Welcome to Deep Cove
Volatile Spirits

The crowd at Club Coliseum spilled into the streets. People had been lined up for hours to get tickets to tonight’s Golem Wars. The tribal music was loud, overhead speakers delivering its pounding beat to the revellers. Men and women danced inside the building, as well as up and down the laneway out front. Beer and other alcoholic beverages flowed liberally and the mood of the crowd was as raw and pulsating as the music.

Inside the hall, the floor was crammed with sweating jostling bodies. To the right of the dance floor, Garrett leaned over Merle, shouting to be heard over the music. “Come on, buddy, just do this one thing for me!”

“No way,” argued Merle. The little dragon was standing on a table, his head almost even with Garrett’s. He adjusted his sunset specs and crossed his arms over his chest defiantly. “The only reason I did it last time was because you didn’t show up!”

“What’s your problem? I have front row seats and I promised I’d sit with Coral. This is my chance with her, don’t blow it for me.”

“If that wingnut loses the match, they’ll all blame me! Besides, I don’t know why you’re so gaga for this girl all of a sudden,” yelled Merle. “She’s not that good looking and she’s uppity to boot. You said yourself she drives you nuts!”

“He… wants… to… mate… her,” supplied P.C. from beside them. The automaton was busy dusting the rafters overhead and didn’t bother to look over as he spoke. Behind him, Coral stood quietly with the drinks she had fetched from the bar.

Merle coughed into this hand and became interested in the floor. Garrett wiped the sweat from his brow and smiled weakly at the woman. “Hi,” he said. Coral passed Garrett his beer, but said nothing.

An explosive cheer erupted from across the room and all eyes shifted in that direction. Threading his way through the crowd, a thin man in yellow coveralls and a pink shirt made his way to their table. The newcomer’s face was flushed and Garrett thought the man’s purple and white bowtie might be cutting off the circulation to his head. People from the crowd reached out and patted at him or shouted alcohol induced greetings. The man ignored them all.

Arriving at Merle’s table, Johnny I.Q. adjusted his oversized spectacles and stared down his nose at the dragon. “I’m surprised you had the balls to show up, Snake Boy.”

Merle turned to Garret, his lips curling. “I’ll do it!” he snapped.

“Oh I don’t think you’ll be so optimistic when you meet my new creation, ‘The Lumberjack’. We’re gonna shave Christmas dinner off your golem’s backside.” Johnny shoved Merle backward. “And then maybe you and I can have a go in the alley. I owe you one for Stoneman.”

A blue current crackled over Merle and he stumbled forward, ready to claw the man’s eyes from his head.

P.C’s feather duster hit the dragon in the midsection and prevented him from reaching his target. “The… rules… clearly… state… that… any… aggression… between… owners… before… a… match… is… strictly… prohibited… and… the… match… will… be… forfeit.”

“I don’t care,” growled Merle, his eyes bulging white, his arms raking the air overtop the feather duster. “As you’ve pointed out many times, I don’t own you!”

“All… prize… money… will… also… be… forfeit,” continued P.C.

Merle ceased his struggles, his small dragon sides wheezing with stress. “You’re lucky we need those funds,” he breathed. He wiped a dab of spittle from the corner of his mouth as Johnny eased his way back through the crowd. Merle turned to P.C. “You said you tied Flower up in the back alley?”

“Stupid… doorman… said… no… dogs… allowed,” huffed P.C.

“Good,” continued Merle. “And what was that latest attack command you were teaching him?”

* * * *

Garrett felt a thrill of excitement as he led Coral to their seats. Already the coliseum was packed. All of the benches were filled and every inch of standing room was occupied. The crowd initiated a wave to their left and Garrett watched the flow of bodies and arms encircle the coliseum. When the pulse of activity reached them, both he and Coral laughed and added their effort to the spectacle.

