Author Archive for M. Toole

STATE MAY OUTLAW GRAVY

(Denver) There was white gravy on the floor of the state senate this afternoon as lawmakers discussed a controversial bill that would limit and, in extreme cases, even criminalize the consumption of gravy in Colorado.

Saying that the inclusion of gravy on such decadent foods as mashed potatoes and noodles is “too much fun for the Coloradans to handle” Senator Oral Noise (Unitarian-Aurora) called for a straw vote. This primitive approach to ballot bouncing seemed to confuse the gallery and sent most legislators into a tail spin. Noise called the move expeditious which, colloquially speaking, could mean the hand is quicker than the eye, according to his critics.

The governing body placed the bill on the summer docket due to a long held belief that “if the state can’t tax it the people don’t need it”. Other more conservative elements in both the house and senate fear foreign influence in the kitchen.

“Just when does gravy become sauce?” asked Noise.

The senate is expected to vote on the measure as soon as they’ve had lunch, a tough, dry salisbury steak served on white bread.

Gravy, a mainstay on the Western Slope has fallen into disfavor of late due to cholesterol-conscious helpers and tofu pirates who say the stuff is not good for you. Proponents of gravy say these people are under the assumption that the government has some sacred right to decide what we should pour over our food.

Gravy is currently legal in Utah and parts of Wyoming.

 

Gitano Summer

by Uncle Pahgre

 

That the Egyptians and the Chaldean strangers

Known by the name of Gipsies, shall henceforth

Be banished from the realm as vagabonds.

– Longfellow: The Spanish Student

Just about the time the gray hairs outwit their youthful counterparts it becomes clear that our memory fades as well. Episodes of youth are shrouded in the pure green paradise of summer, which lasts forever. When I was a boy it never even seemed to get dark on summer nights along the San Miguel.

Then the great snows of Depression Decembers amounted to at least twenty feet dumps, not paltry six inch flirtations common to the mountains today. Flooded pastures and crisp quake leaves filled in the gaps of the daily celebration.

That’s what some remember, the pleasantries, the simplicity of the Rockies. Others, who were offered the same joys, recall the strife and that’s the basic difference between the old gentleman who strolls the cigar evening, cane in hand and the curmudgeon who sits whining in his wilting rocker, the victim of it all, damning his final hand of cards before the deal is over.

In was one of these summers, 1937 or 1938 that Placerville cautiously received the Gypsies from Spain. For decades our town had been a major railway hub shipping cattle and ore along with hardrocker necessities and food to feed the hungry miners up in Telluride. The rails brought a landed assortment of humanity from bums to bankers. Local cowboys, dreaming they had finally made the big time in Dodge or Abilene kept the local sheriff busy on Saturday nights. Otherwise his position demanded visiting his constituency and drinking their lemonade on the peaceful porches of the San Juans. I had just turned ten years old the night the Gypsies pulled their brightly painted wagon into town.

“Watch out, they’re gypsies,” said Mrs. Strongwell from her sun porch, the one built for her by her son, before he left for the trenches of France in 1917. “What do they want here,” she continued, throwing fear into the little bones of her grandsons, moonstruck behind pioneer curtains at the nomadic entourage spilling from the waggish carriage.

“They want to sharpen your knives and repair your pots and pans,” said Dr. Twill, the local dentist and the closest thing to a mayor that we had. “They don’t mean any harm.”

“I saw them up in Leadville last month and they were nothing but trouble,” quacked another citizen. “They steal horses and put evil curses on people. They read palms, relish fortunes and sell sugar pill remedies for everything from broken hearts to the gout.”

The dark-skinned cargo ascended from the wagon as one copper smith surrounded himself with unfinished wares and began to tune his violin. The Roma children looked around at the bustling little burg intent on new friendships and maybe a little mischief. The men announced their services, quite accustomed to the hostile stares of the stay-at-home world.

