I never liked being a kid, because I was dizzy half the time from spinning around in chairs, on merry-go-rounds, and in the yard.

Nauseous, I stopped spinning and stared outside at the heat shimming off the sidewalks. The heat shimmered because it was summertime.

I know that, because I’m an Outdoor Detective.

It isn’t a permanent job, but there are times when my skills are called for by those in the outdoor world.

A quick knock on my door, and Doc burst through.

“You’re gonna have to fix that,” I said, looking at my busted door.

“I will,” he answered. “But right now, I’m here to hire the Outdoor Detective.”

I leaned back in the chair and grasped the desk to make the world stop spinning. “I’d love to work for you. But I have one important question. Do you have a record?”

He shook his head, sadly. “No. But you know me, Rev. You know I don’t have a record.”

With a heavy sigh, I turned and pulled a record out of my stack of LPs. “This is a soundtrack for an inner cinema of the mind, depicting a plunge into those darker elements of Los Angeles night-life, a recurring theme of the film noir of the 1940s and 50s. It shows a brutal and corrupt society at odds with itself in all facets of life.”

“Huh?” Doc asked, obviously not following my train of thought.

The train almost derailed, but I pulled it back on track with a might mental tug.

Mellow saxophone music soon filled the office. “This is little changed from those days of Robert Mitchum, Robert Taylor or Humphrey Bogart.”

“I don’t want those guys. I just want to find my lost shotgun.”

Nodding, I opened the right bottom drawer of my desk, removed a bottle and thumped it beside two highball glasses. “You want some?” I asked.

“Nope. I don’t like Diet Coke.”

I returned the bottle with a smile. “Just testing you. I don’t like diet drinks either.”

We nodded pleasantly, each alone with out thoughts. I finally got too lonely and formulated a question. “Where did you see the shotgun last?” I adjusted the small fan on my desk so that it would give us some relief.

“You look silly waving at yourself with that Japanese fan,” he said. “The last time I saw my shotgun was when you were using it during quail season.”

“Hummm,” I said, leaning back and staring at the ceiling.

“It isn’t up there,” Doc said.  “Why are you humming?  Don’t you know the words?”

I ignored his question.  Of course I didn’t know the words, that’s why I was humming.  “Can you describe this shotgun?”

“It’s kind of long, with a metal barrel and a wooden stock,” he answered.

I thought about that description. Then I shifted tactics. “Just why do you need a shotgun this time of the year? There aren’t any hunting seasons open in July.”

“You’re right. I want to shoot skeet.”

Startled, I jerked upright. “Why. What did our friend Skeet do to you?”

Also startled, Doc jerked upright. “I don’t know. What did Skeet do to me? Maybe he has my shotgun.”

“Nope,” I said, relaxing. “I gave the shotgun back to you when I finished with it.”

“Do you have witnesses that say you did?” Doc asked.

“Do you have witnesses that say I didn’t?” I shot back.

Doc ducked, the shot just missing him. Then he straightened up. “Good point.”

“It was a good point, but I missed,” I said, blowing into the barrel of my finger and winking at Doc.

He winked back and it startled me. His phone rang and he answered it, bellowing into the receiver.

“Bellow!” he shouted. “Bellow!”

I stared hard at him until he hung up, because I hate cellphones. “Look, there’s one thing that is successful in this business,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“Someone who knows everything. Hey Snookums!” I shouted through the busted door.

Seconds later, a somewhat irritated War Department answered. “What!”

“Where’s Doc’s shotgun?”

“It’s in your gun case, right next to Wrong Willie’s rifle you borrowed last year.”

I waved a hand. “There’s you answer.”

Doc waved back, stood up and offered his hand.

“No thanks,” I said. “I have two of my own.”

He turned to leave, and then stopped and turned. “I just need to know one thing, kid. Are you just acting like an Outdoor Detective?”

I turned my back to look out the window once again. “No, acting is reciting words someone else wrote and then you pretend they’re you own. This is just make-believe.”

“I should have known,” Doc said and slipped downstairs to get his shotgun, and I soon found out, mine.

“I should have known he’d do that, too,” I said quietly to myself. “Because I’m an Outdoor Detective.

I left my post
it seems like
there was one more thing.
On the island.

As I pondered those words, a second text arrived, to seemingly finish the thought.