This was Garrett’s first visit to Club Coliseum’s underground and he was impressed. Two empty booths overlooked the battlefield below, but nothing stirred within the depths of the arena. Four carved totems were symmetrically erected around a central grate in the floor. This, he knew, was the devastating flame throwing trap. The other golem deterring contraptions changed from week to week, but the flame thrower was a fan favourite and a mainstay of the arena.

A stocky man to Garrett’s right leaned in and offered a hand. “I’m Maxey!” he shouted above the din. “This here’s my posse.” He jerked his head to the men beside him. Garrett nodded at Maxey’s four beer bellied pals. “I’m the Germinator’s biggest fan!” he continued. “I know you own the Germinator. I was wondering if me and the fellows could get an autograph?”

Garrett nodded and glanced Coral’s way to make sure she had heard the request. “No problem,” he agreed. “You got a pen and something for me to sign?”

“Actually, we was hopin’ for the Germinator’s autograph after the fight,” clarified Maxey. Garrett felt his face flush and made an effort to laugh it off. “Ya, of course,” he said “after the fight, then.”

“Right on!” agreed Maxey and turned his back to Garrett.

Garrett tried to think of something to change the subject, but thankfully the lights dimmed and a hush washed over the crowd. A spotlight bloomed from the metal rafters, illuminating an iron grate leading to the underbelly of the pit. Unhurriedly the grate wheeled upward. A detonation of ungodly screeching tones and lyrics blanketed the cavern. A palpable shudder ran throughout the stands and Garrett felt his bowels clench.

“Kill your father, slay your mother,

Hack your sister, stab your brother.

Dig you a hole to Hell,

No one to bid you farewell!”

A metallic screech echoed from the depths of the entrance tunnel and a lumbering behemoth of iron crept through the opening into the arena. The crowd held its breath, as the spotlight followed Johnny I.Q.’s newest creation. The music screamed overhead.

The Golem’s massive upper body was enclosed in double plate steel and polished to an eye piercing shine. The undercarriage of the creature was a rotating tread design, never before witnessed in the arena. The monster rumbled forward insidiously, the treads groaning louder than the music. Instead of a left arm, a menacing spiked chain rotated around a thick guide bar. The monster’s right arm was a six foot in diameter circular saw. With no warning, both appendages erupted into activity. The circular saw screamed a whining promise of death and the spiked chain gurgled a throaty roar up to the hollows of the vaulted ceiling. Slashing the air in a synchronised dance of defilement, the creature wheeled itself across the ring. The chainsaw arm shot out, connecting with one of the wood columns. Smoke and wood chips shot into the sky and the crowd pulled back in fear as the pillar collapsed in an explosion of dust.

“Wow,” yelled one of Maxey’s pals, “right through that Vellian oak. I’m taking this guy.”

Maxey looked unimpressed and elbowed Garrett in the ribs. “My Germinator’s faster than a post, ain’t he?” he squealed. Garrett stared at the devastation. As the dust settled to the coliseum floor, he could only agree with Maxey’s pal. Outwardly, he remained silent.

“Spill your guts, rake out your eyes,

Covered in maggots, crawling with flies.

I’ll saw your bones, suck out your liver,

Die, dog, your soul I’ll deliver.”

The iron contraption rolled to a stop beneath its designated booth, its left tread sending up a spray of sand as it rotated to face the length of the battlefield. From the underground archway, appeared Johnny I.Q. He waved to the crowd and they roared their approval. He carried a box contraption with him, its multicoloured lights flashing brilliantly in the darkness. A smattering of boos echoed about the bowl of the stadium, but the scrawny man dismissed the taunting with a rude gesture and climbed to his booth. The spotlight was killed and the arena once more went black. Thankfully, the screeching music died with the lights.

Seconds later, the spotlight hummed to life again, sighting in on the closed portcullis of the underworks. This time the beat that filled the stadium was calmer and folksier, a fiddle drawing out the rhythm.

“The Dean of Clean is coming, its time that scum fled,

He’s mopped up better men than you; rest assured they’re dead.

He can scrub your balls or shave your face, clean the toilet too!

