Pamina and the Seven Owls

By Fleeta Cunningham

Pamina Woods is determined to make a career as a journalist, but the man she fancies wants to put her in the kitchen. She has the news story of a lifetime, but her editor keeps her at the society desk. She needs to tell the world what she knows, but a gangster will put her in the grave to stop her. She won't put up with anyone else's boundaries, regardless of the consequences.

Trey Carpenter, a young and seemingly quiet professor from back east, is in charge of arrangements for some aging academics doing summer research with the help of Pamina and her sister. He's ready to fall for the dashing Pamina, but after visiting a notorious speakeasy and witnessing an abduction that results in murder, Pam, Trey, and the professors race across Texas in Trey's bright red car, fleeing the gangster's henchmen.

Ambitious, passionate, and a little reckless, Pam will write her story, even if it kills her, with Trey doing his best to protect her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Jan 28, 2019
• ISBN: 9781509224203

Fleeta Cunningham

A fifth generation Texan, Fleeta Cunningham has lived her entire life in Texas, both small towns and big cities. Drawing on all of them, she writes about the unique character--and characters--of the southern states. After a career as a law librarian for a major Texas law firm, writing a monthly column for a professional newsletter and other legal publications, she returned to her home in Central Texas to write full time. Fleeta has been writing in one form or another since the age of eight. When she isn't writing, she teaches creative writing classes, makes quilts, and designs miniature gowns for her huge collection of fashion dolls.

Book preview

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She settled deeper in the seat, doing a quick rearrangement in her head of the facts. Trey didn’t need all the details, and she had to keep the recital bright and lively, offhand, like an amusing prank. So we got to talking, and suddenly I realized what a great story I could make out of her side of things. I sort of encouraged her to tell me all the details. One thing led to another, and she invited me to go to her boarding house for coffee; she had friends there who could confirm her part of the story. I wanted to be sure I was getting the truth, and I went. Only—she managed an amused chuckle—only the boarding house wasn’t anything like the boarding houses I’ve lived in. Just girls, all half dressed in the middle of the afternoon, drinking coffee and eating cake. Unless they’re actresses or have evening jobs, it’s a cathouse. I didn’t ask too many questions. Anyway, we were just sitting there drinking coffee and visiting. A couple of the other women agreed with what she’d said, but even without their details, I could see what a sad little thing she was. Not very pretty and not very smart about life. Just a pathetic girl caught in a situation she didn’t know how to handle. Pam sat back in the seat as Trey urged the big car back into the street. I had my story and was just getting ready to leave when there was all this racket at the doors. Then those doors flew open and the police came tearing into the place.

They raided the place? That’s how you wound up at the jail?

Praise for Fleeta Cunningham

"It has been a very long time since I read a Western/Historical Romance as well-written and enjoyable as MALE-ORDER CATALOGUE. And despite the amusing title, the book is not a romantic comedy; there’s serious romance, mystery, and suspense along the way."

~Sensuous Reviews

~*~

I enjoyed the wit and lightheartedness of this story and am hoping to learn more about Matt and Lavinia. This is a great read…a small town feel, lots of chuckles throughout.

~Coffeetime Romance

~*~

The vintage Santa Rita series: Well-crafted story… exciting plot… interesting characters.

~The Romance Studio (5 Stars)

~*~

"COWBOY AFTER FIVE is wonderful, absorbing, and tender. Love the character development of all protagonists. I cried through the last chapter…."

~T. Noel Osborn, PhD

~~*~~

Please Note: A glossary of 1920s slang has been included on page 349, at the end of the book, in case some of the words and phrases used in the story are puzzling.

Pamina and the Seven Owls

by

Fleeta Cunningham

Flapper Follies, Book 2

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Pamina and the Seven Owls

COPYRIGHT © 2019 by Fleeta Cunningham

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Rae Monet, Inc. Design

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Vintage Rose Edition, 2019

Print ISBN 978-1-5092-2419-7

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2420-3

Flapper Follies, Book 2

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

In memory of the Suffragettes

who persisted until women got the vote,

the girls who waged war on the home front

until Johnny could march home,

and all the career women who didn’t believe

Girls can’t and Nice girls don’t

and Let a man handle it.

