murphy continued, "See, the problem is CH, that you've been friendless for so long that, when given the opportunity to choose new friends, you chose poorly."  He paused for effect.  "With different choices, you could've been a very rich man."

Tannehill muttered lugubriously over the creaking door, "don't I know it."

[Author's Note: Today's post brings us across the finish line for the original goal. So, I'll pause for a few musings.  I never actually thought that I'd get very far, given my previous history of maintaining a blog for any consistent amount of time.  Although, to be honest with blogs, it's always a matter of wavering between a consistent topic and simply writing about what I fancy.  The former has a higher probability of making me money, whereas the latter is my desired state, so I tend to waffle and then neglect my writing.  But not in this case!  Currently, in standard font, this novel would come in at about 200 pages - short by novel standards, but certainly the longest-running piece - personal, academic, professional - that I've ever written.  And, I'm still not finished!  Not only am I amazed that I've hit my goal, I'm amazed that I did it in nearly the time allotted (1 year).  Technically, it's about 50% over estimate at 1 year and 5 months, but that's no different (and far better) than any major software project estimate.  I had no expectations to go back and edit the work in its entirety, but as I come closer to wrapping up, it seems like turning this into a polished work begins to make more sense, now that I've seen the characters take on their arcs.  But, first I've got to finish the rest of it.  Today's edition is 1274 words.  The running total is...50,707 words!]

Chapter 46 - The End

 All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.

All work and no play make Jack

[Author's Note: Kidding!  Though this gets me to 50000 words.  There are at least another 3 chapters to go (one of which I just finished the first draft of and will publish after my usual editing pass).]

Chapter 45 - We Didn't Have Enough Room for A Wrestling Ring

 "Are you OK, Vera?"  Tannehill could see his friend standing a few feet behind Emily Brunner, Vera's hands casually draped at her sides.  Behind her, Otto was stooped, dusting his suit off over what looked like a pile of broken furniture.  Though the composition of the picture in front of him was perfectly framed - each subject occupied a vertical third of his vision - the subject matter of what he was seeing bordered on the surreal or the chaotic.

"Well, did you bring any dry vermouth?"

"No." He was hesitant, as though the question was a previously agreed code phrase to indicate that real danger was still present but had not yet made itself known.

"Then I've been better." She shoved Emily abruptly, causing the latter woman to lose her balance and stumble to her right.  Vera took advantage of the opening to move past her and stop in front of Tannehill.  "Hi," she exhaled in a friendly, familiar grin.

He pointed the revolver toward the ground, still eminently confused.  Was she expecting a hug?  A grand, sweeping gesture?  "Hi."

She stuck her hand out toward him and flicked it swiftly to the right twice. After a brief pause, recognition filled his eyes and he moved aside, ready to act as a human shield on her behalf from her two attackers.  She exited the door and looked right, exclaiming "Hiya Phil!" to the figure obscured by the exterior wall of the apartment.  With the exception of Vera, all of the other players in the afternoon's drama remained motionless. The two outside the apartment were frozen in confusion.  The two inside, with a mild exception to be made in Otto's case - who continued to bat at the dust on his suit, were frozen in exasperation.

She moved to the next unit down the hall and knocked discreetly on the door.  After a brief exchange with a figure in the doorway, she returned to Emily's unit and squeezed politely past Tannehill again to move into the kitchen.  She was holding a bottle of dry vermouth.

"Who wants a martini?" She held up the bottle in triumph.  Otto looked up at her from his suit and raised a finger in eager acknowledgment.   Emily smirked in resigned disgust but signaled with her own weary digit.

"Are you drunk?" Tannehill stepped through the doorway into the apartment.  Spinoza followed, holstering his pistol in the process after determining there was no longer any immediate threat. 

"Not yet," Vera reached for the gin on the counter and began pulling cabinets open to find martini glasses.  Once she located them, she set them down neatly at equal spacing on the cramped kitchen counter.

Spinoza looked around at the wreckage of the room and quipped in Tannehill's direction, "you still concerned that she can't take care of herself?"  Tannehill looked askance back at his friend with equal parts confusion, amazement, and annoyance.  "What happened here?" Spinoza continued.

"We were trying to clear room for the bandstand, but things got out of hand," Vera had commandeered an ice pick and was chipping shards into a silver cocktail shaker.  Otto and Emily did nothing to confirm or deny her account.  They simply looked in Vera's direction in anticipation of a drink they each felt they deserved.

