Trouble Starts, Pane Follows, Revised 2011 Edition

Prologue

Pearson International Airport

Toronto, Canada,

Dirk Johnson tugs at his cheap jacket of his ill fitting, knock-off of an Armani suit. He loathes having to wear such cheap clothes, but times have changed. The days of real, custom tailored Armani suits are long gone, along with the padded expense accounts. The courier business is not what it once was, at least not for him.

In days gone by, I carried all kinds of valuable things to various points in the world. I've carried state and corporate secrets, diamonds, secret formulas, anything deemed too precious to be sent any other way. Now, just because I'm past fifty, I'm relegated to escorting some old relic fiddle from Toronto to Los Angeles. Why the hell didn't I take the opportunity then to make some real dough? I guess I'm too damn honest for my own good. World Wide Couriers Limited claims that this old fiddle is worth twenty-two million bucks, in American dollars. I don't believe that for a minute. I looked it up on the net. Even the cherished Stradivarius violins normally sell for a million or two, the most ever paid is five million. There's no way this relic fiddle in this damned oversize, fluted metal case cuffed to my left wrist is worth twenty-two million. Whoever paid that much has to be a fool. Hell, these crazy people requested and paid for a pricey charter.

Dirk needs all the cash he can get his hands on these days, since his divorce, drinking, and gambling have eaten through everything he'd managed to scrape together over the years. He's at this airport way early, but already it's a busy place, but not the over-the-top busy of a holiday weekend, just the usual workaday business people traveling for their work, for the most part. He's here early so he can get a cash refund on the charter then book a commercial flight. Dirk has no problems getting that done, though the airline made him book an extra seat for the old fiddle. He still pockets more than he stands to get paid for this silly trip. This extra cash in his pocket makes him feel a bit better about the crummy gig.

Dirk doesn't feel bad about skimming the difference, since this will be his last job for World Wide. He's decided it's time to do something else with what remains of his life. With the courier business so slow for me, I've been forced to take bodyguard gigs for every so-called musical act that's come to town lately, though I can't call the crap they do these days music, I guess an old fashioned guy. Hell, maybe I'm just old. I sure feel like it these days. The courier gigs are getting fewer and farther between for me all the time.Maybe I should just stay in La-La Land to see what I can scare up out there. Hell, at least the weather is better there.

Dirk finishes his beverage. I can't really call what this wannabe Starbucks at the airport serves coffee. This drink bears little resemblance to real coffee, just as this little shop bears no resemblance to a real Starbucks. Only the outlandishly high prices are similar. Damn, now I have a problem.I'll have to take my Colt Commander pistol out to the car. I forgot that since 9\11, nobody but air marshals are allowed to carry weapons on any commercial flight, they even give cops a bad time about it. My status as a high-class courier used to allow me that privilege,that's another perk I used to have that no longer exists. I could take it on the charter, but not commercial. Oh well, I still have plenty of time before my flight.

Dirk makes the trip out to the car in the VIP lot as fast as he can. Toting the oversize case makes it a bit awkward to run, so he doesn't bother, there's plenty of time. The old Ford Crown Victoria he now owns looks out of place among the Cadillac's, Beemer's, and Benzes. It's just an ex-cop car he bought cheap, after his money troubles forced him to sell his beautiful fully restored '59 Caddy that he so dearly loved. Dirk stashes the weapon and holster in the trunk. It should be okay. It's probably a short trip. The VIP lot is well monitored. Technically, since I'm no longer taking the charter flight, my car shouldn't be in this lot. Oh, well who's going to care? Hell, it's just my old pistol and a wreck of a car, I might not bother to come back for them, I'm not sure yet, I'll check things out while I'm there.

Suddenly Dirk has another problem, he really has to pee. Damn, that stuff may not be coffee, but it seems to go right through.That's in addition of the pot full of halfway decent coffee he drank before he left the cheap apartment he now stays in, but can't really call home. Dirk hurries as quickly as he can back to the terminal entrance while the damn case hinders his efforts. Why the hell don't they put restrooms where they're convenient in these damn airports? consults the map-board of the complex near the entrance. There is a restroom nearby, a very good thing at this moment. Taking a leak with a huge case chained to my left wrist will be difficult at best and slow me down. Dirk hurries into the men's room.

~*~

Had he been the kind of courier he used to be, he might have noticed the man dressed all in black, oddly including black leather gloves. He might have noticed the man dogging his tracks since he picked up the violin. The man in black already knows getting too involved in his own little world, not keeping watch on the rest of it, will be this fool's downfall.

~*~

Dirk is balancing the case on top of the urinal as he tends to the matters at hand. He takes little notice of the door opening then being locked. Suddenly, he feels something around his throat, keeping him from breathing. He reaches his right hand up to feel what must be a wire, or strong cord around his throat. Dirk flails wildly, trying to use the case to knock his attacker off him. He swings the case to no avail, kicks his heels up, trying anything, desperately trying to free himself. Now, there is a knee in his back, hot breath on the back of his neck, a voice whispers, Dasvadanya, fool. Dirk feels himself fading fast. He can no longer flail around. Dirk's world goes gray then fades to black.

