As she rides by

the bits strewn by the road in the slush... but why rake up old gossip? John D., of course, handsome owner and prop, of the Valley Bowl, was always game for a game, his kind or mine, and was there not also Phil the Freak, waiting in the wings out there in deepest Glendale , up to his scabby elbows in advanced electronics and homemade dial-a-bombs? And if you counted the bartenders I knew, the list was almost endless.
    The latest addition to the gang trotted in then, had a drink of water, turned around a couple of times, then collapsed on his blanket by the door. I felt like joining him, due no doubt to the unaccustomed early-morning exertions out at Phineas’s, but I got down to work instead, as there wasn’t much time before lunchtime and there wouldn’t be all that much time after lunch before I got picked up for delivery.
    Speaking of delivery, I then opened my real mail, not junk tucked into my letterbox at dead of night by noddleheads. It all got chucked into the wastepaper basket except for a letter on good quality bond from a lawyer friend of Mel (the Swell); his name was James Callahan and he wanted to know if I was, generally speaking, available, and also, was I, generally speaking, available at very short notice? He also said he would appreciate knowing my rates, hourly, daily, and weekly, and that he looked forward to hearing from me soon, let alone working with me, as I had been enthusiastically recommended by Mel. I answered Mr. Callahan by saying yes and yes to his queries, and listing my rates. Well, my rates for lawyers, anyway. Which, quite frankly, are none of your business. I do not charge more if the job looks like it might involve violence either to me or to others; then again, nor do I charge less if the client is ravishingly beautiful. A man needs some standards, after all.
    Then I sent out two bills, then I paid three, then ran the mini carpet sweeper over the rug, then put my glasses back on, and made a short list:

    V.D. vs. P.C.A.C. Co.

    To contact:
    Injun Joe
    Father Romero
    Reporter from local rag
    Benny (the Boy)
    Evonne Louise Shirley
    Local politician?
    Local do-gooder?
    Historian/museum curator?
    Mel (the Swell)
    Top exec, from P.C.A.C. Co.

    To obtain:
    Snips
    Artifact
    Indian garb

    Also to contact:
    Elroy, my landlord, property owner/developer

    “Hmm,” I thought, looking it over. Who I needed to get in touch with first was Injun Joe, because it all revolved around him, but Injun Joe wasn’t around, was he, now that the Great White Father had stolen a little more of his land, and who knew where he spent the days now? His girlfriend might, I thought, or at least he might drop by her place for seconds of macaroni in the near future, and did I not know her name and address? So I looked her up in the phone book, and called her. Sure she remembered me, she said. Thanks for what I did for Joseph. No, she hadn’t seen him for a couple of days, but when he did drop in, sure she’d ask him to call me, why not? I gave her both the office number and my home one, then rang off.
    I ran my eyes back down the list. An historian—I could always talk to one of those in the meantime, but where did historians hang out when they weren’t off in the Negev digging trenches with spoons and was that historians anyway?
    Then it dawned on me—belatedly, but that’s better than never— one thing historians do is teach history. In places like high schools, which gave me a good excuse, as if I needed one, to call up my honey bunch, who, as you know, only worked in one just up the street a few blocks. I caught her in her office where, she said, she was tidying up her desk before going down to the canteen for lunch and did I want to join her there for a quick bite? Having already eaten once in the school canteen, I declined, saying I had a previous appointment, unfortunately, with a pastrami on rye down at Fred’s Deli, but I would be thinking of her with each bite.
    She laughed, then we talked for a bit, then I asked her about historians. She said the school was loaded with them, practically, and what historical period was I interested in?
    “American Injun history,” I said.
    “Why, for goodness sakes?”
    “I always did want decent recipes for pemmican and squirrel kebobs,” I said.
    “Pull the other one,” my darling said.
    “With the greatest of pleasure,” I said. “Remember two nights ago when I gave you my last profiterole?”
    “How could I forget?”
    “When I told you all