“Maybe they have whiskey,” said a thirsty Mr. Brennan, who had come across the Atzigan in France in the early Twenties on his way to America. “They always have bootleg of some sort…and cigars.”

“I don’t trust them. Just look at their patchwork clothing,” continued Mrs Strongwell. “Those horses look too good to be pulling around a carnival wagon like that one. I wonder where they stole them.”

Brennan took offense.

“We had gypsies in Ireland, but we called them Travelers,” explained Brennan. “Some say they arrived from India via Persia, others said they were the landless ancestors of those orphaned during the Cromwellian Wars of the 1600s. Displaced at best, they wandered my island under the constant scrutiny and suspicion of near-do-wells who themselves had little more than a thatched roof over their heads. I guess everyone has to have someone to look down on so as to prop up their precarious existence…”

“Say what you will, Brennan, popped Carl Perkins, a Cousin Jack from Marshal Basin, “but I’ll be keeping a close eye on that bunch. They’ll steal anything that ain’t nailed down good.”

I remember asking my father if he had a nail of two to spare reflecting on treasures such as my fishing pole, my American Flyer and my Joe Lewis photo up on the wall next to my bed. I sure hoped the Gypsies didn’t come and take them.

“I tell you there’ll be trouble until we run them out of town,” said Perkins.

The patriarch of the Gypsy family couldn’t help but feel the weight of the bucolic reception. He was a veteran of the kind of discrimination aimed at those who would reject assimilation, even on the rare occasion that it is offered. People who stay to themselves and jealously guard their diminished culture don’t mix well. The only reason they had ventured into town was to buy provisions, sharpen knives and perhaps trade a horse or two.

“Fine looking horses they’ve got,” repeated Mrs. Strongwell.

These wanderers were recent refugees from the civil war that ravaged their native Spain, outcasts from a conflict that had not officially requested their presence but churned up their lives anyway. The kindred’s grandfather had joined the Anarchist Party in 1935 after bold strikes had gained a little leverage for starving peasants in Andalusia. He worked in the fields, harvesting grapes for the wealthy sherry producers around Sanlucar.

One day in 1936, after the Nationalists had liberated Cadiz he was taken from the fields by a Falangist gang and murdered in a nearby ditch with about 20 other leftists, who had no politically ideology except their hunger. The Fascists had no tolerance for Reds, especially low-caste tinkers who joined the unions and burned churches. It was soon after that his son, Emile, sold what little he had  and escaped to America with his new wife and the remnants of both families.

After a sojourn into the local market, where they traded in services and paid the rest in gold, the residue of rovers wandered back to their camp, set up along the river near Specie Creek. It was there that the local sheriff, bored of cowboys and lemonade, would visit them that night.

Emile, who had crowned himself King of the Gypsies (a title confused in the translation from Romani to English) since there were no other Gypsy pretenders in earshot to denounce his throne, greeted the lawman from atop a stunning white Arabian.

“Where did you manage to acquire such a fine horse?” he asked.  abruptly as Emile’s family watched from the campfire. “Did she just wander into your camp one night?”

“I traded two raindrop colts for her over near St. Elmo,” answered Emile. “I’ve got a bill of sale here…”

“No reason to produce a piece of paper what may or may not be legit,” said the sheriff. “Fine horse. I hope you folks ain’t looking for trouble. We’ve got a nice little town here and I won’t have a bunch of gypsies throwing a wrench into things. You can stay until you’ve completed your rounds here but at the first sign of trouble I’ll lock you up and ask questions later.”

Emile, accustomed to harsh treatment from the authorities, smiled and said he understood the sheriff’s concerns, adding that there would be no problems and that his family would be gone by the end of the week.

That was the same night that Arnold Blackman’s young quarter horse came up missing.

“One minute he was in the corral and the next he was gone,” explained Blackman at the sheriff’s office. “He’s a lazy beast and has never shown the inclination to wander from the bountiful pasture near my cabin. I can’t explain it. Even if he took off he’d surely be back by now.”