~*~

The killer tightens the garrote a little more as he holds it for a bit longer, to make damn sure this idiot of a courier is dead, not just passed out. Once he's sure this imbecile is a goner, the smiling killer works quickly yet methodically, this isn't his first time doing something like this, nor his tenth, he's actually lost count. First, he uses a tool from his pocket to pick the locks on the cuffs then tosses them into the trashcan, they tend to attract attention, that's the last thing he wants. The man in black drags the corpse into the handicapped stall. While propping the body against the wall with one hand, he searches it with the other. He removes everything in all the pockets, including tickets and passport. He leaves nothing that will give the cops a quick clue to who this fool was.

Though he'd rather not, he undoes the victim's pants then leaves them around the courier's ankles. Damn, the stupid courier released his bowels in death, like everyone does, but this guy must eat Limburger cheese for every meal.The stink should make everyone stay away.

The killer props the body on the toilet, as best he can with the body now limp. He locks the stall door then scoots under it. Its just more delaying tactics, maybe it's not needed, but he never knows --sometimes every little bit helps.

The smiling man removes his gloves then runs his hand through his short blond hair. While looking at his face in the mirror, he smiles a satisfied grin back at himself. He picks up the case, unlocks the door then struts toward the exit.

The killer stops near the exit to deposit the wallet, tickets, and other items in a trash bin. He keeps the cash. It's cash, American dollars -- he sees no need in letting it go to waste.

Out front, he gets into a waiting limo, not bothering to wait for the driver to come around to open the door for him. The limo departs quickly, whisking the killer in black and the rare Stradivarius away to parts unknown.

Chapter 1

Near Evergreen, Colorado

Ashling Pane is tense, as is everyone on the scene, she's been hunting this demented bastard for over a year. Now they've got him surrounded in an old warehouse he's been using as a hide out. Ash isn't so sure the bastard is truly surrounded. The infrared heat scanner only shows them somebody body heat is in the warehouse.

Ash checks her weapon for the umpteenth time. The chromed fifty-caliber Desert Eagle is still as ready to rock and roll as it can be. The local SWAT team is almost ready to go. Some of them are planting a small door buster explosive on the steel door. The others are taking up their positions. The tension is so thick she can almost see it. She can certainly feel it, like it's an extra dose of gravity, weighing everything down more than usual.

Ash and the others are bound and determined that this bastard isn't going to get away this time. He's killed thirty-four people that they know about. Two of those were Ash's parents. Nobody here wants to take this scumbag alive. Nobody wants him to spend the rest of his days in a cushy mental institution. If the opportunity presents itself, Ash will put all seven of the rounds her big hand cannon holds into him. If that isn't enough, she'll reload then do it again. There's just no way she'll let him live if she can help it. Though they won't say it outright, most all of the street cops and FBI agents surrounding the warehouse feel much the same about this bastard.

As an FBI agent, Ash is weighed down by regulations. Not that she pays a hell of a lot of attention to them at any time, but this time less than ever. No regulations, no laws, no person will stop her from killing this bastard if she has a chance, rules and laws be damned.

A hand signal is given. Ash hunkers down, keeping her hand cannon aimed at the warehouse over the hood of her government-issued car. She uses her left hand to push her earplugs in tighter. There's no way she wants to lose part of her hearing like a lot of people that shoot a lot do. She can't imagine not being able to hear the music that soothes her when memories of her parent's violent and nasty death haunt her mind.

A SWAT guy hand signals -- Three.... Two.... One.... boom.... the small explosion knocks the door down then the SWAT team rushes in. Suddenly, a huge explosion rocks the world. The pressure wave knocks Ash on her butt. Her weapon is knocked from her hand as she hits the ground. Debris is raining down. Those that are still able are diving for any cover to be found. Ash covers her head with her arms and waits out the hailstorm of debris.

Damn it, no, not this time! I'm sure he was inside. The bastard must have wired the place with booby-traps. Is this his last hurrah? Probably not, in the year and a half I've spent tracking this bastard, I've learned he always leaves himself a way out.

Ash picks up her Eagle. She checks it for damage, finds none, so she scans the area with her well-trained cop's eyes. The dust and smoke from the explosion makes it difficult to see. Out of the corner of her eye, Ash catches some motion where there shouldn't be any. She levels her Eagle, as she looks hard. A manhole cover seems to be levitating. Suddenly, a man appears. Ash shouts so all can hear, after the explosion and all, they might not, There he is! She takes aim as carefully as the haze and smoke blurring her vision will allow. She aims for his head, knowing the bastard usually wears a bulletproof vest just as she is. The bastard raises a weapon, it's hard to tell, but it looks to be an Uzi, or one of its kin.