Following Spinoza's lead, Tannehill secured his own weapon in a shoulder holster, cocked his fedora back and wiped the remaining sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.  For a brief moment, only the sound of the shaker in Vera's hands was audible.  "You made a poor choice in abducting my friend.  Whatever bargaining power you have is now gone, and I'd just as soon as see you arrested for kidnapping as for murder, grand theft, and whatever charges accompany moving stolen goods across international boundaries."

"We didn't kidnap her.  It was simply a mix-up among well-meaning individuals.  She's obviously fine.  She's making martinis!" Emily sniffed indignantly as if to prove her case.

Vera briefly stopped shaking and glared at her.  "You're getting the martini with the bruised gin."  She resumed.

"Just because you botched the effort, doesn't mean it wasn't a kidnapping," Tannehill continued.  "The crime is in the intent not in the effectiveness.  Otherwise, the two of you wouldn't have to be concerned about serving a day of jail time."

"We'll share the proceeds of the Jewish items in the storage locker if you're willing to forget this little," Emily gestured around the room, the folds of her skirt following behind assertively, "incident."

Tannehill was silent again - as his plan was quickly becoming extraneous - and he had to adjust to absorb the information he was receiving.  Much of the plan had involved bargaining with Emily and Otto to keep Vera safe and convincing them that he and Spinoza could be bought with a cut of the proceeds from their allegedly stolen treasure.  Once they admitted they'd stolen the items, it was a matter - not necessarily foolproof - for them to admit that they'd murdered their two other accomplices.  With Emily admitting that she knew of the stolen items and attempting to bribe him them, and with the two of them caught in the act of kidnapping Vera, he decided to go for broke on the final crime.  "Why did you kill Snell and Bellucci?"

Otto's face reddened instantly to the same degree Emily's went pale.  He was about to unleash his pent up indignation in the form of a vehement denial before Vera interrupted - "They're not murderers." She strained her cloudy, chilled concoction of booze into each of the glasses.

Tannehill whipped around to face her, "how are you so sure?"  He didn't mean to sound accusatory, but the shock of her statement and his still heightened stress levels removed any sense of decorum from his thought.

Vera was unflappable as she moved between the three glasses, pouring equal measures into each.  Finally, she took a large chip of ice and plunked it into the middle glass, spilling a quarter of its contents onto the counter.  "That's yours." She glanced at Emily.  Then she turned toward Tannehill.  "Look at how this delightful," she paused, "afternoon has turned out.  I'm an ostensible kidnap victim making martinis for my abductors.  The only weapon I've seen them use is a novelty lighter.  Its greatest danger is that its flame may burn a little too impure.  As you just mentioned, these two seem to be incapable of carrying out anything more than a botched stick-up of a child's lemonade stand."

Both Otto and Emily nodded eagerly, attempting to confirm that yes, in fact, they were too incompetent to carry out such a nefarious plot.

"Besides," Otto chimed in helpfully, "it would have been impossible to have murdered Bellucci when he was in police custody.  He was their friend.  A - what is it - an irritant."

"Informant," Emily muttered out of the side of her mouth.

"Informant," Otto continued.  

Tannehill drew back, startled.  "Bellucci was an informant?"

"Yes.  Snell believed those connections with the police would prove useful during our little...adventure."  Otto capped his statement with a wry smile, proud of imparting new information that Tannehill hadn't been aware of previously.

Tannehill scratched his chin in thought and motioned Spinoza over toward the door.  The two of them whispered excitedly before realizing they could continue the conversation in the hallway without endangering Vera's safety or their plan to entrap their Nazi suspects.  As they moved toward the hallway, Vera pushed the martinis across the breakfast bar to her once-and-would-be captors, "Cheers!" She hoisted her glass, as they did the same.

A handful of minutes later, Tannehill re-entered the apartment without Spinoza.

"Where's Phil?" Vera took another swig of her martini.

"On an errand.  He'll be back in an hour or two."

"In an hour or two?  How long are we planning on staying here?"

"All night.  We'll be heading to Loving's tomorrow at 9 AM.  For now though, we'll need to sit tight and make sure no one's," he glanced over at Emily and Otto, "up to any funny business.  Spinoza will come back to help make sure no one gets any ideas about leaving before then.  So we can all settle in for one long, slumber party."