Thank you, ladies,

for giving the Millennial Women a better chance.

Books by Fleeta Cunningham

available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

Santa Rita Series:

Don’t Call Me Darlin’

Black Rain Rising

Elopement for One

Half Past Mourning

Cry Against the Wind

Male-Order Catalogue

The Shame of Merline Gates

~*~

Bal Masque

Close Encounter with a Crumpet

Help Wanted: WIFE

Double Wedding, Single Dad

Till the World is Safe for Dreams

Cowboy After Five

~*~

Discerning Hearts Series:

Innocent Journey

Journey Beyond the Dream

Serpentine Journey

Journey to Reunion

~*~

Flapper Follies Series:

Diana and the Three Behrs

Pamina and the Seven Owls

Six Owls and a Kat

Chapter 1

Woods! Type this as I dictate. It’s a murder, and we’ve got the story first. Our man at headquarters telephoned it in.

He doesn’t think I’m reporter enough to write up a hot story myself, but he’ll always let me type one for him. Pamina rolled a fresh sheet into her typewriter and nodded at Croaker to begin. Fine, chief. I’m ready.

Body of a young man, found early this morning, in a wooded area north of the city near a well-known night spot. No identification possible due to shotgun blast to the face. Body was unclothed and wrapped in a yellow rain slicker. Croaker went on to add a newsman’s who, what, when, where, and how, but Pam typed the words automatically, the gist of the story barely registering after the initial shock.

Yellow rain slicker? Night spot north of town? Her mind reeled. A sick, sinking sensation gripped her. Just beyond Tommy Gunn’s place? It has to be… Haver…doesn’t it? She typed mechanically as Croaker raced on, filling out the facts of the case.

You got all that, Woods?

Pam swallowed hard and took a quick glance at the last page as she rolled it out of her machine. I have it. And we were there. Diana saw…

Give it to me. I’ll take a final look. We’ll break the story. Sure to beat the competition with this one. Croaker snatched the pages, gave her a sidelong glance, then looked her squarely in the face. You’re kinda green, girl. That description, shotgun blast to the face, that got to you, didn’t it?

Pam couldn’t tell the editor why the story hit her so hard. She closed her eyes and nodded mutely. …the men who took Haver out the back door…she described them…

See, that’s what I mean. You keep wanting to be a reporter, but it’s no business for a kid like you. If just typing the words makes you queasy, what would looking at the real thing—a bloody corpse—do to you? Reporting the news is no game for a girl. He stacked the pages together and started for his own desk, then pointed toward the door. Get out of here for a while, Woods. Go get some air. Don’t come back today. Quit thinking about the newspaper business. You aren’t cut out for the hard stuff. It’s a rough game, even for an old buzzard like me, sometimes.

Pam didn’t protest, and if Croaker was surprised, she didn’t notice. And we were talking to Charlie. He’s dead. And Haver, too. Her head was spinning with what the breaking story meant for her and her sister. She’d have to tell Diana the news, and she’d have to confess that other little matter, the squib on the society page, as well. She’d have to tell Trey and the professors, too. They weren’t in the thick of it, not like she and Di and Trey were, but all of them would have to know. She’d been there before, been to Tommy Gunn’s place, and more than once. Would Gunn remember her? Could he actually have seen one red-haired girl, one blonde, and two men at the corner table? He’d been in the speakeasy the same time they were. Would he have noticed them? Pam didn’t think they’d drawn any attention, but Gunn was sharp, and he and his people kept track of who came into his place.

Grabbing her hat, her handbag, and the morning paper beside it, Pam clattered down the dark old stairs to the first floor, the floor where traffic was constant with the flow of advertisers pushing their wares and leg men bringing details to fill out stories waiting to go to press. She sidestepped men who, intent on their mission, didn’t see her in their path. Once outside, she leaned, limp and half sick, against the dingy brick wall. If Gunn remembers me, or one of his men does and mentions me being there with reporters before, Di and I…he could come after us. Her blue faille crepe, so fresh when she’d put it on that morning, felt heavy as a wagon sheet and just as hot, depleting what little energy she had left for dealing with anything but the turmoil in her head. The Texas summer sun beat a merciless blast into Fort Worth’s teeming street. Come on, chum. You’ve got to move, got to tell Diana. Don’t let her hear it from somebody else.

