(Sunday 17th - 2nd half)

“… Now We’ve Just Been Shot At! Doesn’t Anything Rattle You, Tim?!”

The shiny black Trans Am roars southbound on The Ten; the two friends heading for Santa Monica, talking over the last twenty-four hours.

Playing on the stereo in the background:

“They say I’m crazy, but I have a good time.

I’m just looking for clues at the scene of the crime.

Life’s been good to me so far…”

Tim, recalling Paul’s words, “Okay, so you stop at a club somewhere around Rodeo drive yesterday and have a couple of beers,” thinking. “Did you talk to anyone there, Paulie?”

“Well, besides the bartender… there was this one guy who came in right after I did and sat three or four bar stools down from me. He struck up a conversation about a song playing on the jukebox. We talked more about music and general things like that. Actually, I was finishing up my beer and was planning to leave when he started talking to me. He bought me another one.”

“Paulie, did you ever go anywhere for a few minutes? Maybe use the phone?”

“Yeah…” Paul peers out at the road, thinking, “I went to the restroom.”

“Is that when your new friend bought your beer?” a quick glance to his side and back at the road.

“Yes. It was waiting for me when I came back.” Tim frowns, nodding knowingly. Paul cuts his bloodshot eyes to the left, watching him. “What?”

“Sounds like we got your answer about believing someone drugged you, buddy,” glancing over, seeing Paul frowning, mouth agape. Tim looks back at the road. “You wouldn’t happen to have a good description of your new friend, would you, Paulie?”

Paul is silent for a short bit—long enough to cause Tim to cut his eyes in his direction to check on him—the small man in deeply troubled thought. “He had on a blue windbreaker… the sleeves pushed up, and very hairy arms. I remember that. He was a big guy. Six-one, maybe…” looks over at Tim, “Not as tall as you, but almost. He was heavier than you. About twenty more pounds; stocky and kind of dark with a rough complexion with dark hair.”

The two are quiet, each in their thoughts, and on the stereo:

“You always won, every time you placed a bet.

You’re still damn good; no one’s gotten to you yet.

Every time they were sure they had you caught.

You were quicker than they thought.

You’d just turn your back and walk…”

“How much farther?” Paul asks, elbow on the door, head resting on his fist.

“Twenty minutes, depending on traffic.”

Paul nods, gazing out his window as they fly north up the Pacific Coast. “I should probably call Lisa and tell her I won’t be arriving in the morning,” flatly, staring blankly out at the terrain and beach houses whizzing by him.

“Oh, yeah… I forgot about that. I’m not used to being in the habit of calling anyone to check in. Yeah, I suppose you should. But,” pausing, “maybe we need to think about that and what you need to say.”

Paul looks at him concerned. “What do you mean? I need to tell her the truth, Tim, and what happened.”

“Oh, I know. I don’t mean lie to Lisa, buddy. I just mean… maybe we need to think out what information you should share right now. That’s all.” Tim feels Paul still staring at the side of his head as they roll up the coast. “Let’s just give this some thought and look at everything from all angles. Besides, Paulie, if you two are already having trouble, you don’t want to blurt out that a call girl was beaten to death in your hotel room while you were in Lawndale jail.” Tim glances over at him. “Do you?”

Sharing his glance, Paul turns to face the view out his window once more. “No,” in a low tone.

“We’ll get back to the apartment and talk it over while the steaks are grilling. Some cold beers might make all the difference,” Tim says, trying hard to sound reassuring; Paul doesn’t appear convinced. “Can’t hurt,” adding with a shrug and grin.

Paul looks at him blankly and then forward. “Why are we coming out here? For a story?”

“Yeah. I’ve been after this source for the last two months… after I wrapped up that police corruption piece. For the life of me, I couldn’t get this guy to talk to me for weeks. It’s weird. He was all friendly and chatty before. After that, he just clams up,” Tim grins again, plays with his mustache, and looks over at Paul, “what can I say? Guess he finally gave into my charms.” Paul scoffs, eyeing him sideways. “Hey now. I’m not without ‘em, ya know.”

“I’ve noticed how your accent comes and goes. Have you been out here so long that you’re losing it or are you actively trying to lose it?”

“Mmmm,” Tim shrugs, “I don’t know… maybe both. I’m not ashamed of being from Texas. It’s just that out here, sometimes people don’t want to talk to you if they think you’re a hick from the sticks. In my line of work, I need people to talk to me. Otherwise, I couldn’t care less.”

“I wouldn’t say Houston is a ‘hick from the sticks’ kind of place.”

“No. But these folks don’t know that. Most of them—” BLAM!

The sports car dives left. Tim grips the steering wheel tight, fighting to get out of oncoming traffic; horns honking loud and long, Paul clutches his seat and door strap as he’s tossed side-to-side. Tim maneuvers around cars, runners, and light poles; regaining possession of the big black beast in time to control the violent sideways slide and backward spin into Ocean Front Walk parking lot, bringing it to a hard stop before crashing onto the beach several feet below.