Vera accepted the abrupt and unannounced plan with good cheer.  She had suddenly moved from captive to captor.  "Well then.  Martini?"

Tannehill nodded in acceptance.

[Author's Note: Hopefully the characters won't be too drunk for the denouement.  Today's edition is 1394 words.  The running total is 49433 (so close!).]

Chapter 44 - The Roller Coaster That Is Capital City

 30 minutes earlier...

"Can you drive a little faster?"  The constant drizzle so prevalent in Capital City had turned into a mid-afternoon downpour, thickening Spinoza's windshield with rain as his car plowed through flooded streets, parting water from the macadam and depositing on the sidewalks.

Spinoza squinted through the windshield as the rain beat angrily on the car's roof and thought he heard thunder (Thunder! - a sound not common in precipitation events west of the Rockies) in the distance.  "If you don't like my driving, you can always take the bus."

"Can you at least drive like there's some urgency attached to our task?"

"Why are you anxious all of a sudden?  Fifteen minutes ago, you seemed unflappable in your confidence."

"Maybe it's the sense of motion, however retarded that may be.  Or the realization that an innocent bystander's been kidnapped by murderers."

"If it's the sense of motion, going faster will only heighten your sense of anxiety, so I'm doing you a favor by slowing down."

"I'm worried about Vera."

"Me too, but getting us killed won't improve her situation any.  Besides, she's resourceful enough as long as neither one of her kidnappers turns into a giant rat."

"Otto can be unpredictable."

"Yes, but, like you pointed out, not very bright.  Without having met him or Emily Brunner, I'd still place my bets on Vera in a battle of wits."

"She can be a bit acerbic, and I'm worried how they'll react if she goes too far."

"Look at the facts.  If she comes to any harm, they lose any bargaining chip they have, and they've exposed themselves as murderers and will have no treasure to show for it.  Stupid or not; impulsive or not; I'm sure that scenario's occurred to them."

"True."  The torrent stopped as suddenly as it started.  Or, rather, it reverted from being a cumbersome downpour to its usual steady trickle that caused the men of the city to fret about their suits puckering and the women to complain about the uselessness of spending any hard-earned money at a hair salon.  

With the change in road conditions, Spinoza's automobile climbed the city's hills at an accelerating rate and then descended cautiously while its operator pumped the brakes.  At the nadir of each urban cliff, both men began to feel nausea overtake them due to the constant stop and start motion.

"Why don't you just coast down the hill like a normal driver?" Tannehill burped in discomfort.

"The shocks on this car aren't exactly in the best shape.  One errant bump at high speed, and you and I will be sliding along the ground, steering wheel in hand, while the rest of the chassis rumbles behind us." 

As the car approached downtown, the terrain flattened a bit, and their nausea eased, the two men began to refine their plan to rescue Vera, force a confession of murder from the would-be international entrepreneurs and find a way to repatriate the stolen items.  Given that they had approximately five minutes before they sped through the central business district and reached Emily Brunner's waterfront apartment, much of that plan involved storming the lobby of the building, menacing any uncooperative doorman, and rushing up the elevator in order to negotiate with Otto and Emily at the point of a gun.

"What it lacks in Shakespearean complexity it makes up for in expediency," Spinoza noted.

"Do you have a firearm?" Tannehill asked, unphased by Spinoza's retort.

"In the glove compartment." Tannehill was more than a little surprised that not only was the answer "Yes," but also "and it's within easy reach of where you're sitting now."  Spinoza sensed this surprise and continued, "It's Capital City.  And I'm a crime reporter.  Who works mostly at night."  He emphasized the end of each sentence to accentuate the obviousness of his statement.  Satisfied with that logic, Tannehill pulled the pistol from its resting place and briefly inspected it before replacing it.

"Why are you concerned if I have a firearm?  We stopped by your office to pick up your own service revolver."

"It's Capital City.  We're chasing murderers.  You can't be too careful," Tannehill mirrored in Spinoza's previous tone.

Fortune - or the still dwindling number of serviceable cars, even on the plush streets of downtown, that could be attributed to the depression's slowly weakening grip - allowed them to park across from the building.  Spinoza reached across Tannehill to open the glove compartment and grab his pistol, performing his own cursory inspection before exiting the vehicle. They dodged a couple of hasty drivers on the waterfront highway who showed their support for the men's mission by saluting them with high-pitched wails from their horns and muffled insults from behind their windows as they sped precariously by.