But if you dare to stand in his way, he’ll make a fool of you.”

Garrett tried to hide his face as the fiddle squawked out a frenzied jig. He could feel Coral’s eyes on him. “No,” he said, anticipating the question. “I did not authorise that music.”

“I like it!” she said in his ear. “It’s catchy!”

The arena grate reeled upward and P.C. appeared from the depths of the stonework. The crowd gave a warm cheer. The robot’s apron was tied around his head and he jogged up the ramp into the amphitheatre. He delivered several punches to his imaginary foe, his feet flying in a flurry of well timed sidesteps. The crowd roared again and Merle appeared from the passageway, his wings buzzing to catch up to his ward.

“Clog in the toilet, plunge, boy, plunge.

Germinator will sop it up with his sponge.

Turn and fire detergent to your eye,

You’ll be swept under the rug, so don’t even try.”

The fiddle squawked its final fantastic resonance and faded as P.C. took up position below Merle’s booth. Full lighting was restored to the ring as the little dragon fluttered to his spot.

“Ladies and gentlemen of all races and nationalities, we welcome you to this week’s sanctioned amateur bout. Put your hands together for the return of one of Golem Wars greatest ever owners, Johnny I.Q!” A few anti-Johnny calls were drowned out by a cacophony of cheers.

“Fighting out of the blue corner and weighing in at Forty-seven hundred pounds, with a reach of one hundred and ninety-eight inches, he sports a professional record of four wins with no losses. Let’s hear it for the Sergeant of Saw, Cassadia’s pride and joy, the Lumberjack!” Again the crowd went into hysterics of worship.

“You’ll get him this time, Johnny!”

“It was only one loss!”

“Circumcise that metal prick!”

“Fighting out of the red corner and weighing in at a trim two hundred and seventy-six pounds, with a reach of four hundred and eighty inches, we welcome once again, Deep Cove’s very own, the Dean of Clean, the Pope of Soap, The Germinator!” The applause was polite, but Lumberjack’s physicality and awesome weapons had sucked the enthusiasm from P.C’s followers.

Maxey stood on his bench, pumping his arm as he called out, “Germinator, Germinator, Germinator!” The response was minimal and he was quick to take his seat again.

“In accordance with the rules of this unofficial engagement, the loser will be the first golem deemed unable to damage the other. At the bell you may come out fighting!”

* * * *

P.C. surveyed his surroundings, his processor analysing all facets of the killing field. The battleground remained forty feet squared and surrounded by a ten foot wall. Once again, each corner of the arena occupied a trap that could be sprung from the owner’s booth. The corners nearest Johnny contained a five hundred gallon drop tank of water and a rotating cactus like device with many iron spikes. To P.C’s right, an electrical discharge sphere was suspended head height above the floor. To the Robot’s left, a heavy drop net could be released onto the golems from above. The center of the arena contained the same fire throwing device as when he fought Stoneman, but four wooden totems had been erected around the central pit, presumably for cover. He took in the debris of the fallen column, but ignored the message that flashed across his screen telling him it needed to be cleaned up.

‘Ding,’ the bell tolled and P.C. ceased his mathematical calculations. Johnny I.Q’s peel of laughter resonated across the coliseum as he jammed the joystick forward, sending a spray of sand skyward from the Lumberjack’s treads.

P.C’s eyes blinked as data filtered through his processor again. Turning to the booth above him, he yelled up to Merle. “I’ll… take… that… battle… axe… now.” His extendable arm flitted up to the booth and his hand opened and closed expectantly.

Merle’s head appeared over the railing, his eyes big and round. “I thought you were joking!” he hissed.

P.C. groaned and reeled in his arm.

‘Display search history of onboard utilities.’

‘8 Rags…’

‘2 Bars of soap…’

‘Bleach…’

‘Duster…’

‘Lantern...’

‘Lavender scented disinfectants…’

‘Query aborted. Calculating oncoming speed of golem at 23 MPH.’