The jangle of a streetcar forced Pam out of her dazed state. Determined to get to Diana before the news reached her some other way, Pamina hurried for the stop, high heels and heat hampering her run. After she boarded, she realized this car wasn’t going past the hotel where Diana was working. It turned three blocks before the hotel stop.

Gives me time to think about what I’m going to say to Diana—and Trey, of course. I’ll have to tell him. Young Haver dead, murdered by…by somebody who works for Tommy Gunn. That’s obvious from what Di saw, what she told us. But why? And why was he in a speakeasy, surrounded by booze, cards, and vice, in the first place? What on earth could the son of our most vocal, reform-minded preacher have been doing in a place known for all the iniquities his papa is trying to eradicate? And why would they kill him? And what is it going to mean for us, Di and me?

She couldn’t actually think about Haver, a young, eloquent, well-known personality around the city. Her thoughts went back over her visit to Gunn’s establishment and to Charlie, the friendly bartender who’d been willing to answer the questions about Butch Cassidy that Trey put to him on behalf of the professors Diana worked for. Nice fellow, Charlie. And he’d seemed interested in the professors’ project, or at least the money they offered for his time. But he’d died, too, suddenly and violently, that very night. Perhaps his motorcycle accident was just that, an accident. Applesauce! Maybe pigs can fly! Maybe his crash was only an unfortunate coincidence that prevented his interview with the old boys the next morning. Maybe, but I don’t buy it! Not on the same night as the preacher’s son and within a mile or so of the same place. Not likely!

Pamina couldn’t bring herself to believe it. First Charlie died in a motorcycle accident after leaving Tommy Gunn’s place, then young Haver was murdered, not long after Diana and Archie saw him bundled out Gunn’s back door, apparently too splifficated to navigate on his own. No, she couldn’t stretch coincidence that far.

Pamina looked up and realized the streetcar was stopping as close as it would get to the hotel and Diana. She hurried to join the other passengers exiting the car and braced herself for the long, hot, three-block walk.

Wilted and apprehensive, pulling her hat low to shield her face, Pamina climbed the stairs to the hotel sitting room the professors had designated as their office. She’d barely reached the door, was about to knock, when she heard the sharp tap of heels on the floor. Diana was rushing along the corridor. One look at Diana told Pam her sister had heard the news about the grim discovery.

Is it… Diana stumbled over the question.

Has to be Haver, she whispered. Pretty well has to be. Catching Di’s hand, Pamina pointed at the door. I don’t want to talk about it out here. Let’s get out of the hall.

Diana unlocked the door and hurried inside. Pamina wrinkled her nose at the wave of stale pipe and cigar smoke, and perhaps a hint of brandy, lingering in the room. The old boys must have made a night of it after they learned the garrulous bartender had died in what the newspapers called an accident. This additional death cast strong suspicion on that conclusion in Pam’s mind. Diana was hurrying to open the curtains and push up the windows, and a breath of cleaner air began to replace stale smoke.

Pamina tossed her bag and the folded newspaper on the table. Beside her bag lay typed pages, the pages Diana must have left for her academic owls the night before. As Diana shoved two armchairs nearer the open window, Pamina grabbed the loose sheets and skimmed them, then turned to her sister.

What have you heard, Di?

No details. Just that somebody—picnickers, I think—found a dead man this morning. No identification, no clothes, even, but someone mentioned a yellow rain slicker. Diana dropped into the armchair like a discarded rag doll. I…I hoped I was wrong, but…we saw the man in the yellow slicker…at Tommy Gunn’s place. And, well, I thought about Charlie. The slicker and Charlie and the motorcycle. What he said about forgetting what Dr. Pearce and I saw. It was Haver, wasn’t it?

Pamina hid behind Di’s typed pages. "Nobody’s actually said who it is, not yet." Her throat felt strained and tight. She could barely force the words. I have to tell her. I have to tell all of it. She looked up, facing Diana. One of the crime reporters was at the police station this morning and called in the story. Croaker himself took it and wrote the story—actually, he dictated it to me. Sounds as if some sheik and his sheba got a nasty climax to their early morning petting party. So far, nobody’s come up with an identification. But the body was wrapped in a yellow slicker. It wasn’t far from where Charlie had his…accident. If somebody—some respectable professors and their secretary, for instance—managed to connect things for them, I think a lot of police assumptions might change.