“Whew!” Tim yells, looking over at wide-eyed Paul still white-knuckling his seat and handle. “You okay, buddy?”

“What the devil just happened?!”

“I think we blew a tire. I’m gonna check it out,” opening his door, leaning into Paul to afford more clearance for his legs to clear the dash; shutting the door behind him as Paul watches—half ticked and half terrified. Tim inspects the front and back tires on his side, walks around the front to check out the right. “Uh-huh… like I said, Paulie, blew a tire.”

Paul gets out and peers down at the flattened tire while Tim opens the trunk and pulls out his spare and jack. The small man quickly notes how close the ocean is and joins him at the back of the TA. “That doesn’t look like a blowout to me.”

“Sure it is, Paulie, what are you talking about? How many blowouts have you seen, anyway?” grinning sideways at him, grunting as he lifts the fat replacement tire from the small trunk with one hand and jack in the other.

Paul’s eyes zoom into a squint. “Don’t you talk to me like that,” indignant, “with that condescending tone. I know enough to know if a tire has been blown out or not, Tim,” pointing toward the front of the car.

Tim sets the tire on the ground, leans over and holds on to it, looking up at him. “Well then just what do you think happened, Paulie? Tell me.”

Paul stares back at him, not exactly ready with an answer, but not ready to give up his ground either. Exasperated and reaching his limit, “Well, I don’t know, Tim!” raising his arms wide and above his head, looking around. “All I know is we almost drove into the ocean! And you’re all calm and cool about—” stopping and bending down; examining the side of the car. Tim pays him no mind, searching his trunk for a tire iron and four-way; until realizing the small man is no longer yelling and is now crouching at the side of the TA. Tim straightens, observing. Paul’s face is six inches from the car, left hand flowing across the door and onward to the rear quarter panel with his rear end facing Tim.

“What are you doing, Paulie?”

In a flash Paul stands straight up, spinning to face him. “I knew it! That tire didn’t just blow out! It’s been shot out! We’ve been shot at!”

“Wh-what?” Tim grins, finding his necessary tools and retrieving them as he puts the four-way and tire iron in one hand and lifts the tire with his other, bracing it against his left hip and walking to the front of the car. “That’s just crazy, Paulie,” laughing and shaking his head, setting the spare down by the airless one.

“Crazy?! Look! Just look!” Paul bends down again, pointing at three holes along the right side of the shiny black Trans Am. Tim glances half-interested while walking back to the rear of the car. The first hole is two inches in front of the fender well—even with the center hub of the mag—and the next two spaced roughly three inches apart on the rear quarter panel leading toward the spoiler.

Gazing at Paul’s discovery, with the smaller prickly man staring up at him for validation and expecting full vindication, Tim responds, “Huh,” picks up the jack and walks to the front of the car.

“Huh?! Huh?! Is that all you have to say?! Have you any—” he stops. “Look! Look here!” jumping over to the rear window, pointing vigorously. “Come here, Tim, and look!”

Tim sighs. Rolls his eyes and walks over to him, looking down at Paul’s finger. There is a slanted depression in the metal with paint missing and a chip at the edge of the back window. He leans down to get an eyeball look at it as Paul stares hard at him. “Huh,” straightens up still looking at it, puts his hands on his hips, and then steps back surveying the entire length of his shiny black beauty. “Well, crap. Somebody did shoot at my baby.”

“Your baby?! They were shooting at my side of the car!”

Tim looks at him, hands up, “Now calm down, Paulie. It’s no big deal. Probably just some dude who gets his jollies shooting at strangers. It happens around here. It’s not all that unusual.”

Paul begins furiously pacing and growls, “Calm down?! Calm down, Tim…” looks up into the sky, waves his arms, and then turns back to him. “Now we’ve been shot at! Does anything rattle you, Tim?!”

Tim stares at him the whole time as if he’s losing his mind. He looks at his car once more, drops his hands, and walks toward the front, “Well. It rattles me when somebody does something to Harry and George,” glancing back at Paul and swinging his left arm to point at his car, “this here ticks me off.”

Paul continues staring at him in disbelief. Finally, he shakes his head and walks to the edge of the parking lot far enough away from Tim to gaze out at the ocean in hopes of calming down. The waves catch his attention right off as his eyes follow the white-capping layers flowing in and out on the beach. The rolling waves mixing with sounds made by the warm winds, and the metal gear of the jack clicking into place with each ratcheting move Tim makes in lifting the car enough for the flat to clear the ground. Paul’s thoughts travel to Lisa and Amy back home in Oklahoma; wondering if they are okay and what to say to Lisa about all that has happened. The man is terrified of losing his wife and little girl. And he knows he hasn’t been much of a husband and father due to all the hours studying and now working. But he had hoped things might start leveling off and could begin spending more time at home. That was before Wingate—his attending—came to him with the news of the convention. That was before Lisa telling him she wants a divorce the day before he leaves. That was before yesterday when merely seeking to buy her a gift and then finding himself in a small-town jail the next morning. And, finally, before being accused in the death of that young woman in his hotel room. How did everything turn upside down in such rapid succession?