Fruit remembered.

Wow, words with power! I read it again in its entirety, loving the flow. I considered her thoughts. Did she mean she’d quit her job and we were headed to an island for rest and relaxation? Did she recall the wonderful fruit we ate in Hawaii nearly two years ago that was juicy, ripe and delicious.

I read it again in its entirety and wept at the beauty.
I left my post
it seems like
there was one more thing.
On the island.
Fruit remembered.

I couldn’t wait for her to get home.

She came in an hour later with two grocery bags and thumped them on the counter. “I left my Post-It note on the island in the kitchen this morning and couldn’t remember the last thing on my grocery list. It was bananas.”

She gave me a long look. “Why are you wearing a Hawaiian shirt in February?”

She’s right. Life is bananas. I just love that gal!

            A man stood there.  I was glad, because the last time it was a monkey holding a football and I still hadn’t gotten all the bananas out of the carpet.

            “I’m looking for a big rack for next deer season,” the man said and casually leaned against the frame. 

“Don’t you know better than to lean against frames?” I asked.  “Straighten it up and sit down over there.”  I walked to the closet without taking my eyes off him, opened the door and selected a wooden coat rack.  I handed it to him.  He examined it.  “Now that’s a nice rack.”

            “Thanks,” I said, smiling slightly and gratefully wove my way around and between his feet.  I’m an Outdoor Detective.  We perfected slight smiles.

            “But what I had in mind was a nice set of antlers,” he clarified.  “I want something for my wall.”

             “For your wall,” I repeated, thinking.

            “Yes.”

            “How about a diploma?”

            “That would be nice.”

            “But you’re really looking for a trophy.”

            “Now you understand.”

            “How about this one!” I shouted suddenly and slid a gold trophy across my desk.

            “Bowling,” he read off the engraved plaque.  “Highest Attendance In A Season.”

            “Whadda ya think of that?”

            “I’ve seen better.”

             “Oh, a hardcase, huh?”

            He looked down beside him.  “No, this one is Cordura.”

            We eyed each other across the desk.  Mine dried out first and I had to blink.  I blinked the right one first.  Then the left.

            He winked, slowly.  I was worried, wondering just what kind of man I had in my office.

            “You want me to find you a rack,” I repeated, clarifying my position.

            “At least ten points.”

            “What kind of spread?”

“Twenty-four.”

“You could get better odds on the next Aggie game from that bookie down the street.”

“I know.  But I heard you produced the best racks in town.”

“You want a deer under that?”

            “Of course.”

            “Oh, attitude huh?  You think you’re a tough nut to crack?”

            “Don’t try to hammer me, you stinkin’ gumshoe.”

            I opened the lower right hand drawer of my desk with my left hand, then moved the rocket launcher out of the way.  I keep it there for emergencies.  I tried to find a hammer but it was still in the way.  Reluctantly, I took the weapon out and placed it on the desk.

            “Bazooka?”

            “Sure,” I handed him a piece of gum.

            “No, I mean the weapon.  Is that a bazooka?”

            I examined it.  It looked vaguely familiar.  “Yes.”

            “Why do you have it in your drawer?”

            “Because a tank wouldn’t fit.”

            He chewed thoughtfully, looking at the ceiling. “It’s been such a nice day,” he said.

            “Yep, there’s been twelve inches of snow in the last couple of hours.  So how can I help you?”

            “Shovel my front walk, or find me a lease.”

            I slid one across the desk.  It came to rest beside the bowling trophy.  “Sign that lease and you can drive the car for three years, or for three thousand miles, whichever comes first.”

            “You can’t trick me,” he sneered.  “No one keeps a car for three years these days.”

            “All right.  Here, I have a lease for you in west Texas.  Big racks that can hold up to a 52 Tall.”

            “Now we’re talking,” he said.

            “We’ve been talking all along,” I argued.

            “Right.”

            He paid me with a wad of cash big enough to choke a horse, I know because I woke up the next morning and a horse was lying in bed beside me, dead as a mackerel.  I resisted the urge to beat him, because there was no use.  Everyone says you can’t beat a dead horse.

            I went back to the office to start another day as an Outdoor Detective.

“Shut up, Harry!” screamed the soothing voice from next door.  “You’re not taking my sister for a walk anymore, and get that stupid dog out of here!!!”

