The Big Bend

By Gary Showalter

When Terry Rankin launches Rankin Personal Security Services in Orlando, Florida, it’s not his first fresh start. Not by a long shot. After serving as an investigator for the MPs in the U.S. Army, Rankin spent several years on the Pennsylvania State Police force before packing up and heading south. In Tampa, bad business decisions and a penchant for gambling—and losing, badly—sank Rankin’s security business and his marriage. Starting over in Orlando as a middle-aged divorcee certainly wasn’t easy, but he managed to redeem his reputation by choosing his clients carefully and doing whatever was necessary to get the job done.

So when Sheila Adamson comes to him for protection from her abusive husband, Rankin recognizes immediately that hers is not a situation he wants to meddle in. He turns her down, and moments later, when Mrs. Adamson climbs into her car to leave, a violent explosion blows her to bits and knocks down the wall of Rankin’s house. When he wakes in the hospital, his first accusation is pointed at her sleaze ball husband. But then he learns that her attorney, a man with whom he has clashed on a number of occasions, has also turned up dead, leading Rankin to suspect there’s more to this domestic dispute than meets the eye.

He teams up with Orlando cop Cathy Diamond for what quickly unfolds into a tense and exciting race for the truth through the streets of Orlando, the marshes of western Florida, and the labyrinthine waterways of the Everglades. Fans of contemporary murder mysteries are certain to take a shine to Rankin’s sardonic, hardboiled bodyguard-turned investigator, whose dogged pursuit of a calculating murderer makes for a riveting read.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gary Showalter
• Release date: Aug 24, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310694684

Gary Showalter

Gary Showalter was born in Honolulu, Hawaii. He lived in Aruba, Florida and the Panama Canal Zone before joining the U.S. Army during the 1960s. Mr. Showalter has picked cotton in East Texas, baled hay in Ardmore Oklahoma, sold light bulbs in Los Angeles, California, and built cattle pens in Fallon, Nevada (during a blizzard, of course). After settling in Atlanta, Georgia, Mr. Showalter worked as a professional gardener before turning his hand to furniture making.In 1981, he moved to Israel, married, and raised four children while working as a furniture maker, silversmith, goldsmith, and ornamental wood turner. He served in the Israel Defense Forces Reserves for sixteen years, and when not on active duty he worked in government and private security. He has also served in senior management positions in two software development companies in Israel.Mr. Showalter has published articles dealing with international terror and the Israel-Arab conflict in the Jerusalem Post, Israel national News and several political science web sites.Mr. Showalter returned to the United States in the fall of 2003. He published his first novel, “The Big Bend”, in the fall of 2008, his second novel, “Hog Valley”, in 2009, his third novel, “Twisted Key”, in 2010 and his fourth novel, “Lonesome Cove”, in 2011.Mr. Showalter resides in Dunnellon, Fl, where he is working on the fifth Terry Rankin novel.

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Chapter 1

Friday, February 16

Orlando

You need a bastard. I'd heard her car pull up into the gravel parking lot in front of my house, heard the car door open and slam shut, and the sound of footsteps crunching and splashing across the gravel to the door. I thought about turning around to get a quick peek at my visitor. The engine had a nice, throaty rumble, and the sound of the car door slamming shut didn't have anything cheap about it. So, yes, there was the temptation to look, but I was too comfortable to give in to the urge.

She was dressed like she had money, like she belonged someplace else, not sitting in the front porch that I used as an office at my home. She was short and cute, somewhere in her early to mid thirties, with brown hair down to her shoulders, nicely dressed, a bit nervous and obviously upset. She'd walked in without knocking, run her hands through her hair to rid herself a few drops of the light rain, said her name was Sheila Adamson and she needed a bastard.

Then she sat down, knees together, all prim and proper with her purse in her lap. It was a bit of a shock for a good looking, well-dressed young woman to walk into my office and say she needed a bastard. But that’s what she said.

Yes, she answered, my husband's an asshole. Her words issued from pursed but otherwise very nice lips.

Your husband's an asshole, so you need a bastard on your side. I eased my feet off my desk. They'd been propped up there when she came in five minutes ago and my knees were starting to feel like I was trying to bend them backwards.