Just as Ash fires, he lets go a burst. She feels a pain in her chest. The vest must have taken a round.She watches as her shot hits almost simultaneously with several others, some of them twelve gauge slugs from her partner's slug gun behind and to the right of her.

The bastard's head is nearly non-existent now, he's down on the ground. The weapon is still in his hand, everyone is still pumping rounds into him, taking a little vengeance for their downed brother officers. It'll be damn hard to say whose rounds killed the bastard. He's dead as he can be, just the same.

The pain in her chest becomes intense now. Ash reaches down. Her hand gets bloody. What the hell is this? Why am I bleeding? I'm wearing a vest. Where is everyone? What the hell is that incessant buzzing in my ears?

Chapter 2

Ash startles awake, the damn alarm is buzzing, though she doesn't remember setting it. She turns it off quickly. Damn, I had the nightmare again. The damn Bureau shrinks said it would dissipate over time. It sure as hell hasn't yet.

Including the physical recovery time, it's been nearly three years since that fateful day. That damn bastard used armor piercing bullets, one went right through her vest. A back rib is all that stopped the puny nine-millimeter bullet from going on through. Had an ambulance with an experienced crew not been right there on standby, she probably would have died.

The damn Bureau shrinks said I would suffer from Delayed Stress Syndrome. Who ever named the condition has obviously never been shot. Delayed hell, it starts right then. They said I would have problems for a while. They claimed I would probably always be quick on the trigger from then on.The mucky mucks used that excuse to pension me off, I should have played nuts like the shrinks said, and shot their silly asses, that would've done the world a favor, but there's always more petty bureaucrats to replace any that die. Where the hell do they get them, is there a cloning farm somewhere?

The by-the-book higher-ups never liked the way I got things done. This is just the excuse they needed to be rid of me. They didn't dare fire me outright, the spineless bastards. As an FBI agent, I'd garnered the goodwill of many rich and powerful people. Not the least of them isLester Moore, now the President of the United States. They all knew better than to screw with me, but they got their way eventually, the bastards. Les had to go along with the docs, it would be political suicide if he didn't then I wound up in some mess. I'm certain I would have, my lack of respect for their bullshit rules always had me in trouble of some sort.

Ash got in the President's good graces back when he was Senator Moore. First, she saved his career by tracking down and quietly arresting the blackmailers that were using trumped up documents and pictures to try to bend him to their will. Later, Les called on her to find his kidnapped daughter when the by-the-book boys could get nothing done. She rescued his daughter, and dispatched the kidnappers to the netherworld. She didn't think they were the powers behind it, but whoever was seemed to get the message not to mess with Les, or her. They never bothered him again.

The damn Bureau shrinks tried to prescribe Prozac. I flatly refused to take their guff, or their pills. What I badly need at this moment is my drug of choice, coffee, lots of it. drags ass to the kitchen. She fumbles with the coffee maker. Eventually, she gets a pot going, she's still groggy from that damn dream, plus the lack of sleep it causes her. She usually stays up until she's so tired she just has to sleep, to put off the nightmare as long as possible.

Ash pads through her bedroom, into her bathroom. A morning tinkle makes her bladder gladder. She takes a cool shower, just to help wake her up, maybe shake off some of the grogginess. It helps a little bit. When she gets out, she brushes her raven hair with a natural bristle brush that doesn't damage wet hair.

The full-length mirror shows her that her body is back in fine form again, she's used dancing and martial arts workouts to get her form back after she lost so much of it laying in the hospital for nearly six months after she was shot. The only blemish on her nearly perfect body now is the damn scar from where the armor-piercing round hit, plus the surgery to remove it.

Maybe, I can indulge myself soon, I can probably afford to have some wizard plastic surgeon remove the scar. I've been saving my pension money up, along with the monthly stipend from the trust fund my parents set up for me many years ago.

Ash lives primarily off her income as a free-lance recovery agent. She usually works for large insurance companies. She doesn't need to, if she continues to live modestly, she wouldn't have to ever work again. She must have something to do, at least some times, it usually gets her mind off of the trauma that still haunts her mind. Her occasional work helps keeps both mind and her other skills sharp.

Her grandparent's home here in Colorado was left to her. She only has to keep it and the taxes up, plus pay the usual utility bills. Her parents left her their retirement house in Florida, but she has a real estate company keeping it rented out. She can't bear to be there, where her parent's were killed, yet can't bring herself to sell it. She feels most comfortable here in her grandparent's house. There are many memories for her here, mostly good ones. Her grandparents died peacefully, at a ripe old age, not gruesomely like her parents did in the Florida house.