“It isn’t a dog!  It’s your mother!”  Sirens punctuated her sentences, and noxious fumes rolled in from the traffic above.

I had just returned from a weekend of pheasant hunting in the plains.  We flushed birds for two days.  Then I called the plumber and he cleared the drain.

“Don’t flush anymore pheasants,” he ordered.

I joined him and ordered also, hamburger and fries.

“Try flushing quail, they’re smaller,” he said, then left.

Someone knocked timidly at my office door.  “Come in!”  I turned on the background saxophone music to set the mood.

The man who entered looked like he wanted to run.  It was his running shoes, headband, and shorts that gave him away.  He was sweating.  “You don’t have to yell.”

“I’m sorry.  What can I do for you?”

“I want to hire the Outdoor Detective.”

“That’s me,” I answered proudly.

“I expected more.”

“They always do.  What can I do for you?”

“I want to hire you to find my missing hunting guide.  I’ll pay you well.”

I licked his hand gratefully.

“You need to keep your eyes peeled for him.”

“I’d rather not,” I said.  “They always dry out when I peel them, and those dried peelings all over the floor crackle under your feet.”

“Is that your dog?” his gaze wandered as I talked, ignoring my comments.  He pointed to the corner.

“Yes.”

“What’s his name?”

“Neil.”

“Play dead, Neil,” he said.  “Good dog.”

“He is dead.”

“Oh.  Well, anyway, I’d look for the guide myself but I don’t know how.  Maybe you could show me the ropes?”

I produced several ropes of various lengths.

“It looks too complicated,” he decided.  “Maybe you’d better do it for me.  How much will it cost?”

“That depends.  Are you rich?” I asked.

“No, I’m Ken.

“You don’t look like kin.  You must be from dad’s side of the family.”

“Will it cost a lot?”

“What’s a lot to you?”

“A big piece of land to scrape clean and cover with concrete buildings.”

I smiled in understanding.  “Never mind. What happened to your hunting guide?”

“I’m not sure.  We were hunting out near Abilene and communicating by walkie-talkies…”

I took notes as he talked.  Mostly B flats.

“…and I was in a deer stand.  He was in the coffee shop when a huge buck stepped into my view.  I described it; a large animal with legs and antlers.  I heard him order

coffee and then he said shoot.  I was almost ready to pull the trigger, I just had to load the rifle and attach the scope, when guns began firing all around me.  Then machine guns started chattering and pretty soon I heard artillery thumping in the distance.  Soon the mortars kicked in for support.  It was awful.”

“The shooting?” I asked, sympathetically.

“No, the coffee.  He said it was chicory.  Ya gotta help me!” he shouted.

“You’ve gotta stop saying words like ya gotta!” I shouted back.  “I don’t know what he looks like.  Do you have a picture?”

He produced an oil portrait of Picasso.

I didn’t say a word.  He has mean eyes, I thought, both on the same side of his head.

“What do you think?” he asked.

I dummied up.  His eyes narrowed.  “I can see the dummy’s mouth move when you talk,” he said.

“It’s supposed to be the other way around,” I answered.

“Good luck.”

“Luck has nothing to do with it.”  We shook hands and he left.

I practiced my yodeling and for a while, turned off the music and smiled at Neil.  “Good dog,” I said.

I hate it when dogs jump up on people.

            “Shut up, Harry!” screamed the soothing voice from next door.  “You’re not taking my sister for a walk anymore, and get that stupid dog out of here!!!”

            “It isn’t a dog!  It’s your mother!”  Sirens punctuated her sentences, and noxious fumes rolled in from the traffic above. 

            I had just returned from a weekend of pheasant hunting in the plains.  We flushed birds for two days.  Then I called the plumber and he cleared the drain.

            “Don’t flush anymore pheasants,” he ordered.

            I joined him and ordered also, hamburger and fries. 

“Try flushing quail, they’re smaller,” he said, then left. 

            Someone knocked timidly at my office door.  “Come in!”  I turned on the background saxophone music to set the mood.

            The man who entered looked like he wanted to run.  It was his running shoes, headband, and shorts that gave him away.  He was sweating.  “You don’t have to yell.”

            “I’m sorry.  What can I do for you?”

            “I want to hire the Outdoor Detective.”

            “That’s me,” I answered proudly.

            “I expected more.”