The actuators in the robot’s leg clicked several times and P.C. ran forward. His hand vanished within his chest cavity, reappearing with his versatile feather duster. Racing straight for the Lumberjack, his form was perfect, his strides calculated. sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ FindNøvᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

The audience squealed in terror as a cloud of smoke erupted from the Lumberjack. Both the golem’s appendages roared to life. The metal treads below the golem churned powerfully, bringing the behemoth ever closer to his quarry. The chainsaw arm swept down at full speed, intent upon splitting P.C’s skull between those flashing red eyes. The devastating chain spun freely, catching only air as P.C. dodged to his left. The circular saw screamed for P.C’s throat, but a pop sounded from the robot’s leg actuators and he sailed high into the air, completing a summersault that cleared the giant blade by a mere inch. The crowd roared in approval and Johnny cursed piercingly as he worked to pivot his machine about.

P.C. landed lightly, half turning, his arm extended. The feather duster struck swiftly and truly. The thin rod of the duster bent gracefully as it connected with the thick plate of the Lumberjack’s rear torso. Many of the spectators laughed, assuming the robot was taunting the larger machine.

‘Pine handle insufficient against Iron Plate. Probability of puncture at 0%,’ flashed across P.C’s screen. The circular saw buzzed over P.C’s head, catching up the duster and sending a spray of feathers in all directions. The automaton sprinted for the cactus like trap in Johnny’s corner and the Lumberjack’s chainsaw swished the air inches behind the fleeing robot.

Arriving at the trap, P.C. analysed one of the larger iron spikes projecting from the central beam. He was about to wrest the six foot length of iron from its mooring, when the trap whirled into activity, slapping his hand away. The crowd gasped and Johnny squealed with delight – happy that he had scored a minor hit.

P.C. recovered quickly and noted that the Lumberjack had stopped advancing while Johnny activated the trap. Now the Lumberjack rolled forward again, the groan of its treads screeching out once more. P.C. circled the cactus trap, keeping it between him and his adversary.

‘Running diagnostics,’

‘No damage,’

Movement from the corner of his eye caught his attention and P.C. saw Merle waving his arms. The robot looked over and Merle pointed to the cactus trap and shrugged. “Should I spin it?” he yelled

P.C. groaned.

“He takes orders from the tin man,” someone shouted. “Which one’s the golem?”

Before P.C. could respond, the Lumberjack rumbled in. The circular saw whined through metal, slicing several of the iron spikes. An explosion of sparks enveloped P.C. as the Lumberjack’s chainsaw ripped through the central beam, sending the trap toppling to the side. P.C. emerged from a cloud of smoke, back peddling as the Lumberjack clawed its way through the rubble and advanced on him once more.

“Spin that!” screamed Johnny, flipping Merle the bird.

P.C. danced away from the monstrous saw blades and scooped up one of the severed rails. Committing a forward dive, he barely avoided a chainsaw strike to the back. Coming up swinging, he deflected the circular saw first, and then the chainsaw with his new weapon.

The crowd watched in stunned silence as the Lumberjack bore down on P.C. Saw blades shrieked and roared and sparks showered the pair as P.C. deflected each gruesome strike. The Lumberjack was relentless though, and its powerful treads hunted the smaller golem wherever he turned. P.C. was chased across the arena, his head bobbing, and his feet flying as he barely avoided each blow.

Flames erupted from behind the metal man, thwarting his escape. Johnny’s laughter peeled out again as, he ignited the flame thrower for a second time. “You have no where to run, you pathetic excuse for a golem!”

Realising this was true, P.C. thrust the metal rod into the chainsaw. A hideous grating drowned out Johnny, as the tip of the iron shaft bore into the chain housing. The saw gobbled up the spike, wrenching it from P.C’s grasp. A cloud of smoke billowed from the Lumberjack’s appendage and the hum of grinding metal ceased with a mighty snap. The chain jumped from its mooring and lashed around P.C’s shoulder. Little chunks of metal were shredded from the robot’s limb as the sharpened chain bit deep into the flexible alloy of his arm.