He's abusive, Mr. Rankin, verbally, emotionally and sometimes physically. I've got an attorney, Tom Landers. He says he knows you, by the way. He suggested that I hire you for protection because you are a true bastard. I am very afraid that when my husband gets word that I'm filing for a divorce, my life won’t be worth a plug nickel. It's been a while since I heard that phrase, and I told her so. She didn’t smile.

I’d made a pot of coffee earlier in the kitchen, but I was pretty certain I didn’t want anything to do with her problem, so I didn’t offer her a cup. But mine still had a bit of warmth, so I sipped it while I stared at her. I knew Tom Landers, and we were not what anyone would ever call friends. He was right when he described me as a bastard. I am, and he's just the guy who'd know.

The last time Landers and I had been in a room together he'd been an assistant DA for the State of Pennsylvania, and I'd been an investigator with the State Police. We were in the District Attorney’s office in downtown Philadelphia, and Landers was retiring without prejudice. That was the best deal his boss was willing to offer him under the circumstances, which we won't go into here.

Landers wouldn't do me any favors. Ever. So the cutie-pie sitting in my visitor’s chair probably meant trouble for me. Lots of trouble, if I knew Tom Landers.

My coffee went cold while I sat and stared at her. She sat there and took it, quietly. I thought again about going over to the diner for breakfast, and I knew I didn't want her along, since I wasn't going to buy her breakfast, or even a cup of coffee. I didn't owe her anything, and it suddenly seemed like she wasn't ever going to owe me anything, either. If Tom Landers sent her, I wasn't interested in getting involved with her and her problems.

I figured I’d better educate her a bit. Mrs. Adamson, we do not get involved in domestic problems. Period. But if you get him into court, and the court orders a legal separation, we can provide you with personal security twenty-four seven. We’ll do that. But I have to warn you right now that this is not a cheap proposition. To provide one officer at your side we will need to assign three officers full time, with a fourth on standby.

Then, like a good little investigator, I asked her a bunch of questions, took a reasonable amount of notes, including her phone number, and told her I'd be in touch. She gave a little sigh. I need someone now, Mr. Rankin. It seems that you aren't going to help me, either, are you?

Either? How many people have you spoken with, Mrs. Adamson?

Three, She said, naming all of the top three personal protection operators in Orlando. When I told Mr. Landers they had all refused, he gave me your name. He told me you probably wouldn't take the job, especially since he was involved, but he said if you did I'd be in better hands than I would be with any of the others. He said he'd hesitated to bring your name up first because the two of you had a history.

A ‘history’? We sure did, Sherlock.

She had her head tilted down, and looked at me through the softest, brownest bangs in the whole wide world. Her eyes looked to be on the verge of tearing, too. I was beginning to think that Landers was a bigger bastard than I was, sending her to me when he had to know I’d refuse to work for her just because he’d sent her.

I'll make some calls, Mrs. Adamson, check some stuff out. Whatever I decide, I'll be in touch and let you know.

She stood and gave her head a little shake, disappointment clear on her pretty face. She didn't say anything further, just went to the door, opened it, stepped out into the misty rain, and closed it quietly behind her. She hadn't been what you'd call a happy lady while she sat in my visitor’s chair, but my poor excuse of a home office was a whole lot dimmer without her in it. I felt sorry for her, but I had my own troubles, too.

At that point my thoughts were just about as glum and depressing as the rest of my life. Not that I had a life, mind you. It was all about work, all about building a business. I had no personal life to speak of. I’d climbed back onto the treadmill of building a business just because I figured that was what I was supposed to do. I was serving a penance for having screwed up very, very badly.

Now that she was gone I had to get over to the company office on West Colonial Drive for a few meetings my office manager had scheduled for later this morning. And I wanted to stop at the diner for a quick breakfast on the way. I’d have to call the office and let them know I was running late. Those meetings were likely to run past lunch, which made some sort of breakfast almost mandatory. By the way, I am the sole owner of Rankin Personal Security Services.

I only use the office here at my home when clients (or potential clients) insist on private meetings, as Mrs. Adamson had done. With a sigh, I picked up my now empty coffee cup and began to get up out of my chair. It was gonna be another busy day in paradise.

Which is when the whole world blew in on me. First the drapes, then the glass jalousies, the old steel window frames and then the whole damn cinder block front wall.

The blast blew me, my chair, my desk and the front wall up against the back wall, and dropped us all into a very messy, dusty heap of broken jalousie glass, bits of cinder block and the shredded ruins of my new drapes.