Once inside the lobby, they encountered the same obstinate doorman who'd hindered Tannehill during his first visit to the building in the week prior.

Tannehill darted past him and the doorman's voice followed him with a resounding "HEY!".  Tannehill slid to a stop in front of the elevator bank and turned to face the doorman and Spinoza, who'd lagged a few steps behind.  "Keep him here," he said, addressing Spinoza.  "I don't want him to call up to Brunner's apartment and tip them off."  Spinoza turned to the doorman, who was now facing him in a mixture of confusion and indignation, and shrugged.

Tannehill hastened into the elevator bank and mashed the up arrow repeatedly.  After an excrutiating 15 seconds, the ding of the elevator alighting in the lobby became audible.  He rushed into the car and promptly forgot what floor Emily Brunner's apartment was located on.  He then sprinted to the mailroom across the way, swearing briefly in resignation as the door closed and the elevator began to climb ever higher.  Scanning the mailroom, he found her - Brunner, 802 - and ran back to the elevator bank, pressing the up arrow with even more impatience than his first attempt.  As he climbed in, he could hear the soft murmur of voices from the lobby and a chuckle as the doors closed around him.

Once, he reached the eighth floor, he stepped in the hallway and stopped, breathless.  He gulped down the stale air of the floor's entrance foyer and wiped the sweat from his brow in an effort to compose himself before confronting Vera's assailants.  A loud ding boomed behind him and he turned, watching Spinoza step breezily into the foyer behind him.

"I thought I told you to watch the doorman!," Tannehill barked.

"He's not going to do anything," Spinoza answered in a measured tone.

"How are you so sure?"

"I informed him that I'm a member of the press, and, if he helps us out on our little errand, I can get a prominent spot in any resulting story."

"And if he decides that's too thin of a promise to keep him from changing his mind before we reach the door?"

Spinoza rubbed his nose.  "I thought of that."

"And?"

"I informed him that I'm a member of the press and, if he doesn't help, I can find enough dirt on him to bury him in any resulting story."

Tannehill smiled and drew in one more deep breath before heading toward Emily Brunner's apartment and exhaling.  He motioned for Spinoza to stay a few steps behind and out of sight as he drew his revolver.  They reached the front door of apartment 802, and Tannehill knocked nonchalantly, but with purpose, leveling the revolver at waist height.

From his vantage point a few steps down the hallway, Spinoza watched the door open and heard a familiar voice from the interior of the unit, "Oh, thank God!  Tannehill.  Did you bring any dry vermouth?"

[Author's Note: Well, unless I get extremely ambitious in the next four days, I'm not likely to finish the novel by the end of November - which was a long shot anyway.  But there's a good chance the first draft will be done in conjunction with the long, strange year that 2020 has been. This chapter is 1285 words.  The grand total is 48039 words.]

Chapter 43 - Thanks, But It Just Isn't the Same Without an Olive

 "I'd like a martini," Vera studied her nails and repeated her request before adding "please" along with a toothy but insincere grin.

"We're out of dry vermouth," Otto countered, no hint of irony in his voice, as though he were taking the order seriously.  

The abduction had not gone the way Emily planned.  She had flashed a small, silver firearm in Vera's direction while instructing Otto to leave a note for Tannehill and escorted her captive out of the diner.  She expected that Vera hadn't made a peep while leaving, because she was too frightened by the shock of the events.  She assumed that Vera's facade would crack, once the three of them were barrelling down the city streets toward downtown - a mix of screams, hysterics, tears, and pleading in a snot covered blur of a face begging for her life.

Instead, Vera rested her hands in her lap and her head against the back window and hummed.  She took advantage of staring down from the summit every time they climbed one of the city's famous hills.  She remained in this state of serene meditation the entire ride.  The. Entire. Ride.  Now, back at Emily's flat, she sat calmly in one of the high-backed, armless dining chairs at the head of the table, her white smile matching the impeccable leather of the chair and somehow accentuating the hideous lime green uniform she wore, asking for a martini.

"A manhattan, then."

"Actually," Otto pursed his lips thoughtfully, "we're out of vermouth, full stop."

"Bourbon, neat, please, with just a couple of drops of water."