‘Toilet snake crippled 62%.’

‘Enemy’s right appendage severely damaged.’

The crowd roared at this turn of events. The Lumberjack’s chainsaw arm continued to smoke, the large spike wedged in the chain housing. The circular saw whizzed in before P.C. could react and caught him in the opposite shoulder. Sparks showered the ground and Johnny pulled back on the Lumberjack’s chainsaw arm, reeling P.C. in. The blade dropped past the robot’s head and the whining ceased. The crowd screamed their approval.

‘Left arm amputated,’

‘Lubricant leak detected,’ flashed across P.C’s visual cortex.

Stepping in to the behemoth, P.C. attempted – to the best of his calculations – to bite the jugular from the Lumberjack.

‘He’s done for now!’ someone shouted.

‘Saw him where it hurts!’

The Lumberjack’s remaining weapon thrashed the air behind P.C, but the automaton was in too close. Johnny attempted to back his machine up, but P.C. clung to his opponent, his jaw trying to rend metal flesh.

“That’s it, you heap of scrap. This ends now. I’ll douse that fire from your eyes.” The Lumberjack’s ruined chainsaw caught P.C. in the back. The robot was lifted from the ground and crushed against the plate of the Lumberjack’s steel gauge torso. The screech of folding metal echoed across the arena. P.C’s chest was caving in.

‘Warning… Warning… crystallised bleach mixing with lavender detergent.’

Johnny laughed hysterically and used the Lumberjack to shake his opponent like a rag doll. “You’re gonna pay for what you did to my pet!”

P.C’s chest cavity buckled further. A shattering sound echoed within the robot. “Uh… oh,” he sighed, “the… lamp.”

’Chest cavity failing. 86% damage detected.

‘Structural failure imminent.’

‘Warning… Warning… 5.6% fuel oil mixture reached.’

P.C’s eyes dimmed and he struggled to maintain his functions.

‘Power diverted from soap holster.’ The robot’s eyes glared bright red again.

‘Structural integrity at 7%.’

‘Full power failure estimated in 4000 milliseconds.’

P.C’s knee shot up between the Lumberjack’s treads, connecting with solid steel. The massive machine trembled for a second only and P.C’s shoulder popped free. The robot’s extendable arm reeled outward, racing for the crackling electrical discharge sphere. “Give… my… regards… to… Stoneman,” he wheezed.

A visible electric current arched from the sphere and raced down P.C’s arm. A heartbeat later it passed through the robot’s frame and ignited the bomb in his belly. The ensuing explosion rocked the coliseum to its very foundations. Pieces of metal soared into the crowd and the air was sucked up from the arena with a deafening WHOMP! A dust cloud enveloped everything and the giant glow-lights in the ceiling flickered, half of them extinguished and unable to flare back to life.

In the stands, all was chaos. People panicked and fled for the exits. Some spectators were wounded by the flying debris, but many more were injured by their terrified peers. After what seemed like an eternity, the dust settled and those remaining in their seats witnessed a curious affair.

P.C’s upper torso had been sent rocketing into the rafters, but had landed within ten feet of his opponent. Both his legs were blown clear off, and all that remained of the metal man was his badly scorched head, half of his chest compartment, and three feet of extendable arm. A pool of oily goo surrounded his shattered remains. P.C’s plunger was gripped tightly in his jaw and the robot was struggling to drag himself with his crippled toilet snake.

In front of P.C, the Lumberjack lay on its side, the treads thumping freely and spinning the steel carcass in a haphazard circle. The plate torso that had seemed so invincible was blown wide open, the machine’s badly bent gears exposed to the world. The Lumberjack’s chainsaw arm was nowhere to be seen, but his massive circular saw was buried two feet in the stone, below Merle’s booth.

“My lord,” breathed the announcer. “Try to stay calm people. It looks like we have a draw on our hands. The Lumberjack is still spinning, but he is immobile. Can we get some medical attention for that fellow in the front row please? Wait a second, what’s this?”