The jack begins clicking behind him once more, peeling him from his thoughts. Paul turns to see Tim lowering the car and the flat tire on the ground beside it.

“That was fast,” Paul notes; calmer, slowly walking back over to Tim, hands in pockets.

His big friend, leaning down to pick up the jack, turns to look up at him and smiles. “Well, I couldn’t pit boss for AJ Foyt or even be one of the crew, but I do okay,” grinning, with a wink. He walks over and picks up the flat, starting toward the back of the TA.

Paul notices Tim’s muscular frame, the midday sun casting shadows on the bulges in his arms. “It’s good to see you’ve kept yourself fit, Timmy.” The words coming out of his mouth feel odd to Paul. Maybe out of trying to make amends for the tantrum he has just thrown. Maybe he notices as a physician; one whose total being is assessing the human body. Whatever it is, Paul suddenly finds himself uncomfortable for saying it. Tim turns, staring strangely at him as he places the jack into the trunk, making it worse.

“I appreciate that, Paulie. Most jocks go soft and turn to fat after leaving the field. I didn’t want that,” setting the flat tire in, “I do try not to drink too much and hit the waves as often as I can,” he puts the tools and jack in; “you know I never wanted to get old.” Tim grabs an old t-shirt from the trunk and wipes his hands. “I appreciate hearing I might be staying somewhat ahead of it. Thanks, buddy,” tossing the t-shirt back in and closing it. “Let’s go on over there so I can talk with that guy. Then we can stop and pick up the things we need for supper. I want you to meet KC. She’s the chick version of you. Only she’s prettier, louder, and caught on to my line of bull a whole lot faster than you,” laughing loud as he opens his door and gets in.

Paul shakes his head and gets in on the passenger side. The big block V8 rumbles, roaring back onto the freeway as the big tires bark, garnering a healthy scratch from their rubber when Tim shifts into second gear. He does love his beautiful black beast. Within a few minutes, they are whipping into the parking lot of an impressive piece of beachside real estate. As they get out, Paul looks around the eating establishment, stopping at the front fender of the car, closes his eyes and lifts his head; smiling.

Tim watches as he tucks his keys into his jeans pocket. He grins. “What’re you doing, buddy?”

“It smells so good here... I don’t know if it’s the food or the salty taste in the air.”

“Both. C’mon, you gotta try their calamari. It’s amazing.”

Paul opens his eyes to see his old friend grinning, motioning with his head toward the front door, and moving toward it. He follows his lead, glancing around self-consciously to see if anyone noticed his momentary lapse of forgetting himself for appearance’s sake. And Tim chuckles seeing that, acutely aware of its roots, as he opens the door and holds it until Paul begins walking through it; a sheepish glance up at Tim.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” a young man greets in a friendly voice, “Would you like a table or a seat at the bar?”

“Hey bud, I need to have a word with your boss first. He’s expecting me. I’m Calloway. Tim Calloway. In the meantime, yeah,” Tim pauses to look at Paul, “Paulie, why don’t you go grab us a table while I talk with him? Get yourself a drink. I won’t be long. We’ll get some calamari to tie us over until we grill out.” Tim looks at the waiter. “Is that okay? Can he just grab a table anywhere?”

“Sure. And Senor Nunez is at the bar. I’ll take you to him.”

“Get us a table, buddy. I’ll be right back,” Tim says, turning and following the waiter across the large room. Paul watches briefly and then looks around. Although mid-afternoon, the place is busy, he finds a choice table over by the windows overlooking the beach.

Over at the bar, Tim sticks his hand across it toward Jorge Nunez, the sole owner of Jorge’s Island, a trendy hot spot for the stylish and affluent West Coast beautiful.

“I appreciate your call, Jorge, and agreeing to see me this afternoon,” Tim says, his hand still extended. The man stares at him in contempt, then a feigned curious and surprised expression comes across his face; making no effort to move from the back of the bar he is leaning against with his backside.

Tim’s smile slowly dims, and he withdraws his hand. “I talked to you a little over an hour ago. I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner, Jorge, but I had a flat along the way. I lost a little time changing the tire. I do hope I didn’t hold you up any because of it.”

“Senor, there is some mistake. I do not know what you are talking about.”

Tim stares at him, feeling his face expressing his complete surprise at the man’s words. “But I spoke to you on the phone, Senor Nunez. I distinctly recall your voice when you agreed to meet with me,” Tim persists, “You even said you had been giving it much thought and finally decided to do so. No disrespect, senor, but I know it was you I spoke with. Don’t you remember calling and asking for me at the Hilton in downtown LA?”