The sheriff rode back out to the gypsy camp and, interrupting the evening’s music, demanded to see Emile.

“We got a quarter horse missing from the Blackman place. Know anything about it?” he accused, spitting chew from the hole under his long drooping mustache.

“No, sir,” answered Emile.

“You know that horse stealin’ is still a hanging offense in this part of the country,” he frowned. “Now tell me what you know about the disappearance.”

With his family dumb struck Emile denied any knowledge of the occurrence.

“You’ll be coming with me until you regain your memory,” said the sheriff. “We don’t cotton to thieves around here. Nobody steals nothin. The last time a horse turned up missing there were your kind about.”

Emile smiled attempting to take the heat off his tribe. As his children looked on he agreed to accompany the lawman to the local jail, a cedar log shack at the far eastern end of town. And, while his family tried to make sense of it all, that’s where he spent the night.

“Your damn right he’s got Blackman’s quarter horse. They’ve hidden it in the woods,” said Mrs. Strongwell.

“Lord knows what else they’ve walked off with,” said Perkins. “Sticky-fingered bastards. I say let’s burn them out tonight. Then maybe the big cheese will start to melt.”

Mr. Brennan then spoke up.

“We’ve got no proof of any wrongdoings on the part of those people. You can’t just…”

“No proof!” cracked Perkins sarcastically. “Did you take the horse, Sam or did he just vanish? The Irish don’t steal, or do they?” he pushed.

Brennan just glared back in the face of Perkins, considering his options with the much larger miner.

“Sam Brennan is not under suspicion here, Perkins,” said Mr Twill. “The animal could be anywhere.”

“He’s somewhere under that gypsy tent,” continued Perkins. “I say we load up, go on out there and see for ourselves.”

“Not so fast,” said the sheriff. “If he’s guilty he’ll pay dearly. I assure you. But until we have proof there’ll be no more of that talk.”

The whole town was soon abuzz with rumors about gypsies, magic potions and enchanted horses. Some said the nomads had secret powers over the living. Others shuddered that they were in league with the dead, or worse. The sheriff returned from a cross-examination at the jail with nothing to report.

“Tomorrow we’ll search for proof and question the rest of his band,” said the sheriff. “They won’t leave the county with their leader in jail. I told that bohemian that he could save a lynching if he came to and told the truth but he denied any connection with the disappearance.”

“Meanwhile I’m out a good horse,” shrugged Blackman. “I don’t trust those people…”

“There’s one way to be sure that he won’t steal again,” said Perkins. “I won’t stand for gypsies coming into my country stealing and laying out curses…I say let’s string him up now!”

The strawberry vigilantes had regrouped at the Blackman place. The threat of spilled blood was already on their hands. A rope hung on the wall. A man was in the cell. A large cottonwood lingered with wide gaps on its dance card for the evening.

“What are we thinking?” sensed Mr. Twill. “What insanity! If you kill you’ll never be the same people, even if he’s guilty of stealing 100 horses! We must maintain a sense of justice or we’re no better than common murderers.”

“Stealing is stealing and hanging is hanging,” chimed in Mrs. Strongwell. “What other choices do we have? I say burn them out and run them down the road. Then we, as a town, can replace Blackman’s stolen mount. We don’t want those people skulking around at the edge of town anyway.”

“Running them off is too good for them,” said Perkins. “They need to be taught a lesson. A man dancing from a limb don’t steal. Let’s proceed with a little frontier justice…the terrible swift sword and all…”

“I’ll shoot the first man that forces his way into my jail,” threatened the sheriff, adjusting his holster. “Now you all settle down or the Gypsy will have a lot of company. We’ll pay a visit to their camp first thing in the morning and sort this thing out. I promise that, if the Gypsy had anything to do with this you’ll get your justice. I didn’t like the way he sat on that Arab. If he’s to blame it will give me great pleasure to dispense the law.”