Diana trembled at the suggestion. But nobody knows we were there. Or that we saw anything. A worry line formed across her forehead. Do they?

Pam slumped in her chair. Without answering, she unfolded the newspaper and handed it to her sister. "Remember when I told you I’d had a little chat with one of the gossip columnists? I’d just asked a question or two about Sheldon Haver, harmless questions, nothing noteworthy. Routine gossip like we trade back and forth most days. Not even suggestive. Guess it was enough to get her attention. When I picked up my copy of the paper this morning, I noticed a few lines, a bit of idle gossip. Idle gossip. Remind me there is no such thing." She pointed to a small item in the column in the upper corner and read, Is the son of a well-known minister, highly regarded for his labors in the reform movement, doing a little practical research on sin in one of the city’s better-known dens of iniquity? This newspaper’s reliable sources tell us the young man was escorted out Tuesday night, apparently not ambulating under his own power. One can carry first-hand observation, even for a worthy cause, to extremes, don’t you think, S.H.?

Pam! No!

Swallowing hard, Pamina nodded. I’m afraid so. Di, I just didn’t think before I opened my mouth. It seemed like innocent chatter, sharing what was sort of a joke on the mighty Haver family. Not that I specifically said we were the ones who saw something or suggested it was anything but gossip. I thought young Sheldon’s private vice might be common knowledge over in Gossip Central. That’s the only reason I said anything. She turned away; she couldn’t face Diana’s reaction to her confession. "I work for the paper. I should know better; everyone’s nose is down, sniffing for a story, and the Havers are hot copy. Truly, I didn’t think before I spoke, but I never thought it would get into print. And, of course, I didn’t know about Charlie then. Certainly, I never expected anything like…like a body, wrapped in a slicker." She shuddered at the vision.

Charged silence filled the room. She heard Diana sigh. Her sister’s words came slowly and with hesitation. I suppose…we should go to the police. They’ll find out about us anyway, if they question your friendly gossip columnist. Diana’s thoughts echoed her own. No matter how casual you were, they’ll probably get to us. Someone will see that bit in the paper. I’m sure they’ll tie all the threads together as soon as the Havers report their son is missing. Diana paused again as if considering. No, you don’t have to go to them, I guess. You didn’t see the car, or the men, or watch Charlie ride off after them. I did, and Dr. Pearce did, though with his eyesight, he probably couldn’t identify anybody across a dark parking lot. He did hear Charlie’s warning and knew Charlie roared off after that car. He could swear to that.

Pamina leaned forward to grasp her sister’s hand. The minute the police find out you and Pearce saw those men, everybody else will, too. Including the men in that car. Remember? We’ve seen it happen before. Flipping through the pages Diana had typed the night before, she pointed to a paragraph on the last page. Look, right here. I was sure I remembered what you said. You described them, the tall, narrow-faced one with the moustache and the other one you said looked like an angry elf. I’ll bet the police could name them just from what you wrote down. The minute they start looking for these hoodlums, the hoodlums are going to start looking for you. If the man who was killed was Sheldon Haver, and we both know it’s not likely to be anyone else, everybody in town is going to be clamoring for a swift arrest. It’s going to be hot in Fort Worth, Texas, and not just because we’re having a heat wave.

Diana took the pages and stared at them. Then what else can I do? I have to tell them, Pam. The men who did this must be brought to justice. It scares me sick, but I don’t know what else to do.

Pam moved closer and sat on the arm of Diana’s chair, one hand on her sister’s shoulder. It’s my fault, Di. I mean it. If I hadn’t been trying to butter up the gossip columnist, hoping to find an angle for a story of my own, none of this would have come out. Guilt at her own foolhardy action swept over her. If I hadn’t told Trey about Tommy Gunn and Charlie and suggested we go out there, we wouldn’t have seen anything. No one would be looking for a witness. There wouldn’t have been one. It’s my responsibility. I should be the one to go to the cops.