“No!” he shouts angrily, straightening, making his protest visual by throwing the bar towel he is holding down on it. “It was not me! I do not know what you are talking about! Now leave my establishment! In fact, leave for good! I do not want to see or hear from you no more!” waving his hand once. Tim’s puzzled expression on his face instantly races to shock, his head snapping backward; staring into the angry man’s face. “Leave!” his dark eyes large and piercing Tim’s, raising his left arm to point at the front door.

Tim raises both hands. “Alright, alright. I don’t want any trouble, Senor Jorge. You’re right. I must be mistaken. I apologize. I’m leaving.” Tim looks side-to-side to see all the patrons at the bar gawking at him. He turns around and spots two large men walking in his direction. “No need, fellas,” Tim assures, once more holding up his hands, “I’m going. I just need to go get my friend over there,” pointing and turning toward the table where he saw Paul sit down.

Hearing the owner’s yelling and then viewing it was Tim he was yelling at, Paul has already sprung up and made haste for the door. Tim catches sight of him halfway toward it and quickly begins heading his way, swiftly walking past the two behemoths; hands in the air, pumping slightly upward, showing complete desire of retreat without incident. Tim steps it up and is right behind Paul at the door, a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure they are not being followed.

“What in the -?”

“Get in the car, Paulie!” Tim whisper-yells, making a bee-line for the driver’s side door.

“Okay!” he whisper-yells back. Paul jumps in the same time Tim does, but he already has the car started and begins backing out before any doors shut. “Wait! Let me get the door closed! I don’t want you slinging me into the parking lot when you barrel out of here!” pulling the heavy door closed. The car lurches backward, Tim hits the brakes, throws it into first and squalls back out onto the freeway.

“Now what happened?!” Paul shouts, staring at the side of Tim’s head. Tim leans forward without answering, glancing up in his rearview mirror, side mirror, and behind them at the restaurant. “Tim!”

“What?” briefly glancing at him, to the road, into the rearview mirror, and then back to the road. “What? He didn’t have time to talk to me now.”

“Bull! That man was angry and yelling at you, Tim! Tell me what’s going on!” Tim drives, occasionally glancing up at the rearview and side mirrors. “You’re clearly checking to see if anyone’s following us.” Paul looks at him longer with no response.

Finally, he looks out the window at the coast as his view for the return trip southbound, putting his elbow upon the door, placing his hand on his forehead; fingers across it and thumb at his temple. He closes his eyes and rubs his aching head. After a few minutes of silence between them, Paul leans his tired and aching head against the high bucket seat. He is fast asleep from having none the night before—giving in to complete exhaustion—and wakes when Tim stops at a Culver City traffic light.

Paul looks around sleepy-eyed and then over at Tim. “Where are we?” “About two minutes from the apartment, buddy,” Tim answers, smiling back at him.

Paul continues staring at him trying to gain his bearings, his expression turns to a curious frown; puzzlement at Tim’s restored normal behavior from the odd display he saw before falling asleep is clearly visible upon his face.

Tim insists on going with it. “I’m gonna pull in here at my favorite store to pick up some fresh-cut steaks and our beer. They have the best meat I’ve found in all of California,” he informs, grinning his usual big grin.

Paul shakes his head and turns to look out the windshield, “Sounds good,” in a resigning tone.

Tim does his shopping while Paul stays in the car, choosing to do so for the need of collecting himself before making sincere nice with his old friend; reckoning it has not changed since college. Tim always did bounce back from adverse situations much more rapidly than Paul. He finds it peculiar how well he did it in this strange situation, but chalks it up to the possibility of not remembering the full effect of hanging out with Tim and how he handles scenes so opposite as himself. That must be it. That and he is flat wore out—physically and mentally. The thought of some cold beers with a grilled steak will surely restore him back to a reasonable point in which better to deal with all the earlier madness. Paul recalls Tim’s ability to grill anything with such flair that it left an indelible impression on a person’s memory bank; smiling at the thought.

He comes out of the family-owned market, large paper grocery bag pressing to the left side of his muscular chest and a twelve pack in his right hand, grinning when catching sight of his old best friend smiling. Paul thinks not to let it dim.

Reaching the passenger side, Tim hands him the beer through his open window, “Here, buddy.” Paul reaches up and takes it from him, placing it on the floorboard between his feet; remembering many past moments of the same occurrence. Tim walks around, opens his door, lifting the latch at the bottom of his seat and leans the back forward; slipping the bag onto the back floorboard. He gets in, and they are off once more for home.

It is late afternoon when the boys arrive at Tim’s apartment, parking in time to see KC come out of his door. Tim sticks his head out the window, “Hey, what’re you doin’ in there, little girl?!” teasing in a gruff voice.