Ash is snapped out of her reverie by the smell of the coffee. She follows her nose to the kitchen for some of that heavenly elixir. She lives rather frugally, though not so much out of a need, just habit. She's no tightwad, either. She simply has no need to do otherwise. Her coffee, a blend of one third Hawaiian Kona and two thirds Columbian Arabica is one of her few extravagances. If it were more reasonable, she'd get pure Kona, but the price offends her frugal mentality too much. She steadfastly refuses not to do without decent coffee, if she has any choice. She absolutely hates the current trend of calling that half-caf-mocha-latte-soy-frothy crap coffee. In fact, she's a card-carrying member of the RCS, the Real Coffee Society. They aren't a fancy group with meetings, but do maintain a list of where to get good, honest coffee, both prepared and ground, in whatever city or larger town she might find herself in. In her line of work, that's a nice thing to have, since she's a coffee addict.

Her twice a week cleaning and laundry service is another of her small splurges, since she's not the domestic type. That caused her mother and grandmother much dismay that she'd rather be in the garage with Gramps or Dad then doing domestic things around the house.

Ash drinks down the first cup as fast as the temperature of it will allow. She gets a second cup, bringing the pot with her as she sits at the kitchen table, still nude and damp. After several cups, she ponders what to do with herself today. She doesn't have a case at the moment. She's made a great reputation for herself, so she charges a high price of twenty five percent of the recovery. This keeps her from being bothered by run-of-the-mill cases. At this moment, she doesn't feel like she wants a case, though she could probably use one for the money and something to keep her occupied.

Ash pays her own expenses, the cheap bozos at the insurance companies will nickel and dime her to death if she didn't, making her fly coach instead of business or first class. With her long lanky frame she refuses to fly coach. Sometimes, if it's a shorter hop, she'll rent a plane to fly herself, She's rated for multi-engine props with an IFR (instrument flight rules) endorsement.

Ash is hungry, but the fridge and cupboards are nearly bare. She doesn't really cook, since she never bothered to learn how. Frozen dinners or junk food are her usual fare when she eats at home. For one person, it's about as cheap to eat in lower end restaurants, maybe cheaper than cooking at home, since it's hell to buy just enough for one meal at a time, the rest would probably go to waste, since she never knows when she'll be leaving the house for who knows how long.

Maybe I'll take my new Triumph Scrambler down to the Hot Dog Shack. I get a kick out of that place, the building is shaped and painted like a giant hot dog. If I get them all the way, like I usually do, they're the best hotdogs that can be had, at least in this area. In Chicago, New York or Philly, they might not be the best, but would give those places famous for hotdogs a run for their money. After the hotdog shack, maybe I'll take a ride to the shooting range. Ash loves to shoot. She sometimes finds making good shots almost orgasmic.

Thinking of going shooting, reminds her of the new gold plated and engraved Desert Eagle. Her partner and the rest of the gang pitched in for it when she was pensioned off. Maybe I should try it out. Naw, fancy weapons like that lose their value if used much. I should probably take it to the bank to put it in my safety deposit box, but I like just looking at the beautiful thing.

If I go to the range, my trusty old chrome Eagle I always carry will do the job.

Early in my career, the boys at the Bureau teased me about the big pistol knocking me over when I touched it off. I worked with it for many hours, and am still quite good with it. I never let on that the Magna-porting I had done to it, and the custom loaded rounds made it fairly easy for my large hands and muscular build to handle the big pistol. Taking the Bureau pistol shooting championship four years in a row eventually stifled the teasing about it. Well hell, food first then I can go shooting if I still feel like it.

Ash treks to the bedroom to put on an FBI academy tracksuit with some old tenni-runners, what most people call sports shoes. She just doesn't feel like dressing in any more than that at this point in time. She grabs her helmet off the foyer hat rack, as she ambles outside with her big purse on her arm. At the moment, it holds not only the usual items for her purse, but now holds her Eagle too. Normally, she would wear the pistol, but with only the tracksuit on, that's not practical. She uses a small cargo net to secure the purse to the luggage rack, puts on the helmet then fires up the bike.

Ash zips down to the Hot Dog Shack. She enjoys two all-the-way dogs there then has them put four more in a to-go bag. They might be dinner and a snack if she decides to stay home tonight. Ash secures her purse with the to-go bag on the bike then zips back home, she really doesn't feel like going shooting now.

Ash puts the to-go bag in the fridge then starts another pot of coffee. While she's waiting on the coffee, she notices that her answering machine light is blinking. Damn, I only get calls related to my recovery agent work on that line. I don't really feel like taking on a case right now.

Chapter 3

The voice of a man Ash loves to hate booms out of the machine when she pushes the play button. Ralph Meaney, is certainly named right. We've never gotten along, why does he keep using me? I guess when he needs results his salaried people can't get, he calls, regardless of whether he likes me or not.