I spent the next twenty-four hours completely out of it. The second day I was occasionally conscious wishing I wasn't, groggy from the painkillers, and gratefully so.

The third day the docs brought me up out of the drugs for a few minutes to check things out. I didn't like that, at all.

A couple of days later they did it again, and this time I could actually carry on a brief conversation with my doc. Except for the ringing in my ears, which made it difficult to hear what he was saying. I learned all sorts of things. Like, I was in the secure wing of the hospital with a police officer right outside the door, I'd been in an explosion, and I was pretty banged up. The doc was very well informed for a young kid from Pakistan.

He did have some useful information; no broken bones was good news. I had suffered a serious contusion when my forehead slammed into the top of my desk, which is when my nose was broken and the skin over my left eye and another section along my jaw line on the right side were sliced open by chunks of glass from my jalousie windows. It is amazing, the young doc said while he examined the stitches on my face. Absolutely amazing, what we managed to find stuck in your back, buttocks and the backs of your legs. I was pissing blood due to blast trauma and the odd cinder block smacking into to my kidneys, and I had a lot of cuts, bruises, slices and gashes which they had spent some time cleaning and stitching for me.

We found lots of pieces of heavy yellow colored fabric, probably drapery material, along with bits of the clothes you were wearing that morning, yes? I nodded. He smiled and nodded as if he were glad to have that little mystery solved.

Yes, that is as we thought. Also we found small pieces of glass with bits of wire in it, maybe jalousie window, perhaps? I nodded again.

And small pieces of fiberglass thread, maybe window screen material, yes? I gave him another nod, at which he smiled his thanks.

And of course, bits of concrete block and mortar. All in all Mr. Rankin, you should write a short note of thanks to the makers of those draperies. It is that which slowed down many pieces of the projectiles. I think perhaps they have saved your life, yes? I thanked him for all the help.

Someone from Billing stopped by to get my insurance information, which I was happy to give them. I was happy to have insurance, happy to be alive, and happy to be able to talk. I was happy that my face was bruised and swollen and that my nose was plugged with cotton. I was happy to be pissing through a catheter. I was a regular Mr. Happy.

It must have been the drugs.

The next day the OPD Major Crimes investigators stopped by to chat. One, an Afro-American in his late fifties, and solidly built, was Lieutenant Michael Banks, from the Violent Crimes Section of the Homicide Unit, and his WASP partner, Sergeant Bill Forbes, about twenty years younger, with medium length brown hair and a lot slimmer than Banks. Better dressed, too.

I did know Jerry Boatwright, an investigator with Florida Department of Law Enforcement. People like Jerry don't stick their noses into local crime without very good reason. I was just conscious enough to know that what happened to Sheila Adamson meant that I had been dropped into some very deep yogurt by Tom Landers.

Jerry and I used to be best buds back when I was a captain in the Military Police and he was one of my lieutenants. He later came to work for me when I started Rankin Security in Tampa. A few years after that he decided he didn't like me so much when I screwed up big time and lost it all. A lot of people tended to agree with him.

If Jerry and I exchanged any words that morning, I don't remember them. But he looked at me, and I looked at him.

There were lots of questions starting to percolate up through the drugs and pain, but I was far too groggy to get a handle on any of them. I could hear most of what the investigators said, even though my ears were still ringing, but I couldn't talk worth a damn, so I did more listening than talking.

Lt. Banks started the questioning. He had a very quiet way of speaking, with a comfortable, easy-going Southern accent. You are Terrance Charles Rankin, is that correct?

I started to nod yes, but that hurt too much, so I muttered, Yes.

I understand that you are still in considerable pain, Mr. Rankin, Banks said. We’ll try to keep it short today. We do appreciate your willingness to speak with us.

So to speak. I couldn’t do much speaking, or thinking, or anything, right now. It’s okay, I muttered.

We’re still working our way through the ruins of your home, Mr. Rankin. You were using the front porch as an office, isn’t that right? I whispered yes. Just for your information, most of the structural damage from the explosion was limited to the front porch, but the fire and smoke damage to the rest of the structure was not insignificant. It’s pretty much totaled, actually. Well, it’s always better to know than to worry, I guess. I gave him another quiet yes, and allowed a sigh to escape. Talk about life being the pits.

Banks went on, We are mainly interested in the meeting your office manager told us you were going to have with a Mrs. Sheila Adamson. Can you give us any details of that meeting?