Diana squirmed under her sister’s restraining hand, shaking her head at the suggestion. You didn’t see them, Pam. I did. You couldn’t pull off pretending it was you. Diana closed her eyes, deep in thought. We’re getting ahead of ourselves. We don’t know, not for certain, that Sheldon Haver was the victim. We aren’t certain how Charlie died. Until the police have identification, they have no reason to connect that little note in the paper with Haver or Charlie. Or us.

Pamina pulled away, rejecting Di’s argument. "When Reverend Haver reports his son missing, the son of a prominent man who’s made a name for himself trying to get drinking and gambling places closed down, it won’t be long before the bits all connect. It may be a day or two before the story is spread over the newspapers—we can hope for a couple of days—unless Tommy Gunn reads the gossip columns and begins to get worried about who saw what. Then he’ll get pretty anxious to be sure nobody tells anything to the police."

The girls stared at each other, trying to see a course, then jumped, startled as the hotel room door began to open.

This looks like a serious family meeting. Trey Carpenter closed the door softly. Because he managed the day-to-day affairs of the group, Pam had known he’d likely be the first one into the office. She wished she and Di had been able to talk a little more before he came in. Bad news, girls? A death in the family? Diana didn’t answer, only sank back into the armchair, pale and shaking.

Knowing she’d have to deal with his questions, and the sooner the better, Pam answered him, That’s about it, Trey. Except the death was in someone else’s family this time. It might as well be ours. We’re likely to be part of the mopping up.

Seriously? Pam, you’re white as a sheet. Diana looks ready to run out of here like the room was on fire. He took Pamina’s hand in his and drew her back to the armchairs by the window. Here, sit down. He pulled the straight chair from Diana’s work table and planted it to face the two girls. Putting his straw boater on the lamp table, he sat down, looking from one to the other as if gauging the weight of the situation. All right, I’m listening. Tell me, what has you two utterly modern flappers cowering like frightened children?

Pam exchanged a look with her sister, and losing her nerve, said, Tell him, Di. He’ll have to know, because of Archie.

Diana squared her shoulders and leaned forward, her voice little more than a whisper. We are cowering. I guess you could say we’re frightened. Scared to death is more like it. Bracing herself, she went on. It’s that odd little thing Dr. Pearce and I saw behind Tommy Gunn’s the other night. And what happened to Charlie. And… She hesitated. It looks like the man in the slicker, the one Pam recognized at Gunn’s, it looks like he was murdered…probably by those men who took him in the car. And I saw them.

Wait, Diana. You’re not making much sense. A man was murdered? How do you know? What’s happened since last night to lead you to such a harebrained idea?

Pam grabbed Diana’s hand, squeezing it. Not harebrained, Trey. It’s the goods. Listen. Here’s the down and dirty. She drew a breath and spelled out the events of the morning, not sparing herself for her part in getting the damaging bit of gossip into the newspaper. Di and Archie probably saw the men who bumped him off. That’s the whole horse.

Trey, his dark eyes growing wider behind his glasses with each revelation, finally stopped her. You’re sure the body they found is this preacher’s son? Even though the police haven’t made an identification? Think about it. If you’re wrong about who the victim is, your entire premise fails.

I’m making a leap, I know, Trey, but not much of one. Pam sat back in her chair, rolling her shoulders to lessen the tension. Really, I don’t see how it could be anyone else. I know the man who came into the bar was Sheldon Haver.

Trey interrupted her. How can you be certain, Pam? The bar was pretty dark. You saw him for, what, not more than ten or twelve seconds. He had that slicker pulled close, the collar right up against his face. Could you be mistaken? Could it have been another man with a similar build?

Pam shook her head. Trey, I’ve known Sheldon Haver for a long time. Not that I was a guest at his house or went to his church. Not that way. I’ve been with the paper for years, and I’m always trying to find a story, something that will get me into straight reporting, so I go to political meetings. He’s frequently one of the honored guests on the stage, and I try to ask him a question, get a quote for the paper. I sit in the audience when he makes a speech. I see him, during the course of a month, at least three or four times. Once I even caught him on the way to lunch with his father and made some small conversation with him as we walked up the stairs together. Believe me, I know Sheldon Haver when I see him.

It was definitely Haver at Tommy Gunn’s? No doubts?