Emotions continued to run amuck. Nothing this important had happened in Placerville since the ore train was robbed by those boys from Utah in 1898. The imagined fortune, in reality amounting only to about $100, had left three men dead and one train guard blind. Before that there were Utes to contend with, water wars and bandits from the Disappointment Valley showing up for afternoon tea.

Imagine this brash gypsy appearing right here in the daylight and by nightfall a valuable horse is gone. It all adds up. Who wanted to sleep while a felon cooled his heels in the midst of a once peaceful patch of paradise? A slap in the face.

No one went home. The hour grew late as a jug was passed around. Talk turned tough, then subsided, then got tough again. As the dawn approached everything remained on edge. A small contingent of Emile’s family bravely arrived and begged for mercy saying he had not committed any crime. They we’re received by the stares of the righteous intent on an eye for an eye.

“You’d better have that horse hid real good,” threatened Perkins. “We’ll be coming your way before breakfast to see what else you’ve been up to. When we’re finished your Gypsy King will be sucking dust.”

Emile’s wife asked to see her husband but was denied by a tired sheriff now facing the mob mentality of his neighbors. Twill cautioned against hard talk in front of the children. Perkins countered by calling them little thieves whose daddy wouldn’t be coming home.

Blackman appeared with a shotgun which he pointed menacingly at the Gypsies. He ordered them off his land. No one moved.

Everyone was so worked up that they didn’t see the logger from Sawpit leading the prodigal quarter horse into Blackman’s corral. The man’s name was Christy. He was covered in sawdust as he approached the group.

“Got another swig of that hooch?” he asked. “It’s been quite a trek from my camp to here. Seems your boy has fallen in love. I found him down by my gate, making eyes at my Appaloosa filly. Didn’t know where he belonged until I did some snooping around. The brand is hard to decipher. Fine looking horse though.”

In the early morning light a jury of eyes met and quickly dropped to the ground. No one said anything. Perkins looked at Brennan for acquittal. Mrs. Caldwell busied herself with her apron, yawning about chores and chickens to feed. The sheriff galloped over to the jail to free its inmate. People prepared for the day. Members of Emile’s family shed tears of relief. A terrible miscarriage of justice was narrowly averted in Placerville.

A few days later the sheriff rode out to the gypsy camp which had been deserted the morning before. There was nothing there. The visitors had moved on to sharpen knives, tell fortunes, and maybe trade a few horses.

 

Back To The Range Returns to Old Cowboy Tradition

If you listen real close to Doug Robert’s new CD you can almost taste the trail dust. If you kick back and lend and ear you might just see Charles Goodnight or Oliver Loving riding furiously across the plains or sleeping gently under the stars to the sounds of the dogies wailing.

The artists on the selection of cowboy tunes wanted to create a mood, a sense of the authentic and they did it…Songs of drovers and wranglers, bits and bridles…spurs a-jinglin’.

Included on the work are familiar pieces written by the likes of Roy Rogers and Gene Autry plus an insight into the lyrical, tough old cowpunchers who worked dawn to dusk then slept with the herd following the American Civil War and far into the 20th Century.

What do Hopalong Cassidy, the Cisco Kid and Yosemite Sam have in common? They were all fictitious inhabitants of the range. These were never the John Chisums depicted here. Do you tear up at the sight of a Fredric Remington and love the rodeo ? Is Tom Mix your hero? Buy this CD.

Starting off with Back to the Saddle Again and moving into the haunting The Goodnight Loving Trail it is apparent that the preservation of the cowboy culture is paramount. The old Ernest Tubb favorite Walking the Floor Over You while not exactly a cowboy tune, showcases Robert’s fine voice and Miles and Miles of Texas features the talents of Gary Cook on lead guitar and Matt Palmer on the fiddle.

My favorite Angels Can Do No More is backed up by Ridin’ the Rio and Cross the Brazos at Waco, all perfect examples of Americana that may be diminishing by the day. This collection saves a cherished bit of our history and with a little concentration one can conjure up the smell of horseflesh.