            “They always do.  What can I do for you?”

            “I want to hire you to find my missing hunting guide.  I’ll pay you well.”

            I licked his hand gratefully.

            “You need to keep your eyes peeled for him.”

            “I’d rather not,” I said.  “They always dry out when I peel them, and those dried peelings all over the floor crackle under your feet.”

            “Is that your dog?” his gaze wandered as I talked, ignoring my comments.  He pointed to the corner.

            “Yes.”

            “What’s his name?”

            “Neil.”

            “Play dead, Neil,” he said.  “Good dog.”

            “He is dead.”

            “Oh.  Well, anyway, I’d look for the guide myself but I don’t know how.  Maybe you could show me the ropes?”

            I produced several ropes of various lengths.

            “It looks too complicated,” he decided.  “Maybe you’d better do it for me.  How much will it cost?”

            “That depends.  Are you rich?” I asked.

            “No, I’m Ken.

            “You don’t look like kin.  You must be from dad’s side of the family.”

            “Will it cost a lot?”

            “What’s a lot to you?”

            “A big piece of land to scrape clean and cover with concrete buildings.”

            I smiled in understanding.  “Never mind. What happened to your hunting guide?”

            “I’m not sure.  We were hunting out near Abilene and communicating by walkie-talkies…”

            I took notes as he talked.  Mostly B flats.

            “…and I was in a deer stand.  He was in the coffee shop when a huge buck stepped into my view.  I described it; a large animal with legs and antlers.  I heard him order

coffee and then he said shoot.  I was almost ready to pull the trigger, I just had to load the rifle and attach the scope, when guns began firing all around me.  Then machine guns started chattering and pretty soon I heard artillery thumping in the distance.  Soon the mortars kicked in for support.  It was awful.”

            “The shooting?” I asked, sympathetically.

            “No, the coffee.  He said it was chicory.  Ya gotta help me!” he shouted.

            “You’ve gotta stop saying words like ya gotta!” I shouted back.  “I don’t know what he looks like.  Do you have a picture?”

            He produced an oil portrait of Picasso.

            I didn’t say a word.  He has mean eyes, I thought, both on the same side of his head.

            “What do you think?” he asked.

            I dummied up.  His eyes narrowed.  “I can see the dummy’s mouth move when you talk,” he said.

            “It’s supposed to be the other way around,” I answered.

            “Good luck.”

            “Luck has nothing to do with it.”  We shook hands and he left.

                I practiced my yodeling and for a while, turned off the music and smiled at Neil.  “Good dog,” I said.

            I hate it when dogs jump up on people.

A harried looking man was standing in the doorway.  “I need help,” he said.

“That’s what I’m here for,” I answered.  “I’m an Outdoor Detective.”

“I know.  That’s why I’m here.”

“Of course.”

Us Outdoor Detectives always talk in short sentences.  You don’t have to think so hard about where to put the commas.

He nervously paced the room, then slumped into one of two chairs and fumbled a cigarette of the package.

“Fumble!” I shouted and dove for the cigarette.  We wrestled for a moment, then he came up with the toonie and did a victory dance.  He returned to his chair, breathing hard.

“You can’t smoke in here,” I said.

He sighed, put the pack away and pulled out a bottle of bubbles. He blew through the little wand.  Bubbles floated in the air.  “That’s better,” he said.  “It helps settle my nerves, but it’s so danged habit forming.  I think it’s the additives they put in here.”

“Of course, even though I’m usually concerned about second-hand bubbles.  How can I help you?”

He looked around the room.  “This place could be bugged.”

“The exterminators were here last week.”

“Good.  Turn on the radio to cover our voices.”

It was a strange request, but I turned to the radio and gave it a try.  “You’re a cute little radio.  How about a drink?”

“That’s not what I meant.  Never mind. I need your help. Are you any good?”

I smiled and settled a cheek on my worn desk.  I’d worn it so much it was wrinkled.  It needed ironing.  “I’m very good.”

“I can’t understand you with your cheek against the desk.  Sit up and talk to me.”

I straightened up.  “I said I’m very good.  I’ve won an Academy Award, a Tony Award, the Nobel Peace Prize, the Pulitzer, I was homecoming queen and took first place in my second grade spelling bee.”

He frowned, relieved.  “All right.  You need to help me beat a habit.”