Otto rounded the breakfast bar, pulled a bottle of bourbon from the counter, and began opening cabinet drawers searching for a tumbler.  "Glass?"

"Drawer to the right of the sink," Emily responded.

Otto finished the order and returned to the dining area.  He motioned for Vera to slide away from the table and she obliged, re-orienting herself in the chair after backing up.  Otto placed the drink on the table, out of her reach.  He sat on the edge of the dining room table and faced Vera.  Emily, disappointed in the cavalier use of her furniture - much of what she had was rented, while she still waited to settle in, but her dining set was brand new - bit her lip and grimaced. "Now, tell me what the notebook says, and you can have your drink," Otto continued.

"I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?" he hissed.

"Have you seen the notebook?  The notes in it are incomprehensible."

"Yes, but" he began to blubber, "but it's your notebook!"

"What gives you that assumption?  That it was in my possession?  That I'm a woman and must be a secretary?"

"Yes," he exhaled, as if the answer to all three of those questions were self-evident.

"Wouldn't it make more sense to give me the notebook for safe-keeping?  Isn't it more likely that you'd go after Tannehill to get the information you needed?"

"No. Well, yes, but, you have the notebook."

"Otto," Emily interjected, worried that Otto may start an argument with himself.  His face, wide-eyed in confusion, turned toward her.  "Even if she doesn't know what's in the notebook, it's highly likely that she has at least some of the information we seek."

This seemed to inspire a swift change of demeanor in Otto, who swiftly walked over to Vera.  Red-faced with eyes blazing flecks of gold he grabbed her by her hair, yanking her head back over the chair.  She winced with pain.  "WHERE ARE OUR ITEMS?"  He waited briefly for a response before throwing her head unceremoniously against her chest.  He began to turn back toward his previous position at the table to further cement his menace and wait for Vera to come to her senses.

Before doing so, Vera grabbed him by the wrist gently and stood up to face him.  Eyes brimming lightly with tears from such a violent jolt to her sinuses, she smiled thin-lipped and meekly at him.  He smiled back.  Then she slugged him in the solar plexus.

He doubled over, emitting a combination cough and noiseless howl before staggering over to the table and pressing all of his weight on another chair, causing one of its legs to snap.

Emily, more enraged by the demolition of her dining room set than by the assault on her partner, moved across the room and slapped Vera.  Vera, undeterred, kicked Emily in the shin.  This caused Emily to tumble backward and trip over Otto.  Otto, Emily, and the newly wounded chair collapsed to the floor in concert.

There was a slight shifting of forms audible through the wall and a quick muffled exchange of concerned voices.  A few seconds later there was a click of an exterior door and then a polite knock on Emily's own.  While Otto, Emily, and the chair were still tangled together, Vera took the opportunity to answer the door.  She opened it wide to a diminutive man with thinning brown hair dressed in an oversized cerulian cardigan.  

"Excuse me, Miss...," he paused in surprise, "oh, you're not Miss Brunner."

"No," Vera paused as though realizing she was not, in fact, Miss Brunner, "I'm a guest of hers."

"Oh, sorry!" the diminutive man exclaimed, "I'm Mr. Sugarbaker from next door," he paused to gather himself.  "My wife and I heard a commotion.  Is everything alright?"

"Yes, certainly.  We were just a little excited at the realization that we're unable to make martinis for our soiree."

From behind, Emily began to stand apart from what appeared to have been the world's most uncoordinated spider.  "That's correct," she smoothed her skirt as Otto groaned below her, "we have no dry vermouth."

"Oh," another brief pause, "oh," Sugarbaker glanced toward his unit and hitchhiked a thumb in its direction, "it's no problem.  I can..." he stammered.

Vera waved him off.  "No need." She walked over to the table and swallowed two fingers of bourbon in a single gulp.  She coughed, pounded her chest, and continued hoarsely, "we were able to improvise."

"Yes, improvise," Emily affirmed.  "Mr. Sugarbaker, please close the door on your way out, if you don't mind."

"Certainly," and he did, as the two women watched the door seal the view of the exterior hallway.

When Vera turned to face her would-be abductors, she noticed that Otto had closed the distance between the two of them and had Emily's small, silver revolver pointed in her direction.  "What are you going to do with that?" She puffed out her cheeks and blew exasperatedly.  

"If you don't sit down and behave, I intend to kill you."