Ralph is the claims chief for a very large insurance company. The disembodied voice is trying to be sweet, but it's not Ralph's way, it sounds fake, "Ash pack a bag, I have a doozy of a case for you to work your magic on. Ash, I really need your help on this one. A Stradivarius violin has been stolen from a courier company. It had just been sold at auction for twenty two million bucks. It was stolen on the way from the authenticator's to the new owner. The courier company is putting up an extra million bucks to whoever gets it back to the rightful owner, no questions asked. I guess they're worried about their reputation. I'll gladly pay your usual twenty five percent on top of that should you work your magic again. I authorized the coverage on the damn thing, my neck is on the chopping block. I'm not doing this as a favor to you, but to myself. The leads are slim, but if anyone can find it, you will, I just know it. I'll fax you what info there is on this damn case as soon as I hang up. Let me know if I can help in any way, I'll do so gladly. Good hunting, oh, you have a month to find it, so don't let it spoil your weekend. Later."

Yeah right, you asshole, Ash spits her vehemence out loud at the machine. He knows damn well there would be little if anything I could accomplish on the weekend. He's just trying to make it sound like he gives a damn. decides that the papers waiting in the fax machine tray can wait, she might turn the case down, big bucks or not.

Right now, Ash wants to check out the funnies in the newspaper. Ash opens the paper to the comics. She rarely looks at the national news or the local. As far as she's concerned, just change the dates and names, it's pretty much always the same. She'd rather make news than read about it. She gets another cup of coffee, enjoys some of the funnies, a few get only a groan.

When she finishes the funnies, she turns to the back page to see if there's a good movie playing in Golden. No, as usual, there's only sappy chick flicks or movies aimed at teenagers. Since Van Dame and Segal aren't making movies much anymore, the kind of thing she likes is rare. Jackie Chan is good, but she doesn't care for the Asian made overdubbed ones he puts out every other time. They're just too over the top, the sound effects they use are just silly for her taste.

It's too late in the day to go shooting now, though I don't really feel like it, it would beat doing nothing. Damn another boring weekend. A small ad catches her eye. Oh boy! Tiny Barge and the Big Chill are playing at a bar in Golden!

Ash hasn't seen the guys in a long time. Most of the band members are all friends of hers from way back in her college days, though they were all in other bands at the time. Well, that settles that, an evening of dancing to their good old rock and roll sounds like just the ticket.

Ash tries to figure out what she'll wear. It's way too early yet, but what the hell, I'll go into town early, maybe there's something else I can do. She chooses a long blue skirt with a ruffled hem, and a lighter blue top. Cowboy boots are always in fashion in this part of the country, so that choice is easy. Ash picks out a black pair with a low walking heel. She smiles when she remembers how she learned about cowboy boots. She drifts back into her memories.

When she first came back to town to live, she decided to outfit herself with some duds typical of the area. The dress suits she typically wore as an FBI agent wouldn't help her fit in. She'd really never worn cowboy boots before. Though she vaguely remembers having some as a kid.

Ash was raised in the southern part of the state, not here in Golden, actually closer to Evergreen the house is out in the country, in the county, not part of any city. When visiting her grandparents in the summers, cowboy boots were always quite common. They weren't so prevalent where she lived, as there were fewer ranchers.

She found a western wear store in Golden. She was looking at all the choices of boots with the different kinds of heels they have. An older gentleman in cowboy duds spoke to her, M'am, I can see you need a little help, can I explain the different types of heels to you?

I wish you would, I really don't know anything about it.

The man patiently explained that there are three types of real cowboy heels. He explained in his gentle manner, You got yer doggin' heels, yer ridin' heels and yer walkin' heels. I 'magine a fine filly like yerself would be needin' walkin' heels. He took the time to point out the different heels then explained their uses. Then you got these here kind of heels, they's way too tall, way too skinny to be good for anythin'. No true westerner would wear 'em.

Just then a sales girl approached Ash. Can I help you find something m'am?

I think this gentleman is doing just fine with that.

But he doesn't work here.

Ash looked over at the slightly red-faced gentleman. He nodded that it was so. Ash pointed to a display pair of boots with a low walking heel, See if you have a pair like this in a size eight wide please. As the girl strutted away to get the boots, Ash noticed she was wearing the silly heels the cowboy told her no true westerner would wear. Sir, is what you told me the truth?

Sure is m'am, I got no cause to lie to such a fine filly as yerself.

Used to a more direct approach, Ash asked him, Are you trying to get a date with me, or what?

Well, um yes m'am, I sure don't see no weddin' ring, I figured an old man might not stand much of a chance, but such a fine filly is sure worth a try.

If you'll help me pick out some more clothes so I can fit in a bit better around here, I might just oblige such a fine gentleman as yourself.

Would you happen to care to accompany me to the dance tonight?

I suppose so, but let me buy you dinner first.

I can't hold with that, m'am, but I surely will see to it we get us a bite to eat first.