Pam held up her right hand as if taking an oath. I swear it was. Disguised or not, with or without that slicker, the man in Tommy Gunn’s was Sheldon Haver. The body they found, according to a reporter who was there, was wrapped in a yellow rain slicker. That was all he was wearing, no identification from anything else, but they aren’t common here. It wasn’t too far from Tommy Gunn’s place. Charlie died just down the road a couple of miles. Di and Archie saw both of them leave. It all adds up.

Then you’re right to be scared.

I have to go to the police, don’t I, Trey? Diana interrupted before Pam could go on. Even if word gets out about a possible witness, and Gunn hears about it? Starts looking for that witness himself? I have to report what I saw.

Wouldn’t you run the risk of Gunn finding out who you are? He shook his head. I don’t know that you should, Diana. I’m not certain what you need to do at this point. I know things can leak from police investigations, and you don’t need to take a reckless chance that this might. The first thing is to confirm your conclusions. They seem sound, but I think we need wiser heads. He glanced at the clock on the table. The guys were up pretty late last night bemoaning the loss of Charlie and the information he could have given them, but I think it’s time to get them in on this discussion. If you’re a witness, and so is Archibald, that’s not a good thing. His age, his eyesight, and his academic brain are going to make anything he tells the authorities suspect. Still, he’s involved, and I think he has a right, and a need, to be in the discussion. The others may have material views. I’m going to have lunch sent up here. While it’s coming, I’ll get with Archibald and the others and explain things to them. They can talk it over, wrangle it out. El is about the only one King will listen to, and Getty seems to hear Archibald better than anyone else. You girls take a breath and think about something else for a bit. The old boys may squabble and bicker, but where one is in a bad spot, the others are on hand to help out. One for all and all for one, as I told you before, Diana. They’ll feel the same way toward you. You ladies are part of this merry band of scholarly buccaneers.

He started toward the door, then turned back. By the way, Diana, you seem to have done something rather fetching with your hair. I believe it’s…what did I hear that young woman say in the hallway? Oh, yes, it’s the bee’s knees. Or was it the elephant’s eyelashes?

For the first time, Pamina took a long look at her sister. Something was…different.

Oh, lord, Di! You cut your hair! I was so caught up in the Haver thing, I didn’t even see it. But you did, you cut the mane. And it looks vampy, pos-i-lute-ly vampy.

****

Pamina watched the group assemble. Diana’s wooly owls, convening to help out two damsels in distress. Ha! They’re sweet, but not one of the seven could open a Cracker Jack box without written instructions and a diagram. Not a white knight among them. Well, maybe Trey would like to be. He’s younger and not quite as wooly-minded as the other six. Pam had to admit that young man, with his handsome profile and deep brown eyes, gave her a deliciously squirmy feeling and was worth a daydream or two, in spite of this owlish association.

She watched Dr. Elmsford pat his pockets for his pipe, locate it, and put it to one side in readiness. Simon Getty, as round as a partridge, moved closer to the center. He was too deaf to follow conversation if he strayed to the sidelines. Holmes, as pompous as a visiting potentate, strutted in swinging his indispensable ebony cane, and took the larger of the two armchairs as if ascending a throne. Plump and bald, his thick eyeglasses catching and reflecting sunlight, Archibald Pearce drew up a straight chair and spread an untidy sheaf of papers across the table. Dr. King, as tall and thin as Pearce was rotund, leaned over to confer with Pearce as Withers nattered and fussed in the background. Though King claimed Withers as his assistant, the nervous little man played scout to all of them, often creating more confusion than he eliminated. Last to join the group, but by far the most interesting in Pam’s mind, Trey Carpenter drew his chair up between her and her sister.

I’ve explained the situation, and El thinks he and the others may be able to help, Pam. Trey sounded reassuring, but the furrow between his brows suggested a deeper concern.

I’m forced to say, based on what Trey tells me, we’ve let you young ladies in for a most unpleasant set of circumstances. Dr. Elmsford tamped down his pipe and relit it. I apologize for permitting my own quest for the historical outlaw to bring you face to face with a modern one.

If you hadn’t been looking for some trace of Butch Cassidy, we might not have gone to Tommy Gunn’s. But I’m the one