"No," she glanced at the barrel of the gun and back at Otto, "you don't."

"Yes," he stopped to match her previous pause, "I do."

"No," she kept the cadence up, "you don't."

"And how do you know this to be true?"

"Well, for starters, that pistol barrel isn't bored, so it would be exceedingly difficult to fire a projectile at me.  And, to cap it off, I saw that pistol lying on the end table of the sofa earlier once Emily dropped it there, after our road trip.  It's a cigarette lighter.  So, unless you intend to set me on fire, I don't believe you intend to kill me."

With that explanation, Otto let the gun swing around his finger by the trigger guard and replaced it on the end table in a demonstrable 'what can you do?' manner.

Another knock sounded at the door, sterner than the first.

Emily elbowed Vera out of the way in her haste to open it before Vera decided to play hostess again.  "Mr. Sugarbaker, I told you, we don't need any..." the door swung wide and Tannehill was plainly visible holding a revolver leveled at Emily Brunner.  A real one.

[Author's Note: I've been thinking about this chapter since at least the middle of the book.  What happens to Vera when she's kidnapped?  Does she wilt?  Does she face a couple of psychopaths and barely make it out alive.  Then I remembered that in addition to film noir, another popular genre of the 30s was the screwball comedy, and I was able to pick a scene that matched the current tone of the book.  I didn't want to waste her character development as a damsel in distress, but I needed her to get kidnapped to move the "plot" along.  Today's edition is 1303 words.  The novel's total is 46754 words.]

Chapter 42 - Is It Accusative or Nominative Case?

The trio decided to rest for a day and contemplate the best way to willingly get two suspects to admit to murder.  Tannehill and Spinoza walked into The Happy Hour the following afternoon at the beginning of Vera's shift, eager to swap theories on the best way to catch a criminal.  Seeing that she hadn't arrived yet, they glanced around for a comfortable booth to commandeer, as their usual one was occupied.  They stood frozen briefly in the no man's land between the counter and the booths, heads moving mechanically to assess other possibilities - that booth had a jagged spring that didn't quite protrude from the seat leather; another one had a table that looked sticky with a spray of spilled salt jutting across its landscape; another hadn't been cleared at all.  They considered sitting at the counter, but the round swivel stools seemed to be placed too close too one another, and they felt that they'd be knocking knees over the duration of their discourse.

"Bill, hey Bill!" A raspy voice croaked behind them from the counter, breaking into the rhythm of their seating despair.  They paid no mind, looking for either Vera or a clean booth.  "Bill!" It insisted with more urgency.  They turned to look toward the voice and saw Flo, The Happy Hour's second-best server, staring directly at Spinoza.

A confused minute passed before he could respond.  "Me?" He mouthed at her.  She nodded enthusiastically with a hint of frustration that, of course she was referring to him.  He adjusted his volume.  "I'm sorry you must have me mixed up with someone else.  My name's not Bill."

Now it was Flo's turn to look confused.  "I says to Vera," she started as though already minutes deep into a particular juicy anecdote, "I says 'Who are those two fellas you been hanging out with lately?'  She says to me 'The one who looks like William Powell and the other one?' I says 'Yeah.'  She says, "Funny enough, that one's name is Bill, which is short for William, and the other is Claude Mulvihill."  She paused and pointed a finger at Spinoza, "So, you must be Bill."

The two men grinned at each other in the realization of Flo's likely mischaracterization of her conversation with Vera.  They also decided that correcting her would be a wasted afternoon for all, so Bill, for the time being, he was.

"Is Vera late?  We wanted to chat with her before her shift got too busy."  Aside from their normal booth near the door, which was currently inhabited by two gentlemen arguing vehemently in Russian, one other booth and a stool at the counter had occupants.  The counter occupant coughed briefly as if to signal that his occupancy was equally as important as his boothmates.

"Vera's not here," Flo stated, confirming their observation with a sober obviousness.  "But a little fella stopped by with a note about an hour ago.  He said to give it to Vera's friends when they stopped by."

Tannehill cocked an eyebrow in interest.  "Do you have the note?"

"I do."  Though Flo answered in the affirmative, she made no move to follow up on remediary actions.

"I think, as you've vividly described in your fascinating conversations, that it's safe to assume that we're the friends of Vera that the gentleman was referring to, correct?"

"Right!" Flo still made no indication of movement.