You're going to have to stop that m'am stuff, my name is Ashling Pane. Mostly, I like my friends to just call me Ash.

My name is Jim Farmer, but I always says I got the wrong name, I's a rancher, not a farmer. How does a filly that looks for all the world to be 'bout full blood ... well hell we used to say injun, but they call it, well whatever they call it these days, anyway you got yourself a fine Irish name but hardly look the part.

Ash is kind of amazed that an apparently unschooled rancher would know that her name is Irish. Lets just say I was lucky, I got the looks in the family, somewhere back on the family tree are some Native Americans, I got their looks. Ash used to be bothered by that, she thought she was adopted. When she was about ten years old, her grandmother set her straight on that score. She really doesn't remember what tribes or clans the bloodline comes from.

Them eyes is a bit of a give away you ain't full blood. Mighty purty they is too. Jim helped her pick out gorgeous but mostly rather simple clothes, telling her she didn't need or want to take attention away from her lovely face. Ash is beginning to catch on that this old boy is a lot smarter than his Aw shucks m'am manner lets on. Schooled or not, he sure knew how to make a woman feel good.

When they were done picking things out in the western store, Ash changed there then tossed the rest of the purchases in the trunk of her old, reliable Ford Taurus. Jim drove her over to a little out of the way restaurant in his pickup. It was the kind of place mostly only locals frequented, just good plain food sold at reasonable prices.

Ash tried to pay, but Jim would have none of that. Ash smiled at how he seemed to turn the aw shucks m'am manner up a notch when he was trying to get his way. He told her, I knows y'all womens is all watch ya call liberty-rated nowadays, but I'm just an old fashioned kind of guy. Well, it was a rather tiny bill, I might as well let the man have it his way.

Jim took Ash over to his club, an only slightly renovated metal barn structure on the outskirts of Golden. They only drank cokes, so as not to interfere with the dancing. Jim taught her how to let a man lead, something she was unaccustomed to, in dance or otherwise. He taught her all the old dances and some of the new line dances too. He had a very gentle way about him, with a smile for almost everyone. His jubilant nature seemed infectious to all that got close to him.

Ash was quite smitten with this gentleman. At the end of the evening, she led him back to her house where they made slow, gentle love repeatedly all night and into the morning. Ash was really surprised at the older gent's stamina, and told him so.

Well, Ash, it's like the old bull and the young bull standing on top of the hill surveying the heifers. The young bull says lets run down the hill and nail us a few of them heifers. The old bull says, why don't we walk down and nail 'em all. Ash had to chuckle, this man was a pure delight.

As quickly as the memory filled her with warmth and smiles, it turns to sadness. A teenager with too much booze in him wrecked into Jim, the damn kid crashed into Jim barely a week after their night of dancing and loving. Why the hell does everyone I love have to die? The damn stupid teenager walked away from the crash with hardly a scratch.

Ash now feels the need to get out of the house right away as the sadness starts weighing on her heart and mind. She really would rather go have some fun. She grabs a light jacket for later then hangs her big purse on her arm. She marches herself outside as quickly as she can.

Chapter 4

Ash could drive her venerable old Ford, but that wouldn't be much fun. She surveys the eight other vehicles in her garage. No, not the old beat up looking '51 Dodge pickup that me and Dad learned to drive in. That thing brings back fond memories, but is a handful to drive. It's mechanically as sound as ever, the straight six having been recently rebuilt, but it's still a '51 with drum brakes and no power steering.

Ahh yes! Dad's pride and passion. Ash checks out the hotrod with a replica '32 deuce coupe three-window body. engine is exposed and gleaming with chrome or polished aluminum. The dual Holley four barrels and Jimmy 6-71 blower on top of the engine that started life as a 460 Ford should really attract some attention. She disconnects the automatic battery charger then grabs the keys off the pegboard where she keeps them.

When Ash turns the key, the engine starts before she can hear the starter whine. Ash rolls it out of the garage then lets the rod idle while she shuts the garage doors. She just idles down her gravel drive. She wants the engine fully warmed up before she lets it scream. She nearly idles all the way to the highway that leads to Golden.

When it's clear, she stomps the gas. The tires squeal a bit, before the traction bars and four-link suspension do their job. She roars onto the main highway. By second gear, she's doing a hundred and ten miles an hour. Damn, way too fast, and still two gears plus an overdrive to go. I'd forgotten how potent this thing really is. She backs it down to a more reasonable speed then puts it in fourth gear anyway, she's now sailing along at seventy miles an hour with the engine doing barely more than an idle.

The quick take off reminds Ash of the game her father used to play with her on some sunny Saturday afternoons. Dad would put a hundred dollar bill on the dash in front of me. He'd tell me that if I could grab it, it was mine. Every time I'd reach for it, Daddy would hit the gas, the G-forces would pin me back in the seat. I never had a chance. I only won the game that once, when a freak breeze blew the bill right into my lap.