Rounding out the selections are two strong performances of the Doc Watson classic South of Round Rock, Texas and Running Gun by Tompall Glaser featuring Carl Johnson on pedal steel guitar, Ben Simpson on drums, Jeff Solon on harmonica and Mark Epstein on banjo.

Vocals and guitar provided primarily by Memphis born Roberts are enhanced by the harmonizing of Richard Lee Cody and Lisa Blue

According to the liner notes “This project grew out of a genuine love of traditional cowboy tunes and western music. The American cowboy is the greatest most recognized folk figure in the world…It’s our hope that we have honored their legacy…The lure and mystique of the Old West is as compelling today as when the historic cattle trails were first blazed…”

The CD was produced at Redcliff Sound Studio in Durango and can be purchased through by emailing DOUG@NEWWESTMARKETING.

Silverton Bicycle

 

A brand new look for Western State Colorado University

LIAR’S POKER

Polly Shell’s peekaboo pump hung for dear life on satin toes tapping to Miles Davis. Senses perched, peering from her loft office onto Market in the old warehouse turned bistro and baseball neighborhood, she sighed. She dangled her two pretty legs, assets often more valuable than four years of college in this hardtack profession. .

Scanning the files strewn across the floor she daydreamed.

“Look at that…the Louise DeHaviland murder from 2001 and the abduction of Sara Inkworme up in Cheyenne. That was a strange one. That cowboy couldn’t have been more than 14. Both incidents remain unsolved. No criminals brought to justice like they’d have you believe on television.

“Wow! There’s a quagmire of major proportion…the Jack Jameson murder. Talk was that he wanted out but there was no getting out. Gangland stuff in the Rockies! No indictments at all. Pretty slick.”

The voice of her secretary buzzed her back to the present.

“You’re eleven o’clock, a Mr. Callow is here,” she said. “He’s wearing too much cologne and he looks a little rough at the edges. Should I send him in?”

Suddenly Polly Shell remembered the rude little man who had continually interrupted her investigation a few nights before.

“Oh nuts” she thought. “I thought when I told him to call the office he would get the brush off. I guess I was too subtle.”

“Yes, send him in,” she snapped, thinking she’d make quick work of the intrusion. She opened her desk drawer and checked her 45. Her secretary opened the door and escorted a yellowish, dwarf-like creature into Polly’s office. He was squat, small-boned and looked like he’d spent the night in a cave. His skin was blue-white like he had never seen the sun. He shook her hand without making eye contact.

“Hello Miss Shell. I’m Leche Callow. You may remember me from Brennan’s. He flashed a seesaw smile, exposing a rung of jagged teeth that resembled the Sneffels Range or a batch of half-broken yellow and green bottles from a carnival shooting gallery.

Wondering what this repulsive little man could want she pretended not to know him.

“I bought you a drink at  Brennan’s last Friday,” he pressed.

“Oh, yes of course and thank you Mr…

“Callow, Leche Callow Miss.”

She looked at him waiting for him to state his business but he was busy eyeballing her from head to toe. His eyes then stuck on her cleavage. Even after all of her encounters with creeps in this shamus racquet this little man made her feel very uncomfortable.

“What can I do for you Mr Callow?” she asked finally.

He continued to gaze, now stuck on her legs.

Oh, sorry Miss Shell. I had hoped to talk to you about some urgent business, some information that might be of great interest to you in your capacity.”

Callow had no idea where to take the dialogue. He had no information or good reason to be in her office unless infatuation served as the key. Yes, he had the hots and hoped that this face to face might help his chances of bedding this beauty. A constant flow of bad whiskey and cigars had clouded his lowlife judgment. He was delusional. His breath smelled bad.

Dropping his eyes to the floor Leche Callow landed on the Jameson file, now resting on top of the others. He latched on to his only course of action.