“Hang it on a clothesline and whop it a few times with a tennis racket.”

“Is that all?”

“Remove the nun first.”

We both nodded at the brilliance of that statement.

“I have a serious habit of buying more guns than I need.”

I was appalled.  “No one can have too many guns.”

“I have three hundred and fifty six, plus a slingshot.”

“I see your point.  Sell the slingshot.”

“You gonna answer that phone?” he asked.

“I didn’t hear it ask a question.”  Then I heard the ring.  It was my cellphone.  I wanted to answer it, but I couldn’t find the keys to the cell.

My new client wept, softly.  “I can’t buy any more guns.  My wife said she’d leave me if I bought another one, and I’ll sure miss her.”

He wiped his nose on a sleeve.  I keep sleeves in the desk for just such an emergency.

“You have to help me go straight!” he clutched my collar.

I grabbed his collar.  Turn about is fair play.  “Stay away from corners!”

“Of course,” he said, enlightened.

I smiled.

“I feel better,” he said and rose to leave.

“Give me a ring if things get bad again,” I said.

“How about a bracelet?” he asked.

“That should have been my line,” I answered, annoyed.

He beat a hasty retreat and was gone.  I didn’t mind.  I didn’t like that particular Hasty anyway.  It deserved to be beaten.  Then I realized I hadn’t gotten his name.  I had nowhere to send the bill.

“Sorry Bill,” I said.  “I have nowhere to send you.”

He looked sheepish and left quietly.

I turned and stared outside at the snow falling in the bright sunshine as the saxophone played on.

            I was in my office as the first leaves of autumn skittered across the parking lot down below.  The second and third were right behind them. 

            Some say I was loafing, but I was working on a case.  The empty cans from that case were scattered all over the floor and I was halfway through. 

            It was lite, but I still had that full feeling.

            That’s sometimes part of my job.       

            I’m an Outdoor Detective.

            In addition, I also had a head cold.

            For once I felt I was off duty.  The chair was leaned back and my shoes were propped on the desk.  I, on the other hand, was standing in my socks beside the closet door.  My ear was against the wall, listening.  I’d been working all day, trying to find out where that Mellow Saxophone Music For Detectives was coming from. 

            It was so bad I had a case of the screaming meemies.  The entire case, all twenty-four of them, were over in the corner and an occasional scream erupted from a frustrated meemie throat.

            I was having less luck than Bonnie and Clyde.

            I was looking under my desk, when the door opened.  It was Wrong Willie.  He didn’t knock.

            “Don’t stand on ceremony,” I said.  “Just feel free to barge right in.”

            “I’m standing on the floor,” he argued.

            He was right.  Ceremony was sniffing the meemies in the corner.  Then he made a puddle and lay down for a nap.

            I sneezed. 

            “Have a cold?” he asked.

            “No thanks,” I responded, irritated that he’d offer.  “I already have one.”  I sneezed again.

            “Gesundheit,” he said.

            “No, Wortham, Outdoor Detective.”

            “We’re in luck.  I found a new lease.  It’s a steal,” Wrong Willie said.

            “It’s a crime to steal.” I like saying Detective things like that.

            “It’s a figure of speech.”

            “Nice figure,” I offered in my best Mike Hammer voice.

            “Thanks,” he said, shyly.

            We smiled.

            “I can’t say I’m not surprised that you finally found a lease,” I said.  “Well, I guess I could say I’m surprised…I’m surprised. Yep, I said it. See?”

             “Surely I don’t have to put up with this all the time,” Wrong Willie complained.

            “Don’t call me Shirley,” I said.  “I need more information about this theft.  I’m always looking for answers.  For example, if Doreen’s Cafe is open 24 hours a day, why does the door have locks?”

            “Chill out.  I mean we have a cheap lease.”

            “I’m cool as a cucumber,” I said, coolly.  Gads, we Detectives get to say neat stuff.  “Why would we want a cheap lease?  Probably says made in Japan.”

            “You don’t have to worry about that anymore,” Wrong Willie said.  “Japan owns the whole world now, including Yellowstone Park.  They’re trying to miniaturize it so they can take it back on a tour bus.”

            “I’ve had cheap broads and cheap booze, but never a cheap lease,”  I mused and tried to adjust the shoulder holster under my coat.  It wasn’t there.  I don’t own one, and I didn’t have on a coat.