The man’s words drew the crowd’s attention back to the arena as P.C. crawled alongside the Lumberjack. Thrusting his head forward, he suctioned his plunger onto the steel ribs of his nemesis. “You… have… been… sanitised!” he said in a loud, defiant voice.

“Holy crap,” shrieked the announcer. “Let me check with the judges! Yes, folks, that was an offensive strike! Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner!”

Johnny’s scream of denial pierced the coliseum.

* * * *

It was a beautiful morning in Deep Cove. The sun was bright and the gentle wind smelled of flowers. The remains of P.C. were strewn on the picnic table in the backyard. Both Garrett and Merle were enjoying the sunshine. The sounds of birds whistling in the trees and insects buzzing in the long grass were punctuated by the clinking of Garrett’s tools on P.C’s innards. It was barely nine o’clock, yet the day promised to be one of the warmest of this early summer.

Merle stretched in his lawn chair, the Daily Deep on his lap and a cup of coffee resting on the arm of the chair. He yawned and looked at Garrett, watching as his friend twisted two dangling wires together. Beside him, Flower lay on the grass chewing on an old bone. “You think it will cost that much?” asked the little dragon.

“I’m afraid so,” returned Garrett. “And that’s only if his aura marble is intact. If we have to repair that too, it might take the rest of our savings.” Merle shook his head, but remained silent. Garrett knew the little dragon didn’t want to ruin the morning by arguing about P.C.

“Easy come, easy go,” said the dragon at last. “So how come you were home so early last night?” he prompted with a change of subject. “I thought for sure, you’d be spending the night with your lady friend.”

“I didn’t even try,” admitted Garrett. He tightened down the wires and pivoted on the bench to look at Merle. “I walked her home after the fights, and then I said goodnight on the front porch; like a gentleman.”

“Come on,” said Merle playfully. “You snuck a kiss in there, didn’t you?”

“Maybe,” agreed Garrett, shrugging and turning back to the robot. “A gentleman wouldn’t talk about that with his pals.”

“She snubbed you!” squealed Merle. “Oh man, she pulled back at the last minute, didn’t she? She left you hanging, eh buddy?”

“I’ll have you know, she was the one who leaned in,” said Garrett smuggly.

Flower looked up from his bone and growled. Garret lowered his screwdriver, as voices came from the side of the building. Two men appeared alongside the fence and stopped abruptly. One of the newcomers was wearing a Deep Cove police uniform and the other was dressed in the livery of a Royal Cassadian Officer.

“Mr. Willigins?” asked the local cop. Garrett recognised Officer Johnson, the man who had worked with Honi during the Rudy Wilson investigation. He nodded and stood. The two men continued into the backyard. They were followed by several more officers and Mr. Kline. “Sorry to barge into your yard like this,” said Johnson. “We tried the front, but the office was empty.”

“No problem, Sirs,” said Garrett. “What can I do for you?”

Mr. Kline shouldered his way through the guards. He was not physically secured and despite the morning’s heat, wore one of his heavy sable coats. “I wanted to speak with you, son,” he said. Garrett nodded and the older man placed an arm about his shoulder and steered him towards the lone birch tree. Mr. Kline leaned in and spoke quietly. “I’m sure you’ve heard of my circumstances?”

“Yes,” said Garrett solemnly.

“Well, boy, I wanted to make sure you were properly thanked for helping this old bear out. I wasn’t mocking when I said I liked you kid.”

“That’s okay, Mr. Kline. You don’t need to thank me for anything,” replied Garrett. Even though the old man was a criminal, Garrett felt guilty for knowing about Maury and the K.I’s investigation.

“Nonsense, lad.” The old man turned and stared into Garrett’s eyes. “It took guts for you to do what you did at that lighthouse. I know you think I was wrong for not telling B.S. all these years, but it’s not that simple. I took care of him like my own, though. Nobody can ever say old man Kline doesn’t take care of his people.”

“No sir,” said Garrett dutifully.