“It’s about the Jack Jameson case,” he said. “I know who killed him and did away with the body. If my sources prove true I may even be able to pinpoint the whereabouts of dumping.

Polly looked right through Leche Callow not knowing where all of this goose and gandering might take her.

“Interesting?” she flinched, trying not to display her growing disdain for Callow.

Do you? you loathsome little rodent, she thought to herself.

“That case has been closed for almost a year,” she frowned, brushing him off again. “I doubt whether your information would bring it back to life.”

“But I knew Jack Jameson and I know…

“You knew Jack Jameson?” interrupted Polly now slightly more interested.

“Well, not as a friend per say. None of us really knew each other. It was better that way in the business at hand. Nobody knew anymore than was necessary to conclude business. It was clear enough that they wanted to be rid of him because he wanted to quit the business and he knew every contact, every drop point, every route, every face…”

“And what was that business? Mr Callow, if I might ask,” said Polly now growing anxious to get the little creep out of her office.

“I’d rather not say although i have paid my debt to society for those transgressions and am no longer on parole,” said Callow, his swampy, minikin eyes drifting back to her topography, making her quite uncomfortable again.

“Creep,” she thought as his gaze once again fell to the Jameson file in the pile on the floor.

“We would, of course, have to go to the police with your story, if it can be verified. Can it be verified, Mr Callow?

“With a few days I can put all the pieces of the puzzle together for you,” he said buying time. “Right now some of the details are sketchy. As you yourself said the case has been dormant for almost a year.”

“I see. Let me consider al of this and call you.”

“OK, said Callow a bit disappointed that she hadn’t taken more of his bait. “You can leave me a message at Brennan’s.”

* * *

The email was unnerving on the heels of yesterday’s visit. It said simply that the authorities were reopening the Jack Jameson case. Apparently the epic rantings of an elderly convict were not those of a madman after all. His relentless chatter had led to the recovery of a bound body, deep at the bottom of Buffalo Bill reservoir in the foothills.

She called a friend that she had worked with in homicide. He verified that new evidence had emerged and that the cops had already dredged the lake and netted a male body. From early indications the victim had been executed and thrown weighted into the lake about six months ago. He would let her know more.

“Too much,” she said to herself as she got off the phone. “Could that little creep really be legitimate?” After pondering her options she realized she had but one and called Callow at Brennan’s. They agreed to meet that afternoon.

Two hours later she picked her way out of the bright sun into a dark tavern, trying to make out the shiftless figures humping the bar. It was 98 degrees out in the high desert day and the air conditioner was humming right along with Callow’s mouth. She then focused on her target sitting at the mahogany trough. He had seen her first, his catty peepers having adapted to the stale, dim light.

“Hi ya sweetie,” he blasted in a loud voice that drown out the jukebox momentarily. “What are you drinking?”

“Just coffee,” she whispered trying to tone him down and avoid further attention.

One coffee!” he solicited. “You’re looking good,” he said shooting a shot of brown liquid and making a face. “Glad you could come,” he piped so the other boozers could hear him. “It’s about time this place exhibited some class.”

“Is this a good place to talk?” she asked. “Is it private?”

He stole a furtive glance and motioned for her to sit on the next stool watching her do so with great interest.

“You want to get private, heh?” he asked loudly. “Intimate?”

She quickly changed gears and sat down at the bar, the idea of sharing a booth suddenly making her sick.

“With legs like yours you should never have to buy a drink…”

She almost puked. Leche Callow was bad enough but some of the other mutants that bellied up at Brennan’s were even worse. One round-headed chubby chucklehead sang to himself, another worn woman fondled her rocks glass, wrapped in a frazzled bar napkin. Leaned against the wall was a stooped figure in a cheap checkered sports coat who hid his face in his Denver Bears’ cap, smiling and listening intently to a host of mindless confabulation, painfully short on repartee.