            Events sometimes conspire against me. 

            I looked over in the corner at the Event brothers.  “Quit conspiring against me,” I ordered.  They glared and slunk out the door like whipped curs.  “Let’s hear it. Step up to the plate and tell me about it.”

            Wrong Willie did.  The plate cracked.  I was annoyed.  It broke up the set.

            “The lease is out near… oh what’s that town…it’s on the tip of my tongue.”

            I examined his tongue. 

            He was lying. 

            The only thing there was a chive.  I don’t like liars, but decided not to harp on it.  I preferred the accordion.  He pointed to the town on a map.  It wasn’t a map, but a stained napkin.  I agreed.  We shook hands and he left.

            I again looked around for the source of the saxophone music, but couldn’t find it. 

            I finally unpacked my accordion and joined in.

            Such is the life of an Outdoor Detective.

It was hot the morning of that afternoon. Hotter than my Aunt Nellie’s girdle. I don’t really have an Aunt Nellie, but if I did, and if she wore a girdle, it would be hot. Those are the kinds of things you automatically know in my business.

I’m an Outdoor Detective.

The windows were open to catch an unavailable breeze. I was reading a book about fly tying and wondering which of the insect’s legs to tie first. I was sweating like a preacher on a nude beach when the door to my office slammed open.

There he stood. Older than when I’d seen him last. Sadder looking, a little grayer at the temples, maybe, and a few pounds heavier. But he was the same man.

“I’m Woodrow,” he said. “I heard you were the best Outdoor Detective in town.”

He was right. I am. My name is Wortham.

“It’s been a long time,” I said in my best Detective voice.

“You saw me yesterday,” he countered.

I smiled. “I know. You’ve aged since then.”

“We age every day.”

Ah, a philosopher. He took a chair across from me.
“Put it back,” I said. “My mother gave me those chairs.”

“Have you found us a deer lease yet?” he asked.

I shook my head, slowly, and watched him with hooded eyes.

“Those look like hooded eyes,” he said.

“They are.”

“Take them off. You look ridiculous.”

I dropped the hoods in the top right hand drawer of my desk, next to the 45 that’s gotten me out of trouble so many times. It was an Elvis 45; Hound Dog. I think Don’t Be Cruel was on the other side, but the heat was so bad it would have been cruel to look.

“Leases are hard to come by.” I propped my feet on the battered desk. I stopped, scraped off some of the excess batter and replaced my feet. “It takes a lot of shoe leather to find a good one.”

“Those are composite soles,” he observed.

I smiled. “I know.”

“There’s a hole in your sock.”

I frowned. Had he been spying on me, watching through the blinds?

“There’s a hole in your shoe,” he observed.

“That’s where the shoe phone goes, but it broke, so I took it out.”

“So have you found us a lease yet? You have the job, you know.”

“Yippee.”

I reached into my bottom drawer and pulled out a bottle. I offered him a drink. He took the bottle, unconsciously wiped off the top and took a good, healthy slug. I shuddered. I hate slugs. He choked and took a drink.

“I hate flavored water,” he complained.

I smiled. I didn’t say anything.

“I’m glad you didn’t say ‘I know’.”

“I know.” I looked at him through a haze of cigarette smoke, which was strange, because neither of us smoked.

“What about our deer lease?”

I shuffled through the papers on my desk. It was a slow shuffle, kinda like a soft-shoe. “The cheapest I’ve found is nine hundred a gun for a thousand acres.”

“Kinda steep, isn’t it?” he asked.

“No, it’s all flatland. There are no mountains near here. Still nine hundred bucks, though.”

“You’ve counted them?”

“A mere estimation. You get what you pay for.”

“I’m beginning to see that with you. Lotta doe, I hope?”

“The proper question would be, ‘I hope this costs a lot of dough,’ but I don’t like all this talk about baking.”

He looked around. “I don’t see any typewriters or computers. You’re all talk, even when it comes to baking.”

I allowed my smile to slip, slightly. Good muscle control. I can also wiggle my ears. “If you think you can do better, do it.”

He suddenly reached into a back pocket. I slapped him, hard. I don’t like other people in my back pockets. He rubbed a cheek and glared at me. I slapped him again. I didn’t like him rubbing my cheek, either. I hadn’t shaved that morning.