"Would you mind giving us the letter then, as we are the aforementioned friends?" Tannehill's tone was cloyed to avoid betraying the acidness he wanted to direct toward this daft woman.

Flo reached slowly in a large patch pocket of her uniform, her face initially a blank mask, morphing into one of confusion with a protruding tongue as she rummaged through a pocket so deep its very inward boundaries appeared to defy the laws of physics that its outward boundaries hinted at.  Eventually, she pulled a 3x3 white envelope from its maw and handed it to Tannehill.  He had to tug gently to remove it from her grip.

"Thank you," he responded in the same cloying tone.  She abruptly turned and left with her previous blank stair re-affixed.  While curiosity may have a deadly influence over the cat, it had little pull with Flo.

"Nothing addressed on the outside," Spinoza remarked.  It seemed like a poorly mannered letter if it was meant to be an invitation.  No indication of an RSVP and no fancy calligraphy harkened them to a social event.

Tannehill opened the envelope with a stubby index finger and slid out the thick card stock inside.  Again, nothing on the front of the card to give its intentions away.  He flipped it open:

We have das Mädchen.

Call the number I gave you for next steps.

-O

"Huh," Tannehill clucked his tongue.  He casually handed the card to Spinoza.

"So what now?"

"Why do you think he used the German version of 'girl'?"

Spinoza's eyes bulged in mild disbelief and suspicion of Tannehill's reaction. "That's an unusual first question to ask when you've just learned that a friend of yours has been kidnapped by a pair of double murderers."

Tannehill continued undeterred, "I wonder if he did so to pepper the message with additional menace.  Do you know if das Mädchen is a nominative or accusative case?"

"What is wrong with you?!"

"I guess it doesn't matter.  We know it means girl, so the grammar's not important." He sucked his teeth briefly.  "To answer your question - much that we've discovered over time, but in this particular case, nothing.  We now have leverage on the them.  Before, we could only suppose that they'd committed a crime.  Now they're actually in the middle of that commission.  More importantly, he's telling me to call the number he gave me before."

"And what does that mean?" Spinoza was at a loss.

"Well, the number he gave me before was the number to Brunner's apartment.  Even if they're not keeping Vera there, someone has to be manning the phone.  That means, unless they're all camped across the street observing us, we can ambush or follow at least one of them to get the drop on Vera's location.  But I suspect she'll be at the apartment."

"Why do you suspect that?"

"Because Otto's not smart enough to come up with a better plan."

[Author's Note: This was one of those chapters that I expected was only going to be a few words - a note gets delivered and the men take action. Then I realized setting a scene for it sounded a bit more delightful and got to 860 words.  Then, on editing, I wanted to see if I could get to the usual thousand word mark, and, voilà, we're at 1056 for this chapter.  The running total is 45451 words.  With at least another four chapters planned, and only a scant 4549 words to cover, it looks like my July 2019 goal will be a reality soon.]

Chapter 41 - How Much Do You Charge to Break Fingers?

 "What do I do now?"  Tannehill nonchalantly pulled the string of cheddar connecting his mouth and cheeseburger from its bovine substrate and chewed thoughtfully on his rhetorical statement.  Spinoza, unaware that the question was rhetorical, shrugged.  They'd been meeting for lunch frequently in the weeks since Tannehill's disciplinary hearing and dismissal.  Though he claimed outwardly it was solely due to Tannehill's lack of an income, Spinoza could admit to himself that it was a slipshod attempt at atonement.

"I suppose I could return to engineering.  We're in a state that's seeing enormous growth potential and the opportunities should be plentiful."

"That seems regressive, since you've been out of practice for some time." Spinoza was still unaware that he was an audience to the conversation rather than a participant.

Tannehill's voice grew more distant in thought, "but I am a bit rusty." Belatedly, he realized he was being summoned from his haze by someone else.  "Sorry," he picked up a thick fry and munched on it purposefully, "what did you say?"

"I said that returning to engineering likely isn't your best alternative."

Tannehill continued to crunch down on his fry, caught halfway between his own thoughts and Spinoza's observation.  "Yeah, you're probably right."  He sighed less out of resignation or regret and more out of simple exasperation for his dearth of ideas.  To wit, he had thought of exactly one idea for a career change since his expulsion from the police force - returning to his engineering degree.

"You could be a private investigator.  It wouldn't require a drastic change in your career path."