Ash gets into town quickly, downshifts then idles around town. Many people are out and about. Balmy summer evenings like this are a rarity in the mountains of Colorado, any time of year. The saying here is: If you don't like the weather, wait ten minutes it'll change.

Almost everyone, especially the men and boys, give her a look as she rolls by them. She recognizes the hungry looks. They all would love to be the one driving this yellow hotrod with the blower whining. Ash wishes it were her garnering such looks, but they don't really look at who is driving the beast.

It's still way too early to go to the club, so Ash just idles around town for a while. Her belly feels empty, she may have a drink or two this evening so she decides best get something to eat. The all-the-way dogs were good, but that was a while ago. She starts checking out the restaurants, trying to decide what she wants for supper.

Ordinarily, she seeks out little mom and pop type places. The food is usually better than in the chain places. Ash drives around. When she's back on the main thoroughfare, she discovers something new to Golden. Red Top Hamburgers has opened a place in Golden.Oh boy, that's wonderful.

Good memories of days gone by abound, often fueled by great Red Top cheeseburgers. Ash remembers the trips out every summer as a kid. Her parents would always stop at the original Red Top in Colorado Springs. The burgers, as big as dinner plates, are always a delight. Good burgers have always been one of Ash's favorite things. These huge ones really used to make her eyes bug out. The thin patty covers the entire dinner plate sized bun. They're so huge that they offer and sell many half orders.

Ash parks then ambles in to the new place. Yeah, it's new, but still has the old burger joint feel that Ash likes. This one is more modern, but not so much that it spoils the feel. Somebody did a good job with keeping the things that make the places so popular in the Springs, not just the food.

Ash orders a cheeseburger with an order of their fresh made fries. A coke, no ice is ordered with it. The order is served quickly, as they usually were at the original, except when the place was packed, often the case at peak hours. The taste of it helps bring back some more of the good childhood memories. She's barely able to finish one of them these days. As a kid, she could eat at least five. Ash orders a couple more to go, thinking that with the all-the-way dogs already in the fridge at home, maybe she can forestall going to the grocery store for another day or two.

Maybe if I'm successful on this next case, I can hire a cook. It would be great, not only having good meals at home, but some company daily would be great. Heck, I'm certainly no domestic type myself. Most domestic things are almost a mystery to Ash. She would really rather they stay that way. Domestic things like cooking just never interested her in the slightest.

Ash tips her waitress ten bucks, just because she feels like it, when she pays the bill, which really isn't all that much. Red Top sure gives me good value for your money. A tourist might think the burgers here are a little high priced at first. When they see the huge things, the price gets very small in comparison to the size of the burgers.

Chapter 5

It's still a bit early to head to the bar where the guys are playing, but not knowing what else to do, Ash drives the hotrod over there anyway. At least this way she gets a parking spot close to the door, since a hotrod like this needs to be parked where it can be checked on now and then.

Ash strolls into the dimly lit bar. As usual, she has the posture of a gunslinger looking for her quarry. It takes a minute for her eyes to adjust. She sees her old friend, Guy Dufort, on stage. He's helping the roadie running the soundboard set mic levels. Skip is noodling riffs on his keyboards. The horns are waiting in the horn section, but none of the players are visible at the moment. Tiny is nowhere to be seen, nor is Steve, the drummer.

Janet, Guy's wife, and Carla, Skip's spouse, are sitting at a table with a couple of other gals at a table directly across the dance floor from the stage. When Janet notices Ash, she waves her over.

Janet and Carla are all right. They're somewhat the kind of typical girly-girls Ash really doesn't care for, but they're intelligent and fun, so Ash ambles over to the table. Janet motions Ash to a chair.

Janet introduces Ash to Tiffany and Adriana, obviously the flavor-of-the-week for a couple of the other band members. Ash sticks to Coke, since it's so early. She's usually not much of a drinker, more than a couple wipes her out. She doesn't want to get wasted, since she has the coupe to drive home. That makes her consider sticking to Cokes all night. Pleasant chitchat and a few ribald jokes pass the time quickly.

Just before it's time for the band to start playing, Guy be-bops over to the table to give Janet a little kiss. Janet tells the new girls that Ash knows the guys from way back when. I've been trying to get her to give me the low down and dirty stories from way back then. So far, she's as quiet about it as a monk that has taken a vow of silence.

Ash quips, I did swear an oath never to divulge our secrets, on the sacred tequila bottle! Laughter erupts all around at this. Guy greets her with his traditional, Hey Ash, what's shakin' baby-cakes!

No, I didn't see that movie, is Ash's traditional reply. It's a non-sequitor for sure. It's the beginning of a bit they used to do all the time. Guy laughs, more so at the fact that she remembered than it being humorous on it's own.

Long time no see, Ash. Up to anything good these days?