Red faced, he held out a newspaper ad. “Here’s a cheap lease I found. Deer, turkey, quail, and hogs. Four hundred a gun.”

I quickly glanced at the ad, never taking my eyes off him. “Fine. We’ll take it.”

“You’re useless,” he said and left in a huff. Maybe it was a minute and a huff, I can’t remember.

I smiled. “I know.” Another case closed.

The country rain fell softly in the bright sunshine, muted by the sounds of the city.

I leaned back and clasped my hands behind my head, wondering just why one would want to tie a fly.

It’s a sad and lonely life, being an Outdoor Detective, but someone has to do it.

I’ll never forget the first time I laid eyes on Ace. I was barely twenty years old, and the contrary old mixed-breed bird dog was sprawled in front of the domino hall. At first I thought he’d been hit on the highway and flung onto the coke bottle tops that served as the parking surface.

Cars and trucks came and went, forced to steer around the dog, probably thinking like me, that he was dead. That bright, sunny December day I shut off my truck, got out, and walked over to look at him.
There were no obvious signs of trauma and I was surprised when he finally sensed my presence.

Ace opened one eye, the only one I could clearly see, and gave me an appraising look. For several long seconds I stood there and pulled on my newly-sprouted mustache to ponder the dog’s presence.

“You dying?”

Ace’s eye traveled to my feet, to my face, and back down. Ignoring me without the courtesy of a tail wag, he drew a long-suffering breath and tried to go back to sleep.

“He’s something, ain’t he?” I looked over at Cousin, who’d just stepped out of the nearby store with an RC cola.

“Is something wrong with him?”

He took a long drink. “There’s a lot wrong with Ace.”

“Who’s is he?”

“He belongs to Delbert P. Axelrod now, and he ain’t worth killin’.”

“Delbert, or the dog.”

“Delbert. Ace there is the best bird dog in the county.”

“This???”

“Yep. I imagine there’ve been more birds killed over Ace than any other dog I know.”

“You sure he hasn’t been run over?”

“Sure I’m sure. He’s resting up for another hunt.”

“I’ll have to see this to believe it.”

“Delbert’s in the store. Let’s go.”

Delbert came out and it’s a stretch to say the dog was even interested in getting in the truck. Delbert called him several times, and the dog barely twitched an ear. Finally, in frustration, he picked Ace up around the middle and lifted his limp body over the tailgate.

We drove down into the bottoms, loaded our shotguns, and called Ace.

After several suggestions toward his heritage, not even his nose poked up. Finally, Delbert lowered the tailgate, drug the dog out, and set him on his feet.

“Is he sick or something?”

“Delbert or the dog?”

I sighed. “The dog.”

“Naw, he’ll get to huntin’ now.”

While we watched, the mutt yawned, lifted his leg on a nearby clump of grass, and sort of ambled along an overgrown fencerow. I wasn’t sure if he was blind for a long while, because he seemed to just bump into things, and then he suddenly stopped and lowered his head and kind of hunkered up in the middle.

“He’s fixin’ to puke,” I said.

“Naw, just wait a minute.”

He sat down to scratch, and then looked off into the distance as if he were pondering something he’d heard the night before.

“He’s on birds,” Delbert announced.

“What???”

“Walk up there.”

I did, and a covey of quail exploded from the grass.
We shot, birds fell, and Ace just looked around as if he’d suddenly become disinterested in the whole affair.

The same thing happened several times that day. Ace never seemed to put his nose to the ground, and I watched him move like he didn’t know where to go or what to do when he got there. But before the afternoon was over, we’d all filled our game bags.

We were standing by the truck when I noticed Ace wasn’t with us. “You’re dog’s probably on point somewhere.”

Delbert scratched his chin. “Naw, he knows we’ve got our limits. He’s probably back at the store by now.”

“There’s no way. That animal can’t count, he barely had the energy to walk along the edge of these rows, and the store is over two miles away. He couldn’t be there already.”

“I believe I’m right.”

And he was. When we pulled back into the parking lot, Ace was once again asleep in the same spot in front of the domino hall. Meanwhile, only ten feet away, a woman with a poodle was giving the loafers a good chewing out when we got there.