KC swings around, looking down at the boys getting out with their groceries and sticks her tongue out. “You’re not the boss of me!” stopping and placing her forearms on the banister railing above them and leaning into it. “So, you finally made it back. Who’s this handsome devil?”

“Oh, some hitchhiker I ran across. I felt sorry for ‘im. Thought I’d bring ‘im home and feed ‘im.” The two begin up the stairs, Tim’s big feet clomping atop each. Reaching the top and turning, Tim steps over by KC; Paul stops next to him. “I got a twelve, but that’ll only last about an hour,” leaning to his right into Paul and whispering loud, “she has a drinking problem,” acting like he has a drink in his hand, tossing his head back. KC frowns, punching him in the stomach. “Oh!” Tim grimaces, still holding the bag of steaks, grabbing his gut, “that hurt!”

“Serves ya right. Don’t be tellin’ this handsome stranger I have a drinkin’ problem. Ya turkey.”

“Well, so you two aren’t strangers anymore… Paul, my Oklahoma best friend, meet KC my California best friend.”

KC smiles and extends her hand. “Nice to meet you, Paul.”

Taking her hand, “Nice to meet you, KC,” shyly.

“Aw… you’re a sweet, shy one. How in the world did ya get mixed up with this wild man?” Paul shakes his head, shrugging. She looks up at Tim. “Did you get my strip? Better have. I straightened your apartment and got all the blood cleaned up.”

“I did,” holding up the paper sack. “But I’m gonna have to go back for—”

“Blood?!” Paul yelled.

“–Some more beer,” Tim finishes; now looking at Paul in surprise as well as KC.

“Honey, it’s okay,” KC sweetly begins, putting her arm around Paul’s neck, gently guiding him toward Tim’s door and opening it. “You come on in and let’s crack open a cold one. I’ll tell ya all about it while Tim gets the grill going and prepares our meal.” Paul eyes her hesitantly as she leads him in, looking up at Tim in puzzlement as they pass; he grins and winks.

“Seriously, I’m gonna have to go back for some more beer,” Tim informs, following them in.

“No, ya don’t. I have some at my place.” KC pulls the tab off one and hands it to Paul sitting on the couch where she placed him. Getting herself one, pulling the tab and taking a drink, she smiles. “Ahhh… that’s good. I always like a cold beer after cleaning up a crime scene.”

“Shuddup,” Tim says.

“You shuddup.” KC points to the kitchen, “get in there and get my supper goin’, mister,” sitting next to Paul and putting her feet up on the coffee table. She looks sideways at him, grins and winks.

Paul smiles back at her and takes a drink. Tim remains standing in front of them, holding the paper sack. “Are you just going to stand there? Get our supper ready like the lady said,” taking another drink, looking at Tim, “remember… medium well for me.” He looks at KC. “And you, ma’am?”

“Oh… ma’am,” she looks up at Tim. “Did you hear that, dork? A gentleman.” She smiles. “He knows how I like my KC strips. I had to kick his behind enough times until he learned. Get in there, mister!”

“Alright, alright! Sheesh!” Tim turns, heading for the kitchen. “I can already see I’m gonna regret getting you two together.”

KC and Paul exchange looks and grin. KC holds her can up, and Paul clinks his against it, both take a satisfying drink.

“Now, what’s this about a crime scene?”

“Oh. That,” KC responds, “I’ll tell you, then you can tell me why you’re here, honey. But first—and no offense—you stink, sweetie. You need to get yourself a shower and a change of clothes.”

“I know, but I don’t have any.”

Tim leans down the open space between his kitchen cabinets and counter, “I told him he could take a shower and wear some of my clothes.”

“He can’t wear your clothes, you big oaf,” KC announces, getting up. “I’ll go get you a t-shirt and some jeans. You can fit into mine just fine.”

Paul, humiliated, answers, “that’s not too flattering.”

“Nothin’ wrong with that,” she insists, heading for the door, “the best in this ol’ world often comes in smaller packagin’, honey.” KC opens the door. “You jump in the shower. Your clean clothes’ll be on the counter when ya get out. Then you can tell me what all this is about,” closing the door behind her.

Paul, still gazing at the doorway, looks over to see Tim staring at him.

“Better get in that shower before she comes back, Paulie. You don’t want her finding you still sitting there. Trust me, buddy.”

That struck some fear into the small man. He set his beer down and quickly finds the bathroom, disrobes, and stands under the running water; all the while hoping to not hear of her return until having done so. Paul gets his shower, puts on the clean clothes waiting for him, and sits back on the couch.

“Ohhh yes,” KC exclaims, “that’s much better,” taking a drink scooching her tail section into the couch to get serious. “Now…” she goes on telling Paul of the intruder at Tim’s place earlier, while Tim goes back and forth from the kitchen to the sliding glass patio door in preparation of their supper.

Once KC finishes, Paul begins giving her a brief overview as to why he is in LA.