“Bartender get everybody one!” screamed Callow drawing attention to his congenial juxtaposition with this lovely female. “Even Leper down there,” he squawked gesturing toward the checkered hump in earshot at the end of the bar.

“You got any money, Callow?” was the response.

Leche Callow pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, snapped it fondly and told the bartender to keep the change. He then turned to Shell with the amps of alcohol engaged.

“Jack Jameson,” he smiled, “was killed by the local drug cartel. He had been in bed with the gangsters for decades and had decided he had had enough. He also had overdue gambling debts. I heard him talking to one of the bosses a few days before he disappeared. It wasn’t friendly.”

“So the mob had a motive for killing him. He owed them money and he knew too much,” she ventured. “So many wrinkles on the boom-boom trail.”

She could hardly believe she was in this ratty bar talking to this pathetic little twit as he wormed his way closer to her. She feigned interest not sure what to believe but unwilling to ignore this possible lead. Was it all coincidental that the case popped open right after Leche Callow’s claims? He could actually know something, she winced. He’s such a wretched little pigeon but I am not in the business of cavorting with choirboys.

“Exactly,” he nodded. “And I know who pulled the trigger and where the deed went down,” lied Callow. “The shooter was from right here in town which seemed odd since they usually brought someone in from Phoenix or Kansas City to do the dirty work.”

“Are you willing to talk to the police?” she pressed him.

“I don’t like police. You can do my talking for me. I have names. People like Sam Moonsie and Peg-leg O’Sullivan,” he name-dropped loudly, claiming he had met the two in jail.

The conversations at the bar had already returned to the weather, the Broncos and the government with everyone talking at once in slurred monotone…all except for the lump under the Bear’s cap who just listened as Callow’s afternoon lies got bigger and bigger.

* * *

“This Callow is talking to the cops. Says he knows who killed that Jameson fellow,” said the checkered jacket hump named Raffini, running to the mob which had already gotten wind of the recovered body and the new status of the investigation. He had hoped to earn a few dollars for his information.

The cartel had wondered what loose ends might be dragging and had already flexed some muscle on the street.

“He mentioned Sam Moonsie and Peg-leg O’Sullivan and said he knew who ordered the killing. ‘Said he knew Jameson from the I-70 operation. He was talking to some knockout babe in the bar who didn’t look like she belonged with him.”

“We should done him years ago but nobody thought he was worth a bullet,” said one bow-tied boss in red suspenders . “Tell me, Raffini, where can I find the little stoolie? Where does he hang out these days? Maybe it’s time we shut the door on Callow and his big mouth.”

* * *

The phone rang heavy on Sunday morning Polly Shell’s apartment. It was her friend in homicide who told her about Callow. He had been run over in the alley behind Brennan’s. Patrons said he had been in the company of two large men who bought him drinks, then sat in a booth with him while he drank them. All seemed cordial enough but something just wasn’t kosher.

The barflies told the police they then saw another man follow Callow out the back door of the tavern into the pitch black night. Then they heard a tires squealing and a loud thump. It had been Peg-leg O’Sullivan behind the wheel. One of the patrons identified him from a police photo. Another claims he saw the hit and run and watched Callow’s listless body fly up in the air and come crashing down. He said he then saw O’Sullivan jump into a car with Callow’s two booze benefactors and speed away.

O’Sullivan was arrested the next day and after hours of interrogation he fingered the boss in the red suspenders and several other hoodlums associated with the murder of Leche Callow and Jack Jameson. He confessed that he had been the killer, had helped dump Jameson’s body and led the cops to the original murder weapon that he had chucked down a mineshaft at Idaho Springs.

“It looks like we nailed the bad guys,” said the voice on the other end of the phone. Your conversation with Callow was the catalyst. We found your name and address scrawled on a pad in Peg-leg’s pocket. I’m afraid you were next. These scumbags were dialed in all right.”

“Too bad about that little fella though,” said the detective “He may have been a lying punk but he turned out to be Jack Jameson’s best friend in the end. – Kevin Haley