Tannehill starting chewing again in contemplation.  "I'm not certain that would work out well.  My name's been plastered all over the paper -" Spinoza colored at this statement even though Tannehill was talking distractedly rather than taking aim, " - and I don't think people would appreciate the notoriety."

Spinoza scoffed and jerked back in mild disbelief.  "This is Capital City.  Voters don't trust politicians who are too clean.  They assume the candidates are either hiding something so insidious it can't come to light or they'll be eaten alive once they're in office.  I don't think that kind of citizenry is going to mind your type of publicity.  Besides, as a PI, you're expected to be a bit scummy."

With Spinoza's rousing encouragement ringing in his ears the following days, Tannehill decided to set up shop.  His application for a private investigator's license encompassed nothing more than an affirmative response to a follow-up question about his previous employment:

"So, says here you used to be a former cop."

"Yup, I was previously a detective.  Do you need to check any references?"

"No, we just need the filing fee of $10."

Tannehill fished a crumpled bill out of his pocket, smoothed it, and laid it on the counter, smiling for effect.  He wondered if, had he put down "former chief of police" or "former president of the United States," the interlocution would have been more rigorous.  He decided it wouldn't have.

His next order of business was to find office space.  He decided to stay near his old precinct, as he felt he knew the neighborhood better and would be able to operate with some degree of comfort in getting his business off the ground.  The realtor he talked to offered him a twenty-foot by twenty-foot office in a shared office corridor that had been damaged by water.  The realtor also swore that the water damage was due to a previously busted water main and not the notoriously fickle ocean located a convenient two blocks away.  Traces of salinity on the water damaged walls were slight and the office air smelled more of mildew than seafood, so Tannehill took the realtor at his word and put down a security deposit.

The artist who appeared to complete the signage on the office's frosted window had lenses that hinted at severe myopia.  His conversation with Tannehill about the contents of the signage was mumbled and mostly conducted in a foreign language.

"Tannehill - two 'n's two 'l's," Tannehill spoke slowly, suspicious of his commissioned artist's comprehension skills.  Upon completion, the sign read "CH Tanehilll, Licensed Private Investigator."  Tannehill considered it a win, since the number of letters within his name remained consistent with his own preferred spelling.

Office space rented and PI license in hand, his final order of business was to drum up clients.  Spinoza's guilt played a big part here as well - his position as the lead crime reporter at The Daily Courier allowed him to offer Tannehill two weeks' worth of ad space in the classified section of the paper.  And, Spinoza wasn't entirely immune to the politics of Capital City either.  He was able to weave a few deft references to the up-and-coming PI businesses in the city - specifically near the city's South Docks neighborhood - for matters that the police were simply too overwhelmed or indifferent to handle. 

It took fewer than 24 hours for calls to begin flooding Tannehill's desk.  Many of the calls involved spouses' or lovers' inquests about potential infidelity.  Others about neighbors' suspected misdeeds.  A few requested help for misplaced or presumably stolen items.  Some hinted heavily about help with protection rackets - both in forming them and busting them up.  Spinoza had been correct about the citizenry's tolerance for notoriety.  Many of Tannehill's prospective clients shamelessly referenced his perceived vigilantism and the need for more people who were "willing to clean up the streets."  What his willingness to clean up the streets had to do with a glut of unfaithful paramours, Tannehill hadn't a clue, but he was fine playing the role in order to score a paycheck. 

After Tannehill's first full week of re-employment, Spinoza visited the office with a house warming offering.

"Thanks, but it wasn't necessary," he grasped the outstretched bottle of muddied brown liquid thrust in his direction.

"It's not really a gift, it's simply me trying to diminish my inventory.  Alcohol is still prohibited after all."

"So, it is," Tannehill muttered, turning the bottle over in his hands.  He stopped and squinted at the label.  "Was this produced prior to Prohibition?"

"Indeed it was."

"I didn't even know they made bourbon in Nebraska," he exclaimed, placing the bottle in his bottom drawer next to his former service revolver.  He reached for his coat, then the light.  "I'm hungry.  The usual?"

[Author's Note: Today's edition is 1058 words.  I'm hoping to strike a nice coup de grâce and finish the first draft during Nation Novel Writing Month, since it was an exercise for NaNoWriMo that kicked off this whole venture, but let's not get ahead of ourselves.  The running total is 44395.]