“Well—”

“You can tell her while we eat, Paulie,” Tim informs, walking into the living room with his plate and sitting to KC’s left. “I have a steak and potato ready for each of you in there on the counter. You two need to eat them while they’re hot.” He begins cutting up his steak. “K, have my boys eaten?”

“Sure have.”

Tim nods, putting a good-sized bite of meat into his mouth, chewing. “Good. Thank you. Now go eat.”

“Yes ‘sir! C’mon Paul.”

They fix their plates, and Paul answers all of KC’s questions while they eat. They all then work together on the cleanup and settle in some chairs on the patio overlooking the pool below. The sun sets as they watch the last two dripping people leave the pool area, towels draped around them and water still in motion from their departure.

“So, you don’t sound like a native, KC,” Paul says, taking a drink from his can. “You sound as if you’re from my neck of the woods.”

Tim chimes in, “She’s a dirty beach rat,” grinning and taking a drink. Both look at him. KC makes a face.

“A what?”

“That’s one of the jerk’s pet names for me, honey. And you’re right. I’m from Galveston. I pretty much grew up on the beach. He calls it a dirty beach ’cause of how much prettier he thinks they are out here.”

Paul nods. “I don’t remember you mentioning what that man looked like that was here at Tim’s earlier.”

“Oh,” KC scrunches her attractive, and small tanned face in thought. “No, I don’t suppose I did. Well…” sitting up straighter, inspecting Tim on her right, “he was kind of a big fella. Not as big as the jerk here. And he was an ugly dude. Not as ugly as the jerk here.”

“Hey,” Tim protests.

She turns back to Paul and winks, “He was wearin’ gray slacks, a blue button-up shirt, and a blue windbreaker with the sleeves pushed up halfway to his elbows,” KC pauses to look back over at Tim listening intently. “That’s how I saw the damage Harry did to him… from the blood drippin’ just above his wrist and down his hand.” She takes a drink and looks over at Paul. “Harry got him good,” a most satisfied smile comes across her face as she leans back.

Notably more interested, Paul leans forward in his lawn chair. “He was wearing a blue windbreaker?”

“Yeah. Why?”

Paul looks over at Tim watching them both. Tim replies, “That sounds like the dude that might’ve slipped Paulie something in his beer at a club yesterday.”

“What?” staring at him briefly and then looking curious back over at Paul. “Oh, now it sounds like we got a whole lot more to talk about here. I forgot all about why Tim had to go pick you up, honey. I need to hear this,” standing and putting her hand on Paul’s shoulder to brace herself, “seems you boys have left some details out.”

“Where are you going?” Tim asks. “You just said you had to hear this.”

“I do. But I need a beer. You two want one?”

“I’ve had enough,” Tim answers. “I have to work tomorrow.”

“Ha! I don’t. Not ‘til Wednesday,” sticking her tongue out at him. Tim snarls his lip at her. “Paul?”

Paul looks over at Tim; reality suddenly hits him. “I’ll take one. I don’t have to work.”

Tim winks at him. “Better enjoy the time off, buddy,” lifting his can up at his old friend.

“Be right back,” KC says, walking through the open sliding door.

The phone rings and KC is right there to pick it up. She walks back out to the boys and hands Paul his beer. “Phone, Tim.”

Tim goes inside and comes right back to the doorway with a puzzled and troubled expression on his face; standing silent, staring out across the complex.

KC, smacking and wiping her mouth from her last drink, catches sight of Tim out of the corner of her eye. “What’s up, honey?”

“That was my boss. He told me to take some time off. To take a few weeks.”

Paul’s head snaps in his direction. “What?!”

“What’s goin’ on, boys?” KC asks, looking severe at them both.

“Relax,” Tim replies, trying to sound as though he is, looking down in thought and going back to his chair. “It doesn’t mean anything, Paulie.” He sits down, picks up his beer, and takes a drink.

Paul stares hard at him. “Doesn’t mean anything?! Are you kidding me?!”

Still trying to sound the part Tim answers, “No,” glancing at Paul and then out at the empty pool, putting his big feet up on the wrought-iron railing for more proof, “purely coincidence.”

“That call is no coincidence, Tim. I don’t care what you say,” Paul slowly sits back, takes a drink, still eyeing Tim hard. “And you don’t fool me. You are as every bit as rattled as I am about this.”

“I told you what rattles me, Paulie,” flatly, glancing once more at his friend, taking a drink, and looking back at the pool.

“Yeah, well, that part there is no coincidence either, my friend. And you know it.” Paul turns his head toward the pool, shakes his head in disgust, and takes a drink.

KC watches this exchange; looking back and forth at them like she’s at a tennis match. Finally, she says, “Alright, boys. Somebody’d better get to tellin’ me what’s goin’ on around here. I still don’t know what happened to get you put in jail, Paul, or what happened over at your hotel room either. And where’re your clothes?” Neither makes a move as she looks back and forth at them. “Now!”