I shook my head, no. That seemed to work okay, so I did it again. I couldn’t nod, but I could shake. That seemed very important. Maybe I should tell my doctor about that.

Mr. Rankin? Are you still with us? the lieutenant asked.

Yeah, sure, I’d already learned that I could talk very quietly, so I went with that. Go ahead.

Your office said the appointment was for nine in the morning. What time did she arrive, Mr. Rankin? Banks asked.

Nine. On the dot. I guess we spoke for about fifteen, or maybe twenty minutes. Don’t remember too good what we talked about.

I could hear Forbes say something to Banks, but the ringing in my ears came back with a vengeance right then. Banks shook his head and Forbes stepped back.

I wanted to remember that day, even though I had no idea what day it was right then and there. I got up early, I started, quietly. Showered, shaved, put on a pot of coffee. Then I went into the living room, started stretching, did some light reps with the weights, some work on my heavy bag, some more stretching. Then I did my five mile run. It was cold, raining, too. Light, misty kind of rain. I remember that.

That’s right, Mr. Rankin. Kind of a dreary day all around. He was right on the money about that.

I hate running in the rain. When I got back I took a hot shower and changed into street clothes, made a cup of coffee. Wiped down my weight bench, put the weights back on the rack. Went out onto the porch that I used as an office and turned on the heater. Sat and drank my coffee.

What kind of business you in, Mr. Rankin?

I figured he already knew, but I told him, anyway. Rankin Personal Security Services. Personal protection. Bodyguard work. Short and long-term contracts.

Didn’t you used to work in Tampa, Mr. Rankin? Forbes asked.

Yeah, for about six years, ‘till Katrina hit New Orleans. Lost everything on a fast-track government contract in Mississippi. Bad move on my part. Had to sell the business to cover my debts.

Divorce, too, is that right? Forbes, again, the asshole.

If you’re asking, you already know, don’t you? Yeah, there was a divorce. When my wife heard that I had to sell the business to cover my bad decision to send security officers in the hurricane area, and to pay off my gambling debts, she filed for a divorce.

Whatever happened, she wasn’t gonna lose out if she could help it. She didn’t. I did. Everything. It’s hard on my ego, but even now I can’t really blame her. When she realized I couldn’t look out for her, she decided she had to look out for herself. Life’s tough. Get over it.

So, yes, I lost everything. Except a little bit of my self-respect. How I managed to hold onto that I’ll never know.

A lot of people buy into the Florida dream each year. I moved to Tampa from Pennsylvania nine years ago, at age thirty-six, to escape the snow and to enjoy the year-round sun. Some people come to Florida to retire.

I came to work.

I built a successful security business in Tampa based on my experience as an investigator in the Military Police and my years in the Pennsylvania State Police. A few years later I married a beautiful young woman I met at a party two months before.

I was born and raised on a west Texas cattle ranch, and here I was, flying high for the first time in my life. It proved too much.

Rebuilding my life after the failure of my business and the divorce made for a very interesting three years. And let's not mention all of the other lives that went through hard times as a result of my folly.

Like my employees, and their wives and kids. And my clients. But like I said, let's not mention them. Jerry Boatwright’s family, too. He and I served together in the MPs in Germany, and then, years later when I moved to Tampa and started my security business he came to work for me.

He tied his family’s future to my coat tails and I failed them. He still hadn’t said a word since he’d arrived with Banks and Forbes. He just stood in the background and listened.

You could say that I wound up in Orlando two years ago by default. I wasn’t about to stay in Tampa after the divorce, and Miami holds no interest for me. I did have a few clients in Orlando who stuck with me through the hard days, so I moved here, hired a few trained and bonded personal protection security officers, and started to build a new business.

The new business focused on providing personal protection services to corporate executives, media types and individuals at risk. Most were short term contracts, although the company does have retainers to provide services on an as-needed basis for a few corporations.

Some people say that forty-five is a great age to start a new career. I can’t really recommend it.

What happened, Banks? I asked. I knew I was waiting for a client, I knew the client arrived and we talked, and I knew I was in a hospital, now. I had no idea why.