Delbert eased up, heard her concerns, and slipped back to us. He quickly lifted Ace back into this truck and waved. “I gotta go and get him out of here. The lady says when she came out of the store just a minute ago, her dog, who’s in heat, and Ace were locked up together in the front seat of her car. We’ll see you later.”

As they quickly pulled out and onto the road, I looked over at Cousin. “How could he get back so quick and do…that, before we got here?”

“He’s a wonder dog,” Cousin said and we admired the sleeping dog.

It was a book I couldn’t put down, and my own writing suffered for a day and a half while I escaped to my bedroom to enjoy his descriptions of Texas thunderstorms, honky tonks, hurricanes, conversations so familiar I became homesick, and adventures reminiscent of Jean Shepherd’s In God We Trust, All Others Pay Cash (the book from which Ralphie and his Red Ryder BB gun was made into A Christmas Story). I write humor, mostly outdoor humor about the guys I hunt with. I’m no stranger to laughing at Pat McManus, Donald Westlake, or Max Shulman, but Crowell actually made me laugh out loud, so much that in one scene on page 115 I had to pause and wipe away the tears. In that chapter, Crowell and his childhood cronies attack the abusive father of a friend with rocks, dirt clods, and BB guns. They might have won the battle, but when his mama hears about it and wears him out with a chinaberry switch and then when that breaks, with her hair brush, his dad’s one line response at the crest of the crisis is absolutely hilarious.

But it isn’t all upbeat and humorous. Crowell’s hardrinking father, who is more of a blustering dreamer than a dad, is mercurial in his moods. His Pentecostal mother who is subject to epileptic seizures fights her husband to a draw in nearly every chapter. Despite their rocky marriage, both love Crowell and he idolizes his parents.

Good dialogue is essential to keep me interested in a biography and Chinaberry Sidewalks is chock full of good old Texas sayings and 1950s life in general. Each region of the country has its own way of talking, spiced with geographical influences and by generations of hand-me-down phrases and intonations. Crowell has the rare ability, probably due to his music, to hear the rhythm of conversation and intonations, and to put down on paper feelings that come from everyday life.

I started this book, thinking that it would be about Crowell’s life as a singer and musician, but instead, was delighted to find it was a tribute to his parents and a time and place that created this musical genius and only mentions his musical career toward the end. Crowell is a master lyricist, and that talent comes through in individual lines and character descriptions. I can’t wait for his next book.

One Second After

On the far end of the spectrum, I’ve just completed a novel that came out in 2009. One Second After is a chilling story of one man’s struggle to save a small North Carolina town at the beginning of a war that sets America back to the Dark Ages. William R. Forstchen takes us on a horrific look at a potential apocalypse that could actually happen in our electronic world. The novel is set in a time after numerous Electromagnetic Pulse strikes over North America cut off all sources of electricity to our country, and specifically a North Carolina town, and the ensuing aftermath of sociological breakdown.

It is a chilling wake-up call that shows how fragile our society has become. Back in 1959, Pat Frank wrote Alas, Babylon, a landmark novel of what could happen to America in the event of a nuclear attack. In the novel, the public library becomes a center of society as people, deprived of other forms of entertainment, rediscover reading.

One Second After brings us into modern day America and our dependence on computers and electronics. When the pulse fries every piece of modern technology, the country soon faces the fact that we’re no longer about to survive on our own. Cars die, supplies aren’t delivered, food shortages very quickly turn housewives and businessmen into scavengers looking for enough scraps to life one more day.

Since reading Alas, Babylon in 1968, I’ve always wondered how our country and society as a whole would survive in the event of a nuclear attack. Now, a simple electronic pulse high over our country could drive us back to a world of settlements and fiefdoms. I’ve read dozens of apocalyptic novels, and seen many, many movies of the same genre, but this one held my attention all the way through and gave me an impression that I was re-reading Alas Babylon for the first time, only now, in a modern setting.

Forstchen’s characterizations are true and simple, making the people believable as the story unfolds. He hit the nail on the head in describing how we live from day to day, dependent on daily deliveries of food to our stores, water to our taps, and electricity to the components that we’ve come to depend upon. Refugees from large cities, organized gangs that strip the struggling towns bare of food and supplies, the harshness of medically fragile individuals who die quickly without their prescriptions, and a man’s determination to save his own family all bring the horror of war to these pages.

Forstchen did what I want all authors to do when I read their works. In One Second After, he made me think.