In Chapter One, that introduced this story, I detailed the protagonist of the story as a detective who


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End of Chapter One:

I departed Dodi's with my jacket slung over my shoulder. As I placed my fedora on top of my head, Cajun Dave and I exchanged glances. He shook his head in disbelief of my exit. Without being informed, he knew the shenanigans I was up to. It was just another Saturday night in Marin County. A cool breeze engulfed me and I knew this would be the first of many long nights to come. I boarded a cable car on South Brady Street. I'll allow you to guess what epithet I uttered as the trolley chugged along the cobblestones. Let's say a word that rhymes well with it quacks.




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Only the insane are secure in their paranoia and I knew I lived on borrowed time. But, as long as I breathed air, I would never cease my battle against those who threatened my client's freedom. Because of previous cases, I was relentlessly hounded by conspirators determined to make me dead, or make me wish I was, whichever came first. Propelled by righteous fury, and my insistence on justice, I will fight head-on the lethal forces arraigned against us.

At seven o'clock on the a.m. side of the dial, a heavy fog blanketed San Francisco. I climbed inside the cab of my F150 and headed downtown via familiar suburban streets. The apocalyptic strange gloom of the fog matched my sour mood. Mystery and menace from silver needles of rain battered the fog. My suspicions were aroused by any vehicle that followed me more than two blocks.

In my shoulder holster was a high caliber Luger. The weapon rested comfortably within easy reach on the passenger seat of the truck. I chose the pistol because I realized a smaller gun would not as readily stop any assailants I encountered. Many hours on a firing range taught me to control the weapon's recoil. Now, I was an expert in self-defense.

The house I resided in was not located in a gated community, nor were there any armed security guards. Worst of all, the residence offered no view of the Pacific Ocean, or the Golden Gate Bridge, for that matter. Marriage never was my ruin. What woman would have me? None I ever crossed paths with that's certain.

Storm run-off from the rain would soon overwhelm the dirty streets and shallow puddles would form. Whoever said it never rained in California did not know what they were yapping about. Determined to speak to my client, my destination was the Mission Police Station on Valencia Street. I slowed my truck and swung wide into an available parking slip. I sent a spray of water behind my vehicle. I always did like to jump puddles.

I switched off the engine, and departed the cab of the truck locking the door behind me with the fob in my hand. Then, made my way inside the precinct. My jacket dripped water droplets onto the linoleum floor beneath my lizard-skinned Tony Lama boots.

"I'm attorney Mercury Morris and I'm here to see my client Ryan Bloomberg," I enlightened the uniformed officer behind the Plexiglas window.

"Roger that," he casually replied, then told me, "but, first you'll have to check your weapon to gain entry."

"I'm not carrying," I bluffed.

There was no way I wanted to surrender my weapon. Not even to the local yokels. I felt a calm sense of security with the pistol in my possession. The desk jockey called my bluff.

His facial features displayed the lines, refinement, and strength of the Irish. His blazing red, almost burnt-orange, full head of hair indicated Germanic descent. The darkness of his eyes produced unreliable, unsettling, expressions. I read his body language in an effort to determine if he was part of the conspiracy.

"Six months ago you purchased a nine millimeter Luger Parabellum semi-automatic pistol with toggle-lock action and high-pressured cartridges. You special ordered the firearm with a three-pound pull and had the gun's corners and edges rounded so it wouldn't snag upon removal from your shoulder holster. It took a lot of research for you to come up with a weapon like that. Then, you applied for, and received, a permit to carry. If you're as smart as I think you are Mr. Morris, you'll turn the piece over," he rambled.

"How do you know all that?" I quizzed him.

The cop patted the side of his computer and replied, "She tells me everything I need to know."

That's when he pointed to three rows of empty, metal, folding chairs across the room and said, "Have a sit. You'll be escorted to the holding cell soon."

In a nifty manner, I did what I was told and removed the Luger from the harness on my shoulder under my jacket. Reluctantly, I handed the weapon to the boy in blue. He placed the gun on the Formica countertop behind the Plexiglas and stated, "Retrieve the weapon on your way out."

After a short stare-down, I complied with his instructions and situated myself on the chair in the middle of the last row. Fortunately, their backs were against the wall. I wanted no one to be able to come up from behind me. These days, one can not be too careful.