We aren't a hundred percent sure, Mr. Rankin. That's why we're so interested in talking with you. What we figure so far is that your client, Mrs. Sheila Adamson, left the meeting at your home, walked out to her car, a Jaguar sedan, by the way, sat down in the driver’s seat, put the key into the ignition and died. The car blew up, Mr. Rankin. There were two charges, one under the driver’s seat and the second affixed to the gas tank.

My eyes closed for a few seconds as I relived an experience I couldn’t remember other than through Banks’ words.

Did you hear anything after Mrs. Adamson entered your office, Mr. Rankin? Another car, maybe?"

No, nothing. I heard her pull up onto the gravel in front of the house. I heard her car door open and shut and I heard her walk over the gravel to my door. Then we were talking. If another car pulled up close to the house and stayed on the asphalt drive I wouldn’t have heard it through the drapes.

I could hear Banks asking another question, but I went back to sleep.

About eleven o’clock that night I found myself in a sort of semi-dream state. I knew where I was, that the room was dark, filled with the quiet sound of beeping, clicking machinery, most of which was in some way attached to me. If I had any pain I wasn’t aware of it, doped up as I was, and very happy about that, too.

It was also clear to me that I owed my survival to the shape I was in.

Two or three times a week, I push myself just to prove that I can still do it. I’m six feet, two inches tall, weight about one-eighty-five, curly black hair with some gray in the temples, and blue eyes, and fairly well tanned from years working outside and the time I spend on the water.

Nobody is ever gonna mistake me for a kid again, but if I don’t stick to some kind of exercise program, they may mistake me for an overweight old man. Forty-five is a bit too old for all that foolishness, but I do it anyway, just because I can.

I remembered that morning. I remembered standing in my rarely used kitchen, wiping down the counter after I made myself a cup of coffee.

The living room held my weights and weight bench, and my heavy bag hung from the rafters. I looked it all over, considered the state of my life, and wondered just why I bothered anymore. Fortunately for me, I’m not a quitter.

The house was a loaner, belonging to one of my clients. It sat in the middle of one of the few citrus groves still existing in the middle of Orlando, Florida, and was last used years ago as the caretaker’s residence. It wasn't much; fifty years old, cinder block construction, steel casement windows, no central heat or air conditioning, no insulation in the walls and very little in the attic, and just barely habitable when I took it over.

But since I was going to be living there, I gave it a coat of paint inside and out. I kept the place neat and clean, though no one would ever mistake it for a show place.

The screened in front porch, which I used as my office, had been closed in long ago, with jalousie windows replacing the screens. If you don't know, jalousies leak. In winter, the damp, cold air just pours in. Heavy drapes didn't really solve the problem, but they did keep the cold and the damp from blowing onto my back when I sat at my desk.

It made a good home office for my personal protection agency, even though I didn't use it all that much. Most of my work was done in the field, either by me or by officers who worked for me on contracts. The business does have a real address up on West Colonial Drive. All of the administration work and hiring and supporting of the officers is done there. It was rare that a client insisted on meeting at my home. Usually I met them at their homes or places of business, where they could wow me with what they owned and controlled. Or I met their lawyer in his office and he got the chance to wow me. I was only rarely wowed, to tell you the truth.

There was an unmarked driveway between a lingerie store for soiled doves and a dry cleaner, on a fairly sleazy section of highway 441 just a few miles south of Colonial Drive. You drove between those two establishments, passed through a few old oaks for about a hundred feet to reach the orange grove. An asphalt drive took you into the grove about a quarter-mile.

The house stood to the right of the drive, with a graveled parking area in front. The paint was some kind of yellowish tan, now with dark streaks of mold along the lower courses of cinder block which insisted on growing right through the coat of paint I put on last summer. It had already started peeling in places.

The one bright spot of color about the place was my red Trans Am, sitting in the gravel parking area right in front of the house. That car was the only thing I had left from the bad old days of my marriage. Well, I still had my boat, too.

The client was due at nine am. I'd turned on my cell phone yesterday afternoon to check my messages, and called her back to confirm the appointment. After calling my office manager to let her know about the appointment I turned it off again. I'm not what you'd call a big conversationalist.

In my dream state I knew something horrible was going to happen. I knew I should get out and run, and never come back. I knew it was going to be ugly and people were going to be hurt. I wanted to run but I couldn’t find my way out of the house. A door opened and a spear of light launched itself at me. I tried to run but I was on my back, tied down. I couldn’t move. I fought to get loose, but I couldn’t.