Not much yet, I just decided to get out to have a little fun. I have a big case coming up Monday morning. I figure there won't be much fun to be had for a while.

Kewlness and light, Ash. We best get busy, talk at you later.

Guy ambles back to the stage. Ash always thought it rather strange that he appears to be a way out rocker, but in actuality holds masters degrees in both electrical engineering and music. He tends to play dumb, though he's really one of the smartest people Ash knows. He makes his main living these days as a consulting tech for a computer-leasing firm. He's always said that when they play, they play for free, but get paid a little for setting up and tearing down.

Ash wonders how a smaller bar like this can afford a large, regionally well-known band like Tiny and the guys. She asks Janet how the guys came to play at such a place. Janet tells her that it's more or less a favor for the owner, an old friend of Tiny's. They're getting paid, but only the amount he usually pays for the run-of-the-mill four piece bands he normally gets. Tiny and the guys look at it like rehearsal time, since they weren't booked for the weekend if they hadn't taken this gig.

Carla chimes in, Yeah, they've a bit of a time getting bookings at all these days. So many places have gone to recorded music. There aren't many places for any kind of a band to play, let alone a band this size. If most of the guys didn't have day jobs or studio gigs, they would probably all starve. Damn shame really, new acts really have a time getting started these days.

Ash nods, Yeah, I've noticed places with real music are getting hard to find. I think the crap the new acts are doing these days has a lot to do with that. Nobody wants to listen to it off the dance floor. It gets old fast, even then. Ash takes a long pull on her Coke then signals to the waitress for another.

Janet replies with more seriousness than the matter deserves, Maybe so, acts with any real musical ability are fewer and farther between these days, that's for sure.

The band strikes up an old Motown tune. Tiny is in as fine a voice as ever. His voice has mellowed a bit from the old days, but it still sounds great, maybe better. They're a bit loud this close, so the conversation at the table almost comes to a standstill.

Ash notices that only one tall cowboy and a little gal are on the dance floor. He's blond haired, wide at the shoulders, narrow at the hips. He dances better than anyone I have ever seen, outside of a very few professionals. It's especially interesting on such a large framed man. He looks like he could be a pro football player or something. He has just a bit of a belly, like he might enjoy good food.

Ash keeps her eyes on the cowboy, especially his tiny, tight butt. As one song ends, he escorts his partner back to her table. He stops by his table to take a long pull on his beer. He finds another partner then starts dancing again. All through the first set, he tries out one partner after another. Ash notices he doesn't try to overwhelm his partners with his obvious skills. He dances almost at whatever level they do, kicking it up just a notch now and then, much to his partner's delight.

Nobody else dances during the first set, as is common in bars like this. Most men and many women seem to need a bit of alcohol for lubrication before doing burn outs on the dance floor. Ash has really never understood that, but that's the way it usually is.

Chapter 6

When the band takes a break, Skip and Guy join the girls at the table. Adriana and Tiffany wander on back stage to be with their guys. Skip looks to Ash, "Hello Ash, where've you been hiding?

Ash gives him a warm smile, the kind reserved for an old friend, Oh, nowhere really, my business takes me out of town so much, that when I'm home, I tend to hang out at the house just enjoying the down time.

Skip gives her a questioning look, What are you doing these days? I know you aren't a Fed anymore.

I'm still an investigator, now I free lance, primarily for big insurance companies, trying to find things that are stolen, sometimes investigating potential fraud.

Skip nods, Sounds like the perfect job for you. No government red tape, and you can take only the jobs you want.

Ash shrugs, Well, pretty much, but you know how it is, some times I take gigs I would really rather not, only for the money.

Skip gives her a knowing look, Yeah, that's a universal problem I think.

Their conversation continues, in a light vein, until it's time for the band to start up again. When the guys get back on stage, Adriana and Tiffany return to the table.

During the next set, the tall cowboy continues to dance with almost all the available women, regardless of age, looks or ability. He also takes Carla, Janet and other obviously spoken for ladies out on the floor a time or two. Except for Ash, he never asks her the whole set.

That cowboy's starting to tick me off. He's danced with all of the available women in the place. He doesn't seem to care whether they're large or small, older or younger, good dancers or not. Why the hell hasn't he asked me? What the hell is with him, I know I intimidate a lot of guys, butI can tell there isn't much that intimidates this guy.I'm not chopped liver, why the hell hasn't he asked me once?

When the band breaks again, Ash listens to the conversation, but doesn't have a lot to say. The tall cowboy ignoring her has gotten under her skin. If he doesn't ask me during the next set, I'll snag his ass myself and drag him on the floor. With his size and ability to move, that might be interesting to try. I might have to whip his butt, but that could be fun too.

When the band starts up again, the tall cowboy keeps up doing what he's been doing all night until the middle of the set, when the band plays a slow tune. The cowboy walks straight