“And I’m going to take care of you now, Garrett.”

“Sir?” asked Garrett, feeling more awkward with each passing second.

Mr. Kline leaned in, his eyes watching the officers from across the yard. “I had to cut a deal, son. These here king’s boys know a lot about my business. In fact, they know everything. I could go away for three lifetimes and still have jail time to serve, if you know what I mean.” Garrett nodded. “I’ve plead guilty to illegal trafficking of furs. It’s an automatic eight year sentence. With good behaviour, I’ll be out in a nickel. Unfortunately, along with the jail time, these lawmen will also be confiscating much of my property. I will be keeping my cliffside estate and most of my ships, but everything else will be seized and sold off to the highest bidder.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Garrett.

“The reason they’ve made this arrangement with me is so that I will testify against the Syndicate. It may not be my safest option, but I have one of their assassins dogging me anyway. It can’t get much worse. At least this way I’ll have a chance of seeing daylight again.” The old man cleared his throat and reached into an inner pocket. He used Garrett’s body to shield the movement and slipped an envelope into the younger man’s hand.

“What’s this?” asked Garrett.

“It’s an agreement,” said Kline, his grey eyes bore into the younger man and his hand retained a firm grip on the envelope.

“An agreement for what?” asked Garrett. “I want you to know that I won’t break the law in any way, shape, or form.”

Mr. Kline laughed and let go of the envelope. He thumped Garrett in the arm. “You got backbone, kid. I knew my instincts were right about you.” Garrett frowned and eyed the envelope suspiciously. Kline shook his head and grinned. “Don’t get your underwear in a knot, son. This is a good thing.” He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “It’s the title deed to your apartments here.”

Garrett looked stunned. “I can’t accept this,” he said at last.

“Sure you can,” argued Kline. “Look boy, it isn’t much. I know the place needs a lot of work, but if you invest the time into fixing it up, you can have a real start to your business here. Consider it payment for rescuing B.S. The boy does mean a lot to me.”

“I don’t know,” said Garrett.

“Look, I have to get going soon. You know how these lawmen are, always rushing about hollering orders to everyone. You tuck that document away and make a start for yourself. I just want you to promise me you’ll watch over someone.”

“Watch over someone?”

“My son,” said Kline. “Part of my arrangement with the state is that Frank and my employees will not be sent to prison. Even with Frank there to watch him, Vic will need guidance.”

“Vic is your son?” asked Garrett, taken aback. “But he calls you Mr. Kline?”

“Yup,” agreed Kline. “Always has. The boys taught him that when he was a just a pup. We all thought it was funny and he’s called me that ever since.”

“That explains a lot,” said Garrett thoughtfully.

“I know he’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but the boy has a good heart. In exchange for those papers, I want you to agree to visit him a couple times a month and make sure he’s on the right track. Frank says he’ll get them started on some legit enterprises, right away.”

Garrett noted the concern in the old man’s eyes and he nodded his agreement. “You have my word, Mr. Kline. I’ll keep an eye on your boy.” Kline nodded his gratitude and the two men shook hands. They turned back to the others as Merle’s laughter barked across the yard.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” squealed the little dragon.

Officer Johnson was leaning over Flower and scratching the dog behind the ear. He looked somewhat amused at the dragon’s outburst. “Nope,” he returned. “Dog’s been AWOL for weeks now.” Merle was laughing so hard, he had tears streaming down his cheeks.

Garrett looked back and forth between the officer and the dragon. “What’s so funny?” he asked.

“Tell… him,” snorted the dragon, between bursts of amusement.

Johnson looked uncertain. “Well, I was just saying that Powder here has been missing from the precinct for a few weeks.”

“Powder?” returned Garrett.

“Ya, he’s our premier high explosives lead,” said Johnson.

Merle slapped his knee and fluttered to the table where P.C’s remains were scattered. He laughed wildly. “Who would have guessed the mutt is a bomb sniffer?” he howled. “I can’t wait to tell Tin Head.”

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