I heard a woman yelling, and the sound of running. I felt hands on me, holding me down as I struggled to get away. Then I must have fallen into a real sleep.

Chapter 2

Friday, February 16 - Thursday, February 22

Orlando

The Pakistani doctor came to check on me the next morning. He said there was a note in the night log that I’d had a panic attack and the doctor on duty had authorized an increase in my meds. I sort of remembered the nightmare, I said. The doc asked if I wanted to speak with the cops again this morning, or maybe a trauma counselor. I said yes to the cops and no to the counselor, so he stepped outside and let the cops into the room.

There wasn't much I could tell them, simply because I didn't know, or couldn’t remember anything. I told them what I could, and asked them if they'd found my notes in the rubble. They said no to that, and admitted that the woman's car exploded with her in the driver's seat, with a secondary explosion closer to the gas tank being set off by det cord connecting the two quarter-pound charges of Semtex. I wanted to ask, why Semtex, but couldn't quite get a handle on the words.

They did add that I was only alive because the two charges were shaped, which indicated a reasonably high level of experience and training for whoever had prepared and set the explosives. The one under the driver’s seat had been designed so that the explosion would include the driver’s seat and the foot well. It blew straight up through the floorboard and the driver’s seat, through the victim and finally through the roof of the car. The one under the gas tank blew up into the gas tank and produced a very large fireball, probably with the aid of an accelerant of some sort tied in with the explosion.

Whoever built the charges and set them was no novice.

The charge under the seat practically vaporized Sheila Adamson. The one that hit the gas tank destroyed the car, along with any evidence.

There was just barely enough left of the car to haul away on a wrecker. The rest of it went into a few garbage cans.

What they could find of Sheila Adamson went into a baggy.

Forbes, the WASP OPD investigator, was thoughtful enough to tell me that my Trans Am was totaled. Apparently Mrs. Adamson had parked her Jaguar sedan right beside my ride. The remains of both vehicles were scattered as far as fifty yards from the blast site, which was represented by a very large hole in the parking area in front of what used to be my home.

Needless to say, they were curious if I'd seen anyone around the lady's car after she'd parked it in front of my office. So we worked up a sketch of my office, where I sat with my back to the front wall, where she sat, so they could understand how it was that I could hear her arrive but not see anything in the parking lot.

After twenty minutes of questions the Pakistani doc put a stop to the interrogation. I was starting to like the little guy. They said they'd be back in the next day or two.

Chapter 3

Friday, February 23 - Monday, February 26

Orlando

I don't remember the next day, but I do remember the following morning. I woke up because everything hurt. My nose felt like it had just been hit with a baseball bat. My back felt like it had been flayed and then skinned, and my kidneys felt like they were being kicked by an expert. I flailed around, looking for the call button. I wanted to be Mr. Happy again.

When the nurse did show up she was all smiles, all business and not a drop of mercy in her veins. The doc had left instructions to start reducing the painkillers, and she would be back later on to remove the catheter. This was not going to be a very good day. I was nauseous and filled with pain. Everything hurt. That night I slept like a baby. I woke up crying every two hours.

The next day was a bit better. I could sit up without my head spinning and feeling an almost overpowering need to vomit, and the headaches were not as severe (severe being a relative term). The ringing in my ears was almost tolerable, and I could piss standing up, provided I managed to stagger my way to the bathroom without falling on my face. The doc came by, gave me a quick checkup and said I was probably going to go home tomorrow, Monday. He said there were no signs of concussion or infection, and no blood in my urine, so there was no need to keep me. That I felt like the walking dead didn’t move him to change his opinion.

I barely got my mind around that thought and had just begun to focus on the fact that I didn’t have a home to go to anymore, when the boys from the OPD stopped by around eleven, along with my old buddy Jerry Boatwright.

This time, we did talk, and it wasn't pretty.

Jerry Boatwright walked in, his dark blue suit clean and pressed. He took the chair, and the two OPD investigators stood near the foot of the bed. I had the head of my bed up a bit, where I could see everyone.

Lt. Banks tossed a newspaper onto the table alongside the bed, saying, You’re ugly mug is on the front page, just below the fold. ‘Course the paper is two days old, but you didn’t look too interested in reading when we were here the other day. I saved it for you, though, just in case.

I thanked him, even though I wasn’t all that interested at the time. Maybe in a day or two, when thinking would be a little easier. The