piles of rags being torched. Somebody, or rather several somebodies, were moving through the gulch, setting fire to everything in sight and driving a frantic clot of ragged derelicts in front of them.
I stared, dumbfounded, transfixed. I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up, and my ears roared with my own pulse. Why the hell did they have to use fire? I hate fire. Let me die any way but that.
For a while, I watched the pyrotechnics display and the shadowy crowd of refugees move farther down the gulch, away from me. And seeing nothing to be gained down there but trouble, I turned away. I didn’t know where Square Head was by then, but I decided he was right: I had no business down there.
As I walked back the way I had come, fresh out of ideas and purpose, I found the snow shovel.
Chapter 4
Business as Unusual
The next morning, I blew the dust off the remote for my TV and listened to the early morning news as I worked on my first caffeine fix of the day and my nourishing, balanced breakfast of White Castle hamburgers and bread-and-butter pickles. The incident at the trash barrel bothered me. I had pulled a gun on a man I did not really want to kill, and that can’t happen, ever. Once a gun is out, it takes on a life of its own, and all your careful plans for anonymous existence can suddenly be nothing but yesterday’s daydreams.
As troubling as all that was, the fires down in the gulch were worse, if only because I had no idea what to make of them. The media, of course, wouldn’t know how to tell me the complete or accurate truth if their ratings actually depended on it. But they might at least tell me something about the superficial events. That would be a start.
But the early news said nothing about a commando raid on homeless people or any mysterious fire in Connemara Gulch. On three different channels, male-female anchor teams flirted ever so mildly, giggled at their own inane jokes, chatted about the latest squabbles between the City Council and the Mayor, and offered advice on how to prepare your lawn for winter. They also promised to give me the morning traffic reports and some high-powered weather information after only sixteen or twenty more commercials. I quickly remembered why my remote control is all covered with dust. How can people listen to that shit every day?
Before I left for my office, I called the non-emergency number for the police and got a female desk sergeant with a phone voice that radiated don’t-mess-with-me with thorns on it.
“A man named Charles Victor was killed outside Lefty’s Pool Hall last night,” I said. “I’m wondering if I could talk to the detective who has that case.”
“And your name is?”
I told her.
“Are you calling from your own phone?”
“Yes, I am.”
“And you have information on what case, again?”
“The murder of Charles Victor.” I almost said I didn’t have any information, but I could see how far that would get me. As it happened, it didn’t make any difference.
“We have no such case on record, sir.” If her voice had been any colder, my phone would have been icing up.
“Maybe you just don’t have the name. He was a homeless person.”
“We have more than one John Doe homicide currently open, sir. Could you give me some more information?”
“This man was beaten to death last night, in front of Lefty’s Pool Hall.”
“And you were a witness?”
“No. I just have some information about the victim. I’m a bail bondsman, and he used to be a client of mine.” I also had the shovel, of course, but somehow I didn’t feel like sharing that information with her.
“That would be Detective Erickson’s case, sir. He’s very busy right now.”
“How about if we let him decide that? Could you transfer me, please?”
“I’ll tell him you called, sir. If he needs your information, he will get back to you. I have other calls to take here.”
“Can I talk to some other detective, then?”
“To which detective did