The two men jump at KC’s loud insistence and exchange glimpses. Tim then receives another full glare from Paul and frowns. “Alright!” sliding his big feet from the railing and straightening up in his chair. “The reason I had to pick up Paul…” he goes on to tell of all that had transpired at the downtown LA Hilton—more specifically, Paul’s room.

“Whoo!” KC lets out. “You boys did leave out some details!”

Tim looks over at his old friend. “You left out some too, Paulie. Why did that night clerk say he saw you in your room last night with that woman? That now dead woman?”

Paul has a half-smile. Hearing his questions—those specific words—his expression goes flat. The small man turns to look out at the pool below and begins shaking his head. “I don’t know. It couldn’t have been me. I don’t remember…” his voice trails off. And then he takes a drink. The other two watch; feeling his frustration.

“Surely you remember something, Paulie,” Tim says, attempting to ease and encourage his old friend.

KC, sweetly, “Sugar, just tell us what you do remember.”

Paul glances over at the two, turning his gaze back to the pool. He sighs heavily and takes another drink; fixing his eyes on the pool water. “I took a cab to Rodeo Drive late yesterday afternoon to get Lisa a gift in hopes of winning her back. From what…” shaking his head, “I still don’t know.” He pauses and goes on, “After that, I walked a while just thinking. I don’t know how long I walked. I just walked. Pretty soon I noticed a small club and decided to go in for a beer. A man sat down next to me at the bar… it wasn’t long after I had arrived… I had only drunk half my beer—but that didn’t take long because I was thirsty. I don’t even know where he came from.”

Paul stops, thinking. He takes another drink and self-consciously glances at Tim and KC; as if suddenly remembering they are there. “This man sits down and strikes up a conversation with me about a song playing on the jukebox. I wasn’t in the mood for company, but… I didn’t want to be rude. He offered to buy me one beer, and I agreed. I went to the restroom, came back, drank the beer, and began to leave when the man asks if I want to share a cab. I said ‘sure,’ and that’s the last I remember before suddenly snapping out of it—like a fog had been lifted, and I could finally see when you spoke to me at the jail in Lawndale, Timmy.” Paul turns to look straight at Tim. The small man appears pitiful.

“Well,” Tim sighs, “the night clerk did say the dude in your room looked like you.” Paul stares back at him. Realizing how that sounds, Tim doesn’t feel helpful with that, and adds, “But he couldn’t swear to it either… that’s something, Paulie,” taking a drink.

“Sweetie, did you even talk to a woman there at the club?” KC asks. Paul shakes his head. “But that man—that man with the blue windbreaker—what did he look like, Paul?”

“I don’t know… kind of average… common—no outstanding features—brown hair and blue eyes… hair cut short. I wouldn’t say handsome.”

“Sounds like the fella I saw runnin’ out of here earlier. Kind of big? Stocky, I mean.” Paul shrugs and then nods. “What was he wearin’?”

“Same thing you said the man was wearing that was here at Tim’s. That’s why it shook me so to hear you say it. I know that was the same man. I know it was,” Paul pauses to look over at Tim, “I just don’t know why he was at both places. What’s he got to do with the both of us, Timmy?”

Tim shakes his head. “I don’t know. But, if it makes you feel any better, Paulie, that night desk clerk at the Hilton, Pete, smokes a whole lot of weed,” Tim offers and takes a big drink from his can.

“How do you know?” KC asks.

“He and Walter are roommates. They both do.”

“Well… that’s something,” Paul mumbles, “I think.”

“Yeah,” Tim agrees. “And there was no mention of him seeing you come back with a call girl. So that’s something too.”

“Maybe he was out smokin’ a doobie,” KC surmises, looking over at Paul, giving him a wink and a grin; trying to lighten him some. A faint, slow smile appears.

“Could be,” Tim replies, “anyway, Pete’s not going to be much help in pinning it on you. Even if it was you,” cocking his head back, finishing his beer in one gulp.

Both Paul’s and KC’s heads pivot in his direction.

KC yells, “Hey!”

Paul barks, “What do you mean: even if it was you?! It wasn’t me! Even out of my mind I wouldn’t do that to any woman, Tim! Besides, you know I would never be with any other woman but Lisa!”

Tim raises both hands in surrender, nodding. “Alright, alright! I was just saying!” He stands and walks between his and KC’s chairs, heading for the door. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Sheesh.”

“Where’re you goin’?” KC asks, looking up at him, still frowning.

“I need to go get rid of some of this beer and get another one. You want one? Paulie?” Tim turns to look at Paul, hoping the offer doesn’t find him still offended by his suggestion that he could be a murderer. “You want another beer, buddy?”

“I think I need one. Or four. Or six,” not looking back at Tim, “at this point, I don’t really care how many I drink.” Tim grins. KC looks from Paul to Tim, smiling at him. “I need to try to call Lisa back, though. I got the answering machine earlier when I tried calling.”

“Wait—what? I thought we were going to talk about what you should say when you called her, Paulie. I’m glad you didn’t get—wait—did you leave a message?! You didn’t mention any of this, did you? I hope you didn’t even say you were in jail overnight.”

Paul turns to look up at Tim. He’s clearly aggravated. “No, Tim, I did not. Give me some credit. I just said I was sorry I missed her, and I would call back. That I love her and Amy and miss them. Do you think I am a complete idiot?” The two men stare at each other. “Oh, wait, you do think I’m a murderer, so never mind,” disgusted, finishing his beer.

“No. I do think you’re completely honest and even offer information when you don’t need to be offering it. That’s all I’m saying.” The two stare at each other again.

“Look, boys, this ain’t helpin’. Tim, you go pee and bring back three more beers. Mr. Paul Newman and I are gonna finish these and wait for you.”

“Paul Newman?! Paulie?!” Tim howls.

“Yeah! And you shuddup!” she looks to her side at Paul; both are embarrassed, but Paul more so than KC. “I think he does look like Paul Newman.” Paul flushes red.

Tim shakes his head and walks inside the apartment. There is awkward silence between the remaining two on the patio. KC decides to break it. “Do you like blues, Paul?”

“Pardon me?”

“Blues. Like BB King and Muddy Waters… even a lil’ rock with it… like Stevie Ray Vaughn. Do you like that kind of music, honey?”

Paul peers over at her. “I… uh… I do. Yes, I do,” still embarrassed and unable to hold her gaze, turning his head quickly to the view of the apartment complex. He notices the setting of the sun, tranquil peachy-pink pastels; the lazy palm trees casting heavy shadows on the manicured landscape and shallow end of the pool.

KC studies him, and grins, enjoying it. “You sure are a shy one. That’s sweet.”

Paul flashes his blue eyes sideways at her and quickly outward. “Thank you. And thank you for saying I look like Paul Newman. I haven’t heard that in a good long while.”

“You mean I’m not the only one?” KC giggles. “Well, did Tim know that?”

Still embarrassed, Paul looks down at the railing; revealing a slight smile. “He used to tease me every time a girl said it when we were in college.”

KC laughs loud, taking Paul by surprise, and he turns to look at her. “Well darlin’, that’s why he made such a big stink just now! I think he’s a lil’ jealous of that fact!”

Paul quickly turns his head away, shaking it. “No… no…”

“Yes, yes,” KC leans forward in her chair, looking at him, grinning big and trying hard to catch his sight. Once she does, he starts smiling.

Tim walks back out holding their beers. “This is the last of it,” stopping to look at them. “What’s going on?”

KC straightens, looking up at him, as does Paul; still smiling. Tim is glad to see it, but puzzled, and a little paranoid; handing them their beers. He sits in his chair, pulls the tab off, and takes a big drink. “What are you two grinning about?” wiping his mouth and looking at them.

“Paul was just tellin’ me I’m not the first chick to say he looks like Newman,” she answers, grinning ornery at him, reaching over and punching him in the side of his leg. Tim flinches, moves to guard himself, and grins sheepishly.

He peers over at Paul watching the playful exchange. “See? That’s what I’m talking about, Paulie. You offering information all the time.”

Paul grins. “Shut up.”

After taking a drink, KC says, “Tim, I’m thinkin’ it’s high time we start our investigatin’ business.”

Tim rolls his eyes. “Not that again.”

“Yes, that again! And I’m not lettin’ you talk me out of it this time!” Tim shakes his head, making a face. KC doubles up her fist, threatening to hit him again, and he guards himself.

Paul has a puzzled expression on his stubbled face. “What investigating business?”

“Oh, she’s been after me to join with her and start a PI firm, Paulie. And there’s no way I’m doing that.”

“Hey! Watch it!” KC’s pointing her finger at him. “You just don’t want me showin’ you up by my superior abilities in deducin’ with my high-level analytical skills. We would be a good team and you know it, Tim. And I think we need to start with this case.”

“That’s crazy, K. Besides, what case?”

“See? That’s what I’m talkin’ about. That’s why you need me. This case. Paul’s. And findin’ out what and who’s behind all these weird things happenin’ to him.”

“It wouldn’t hurt, Tim,” Paul offers. “I would like that. And it seems to me KC might be of some help to you.”

“You are not helping me, Paulie. Don’t encourage her.”

“We’re doin’ it.” She jumps up and runs inside, returning right away with paper and pen.

Tim frowns, watching her swing around him, plop back down in her chair, and start writing. “What’re you doing now?”

Finished, she holds the paper up to his face, grinning wide.

The paper is so close, he can’t read it, taking it from her and reading: “KC & Tim: Private Eyes.” He scoffs, “that’s ridiculous. And you got the eyes part wrong. It’s supposed to be I’s,” handing it back to her.

“No, I didn’t. That’s what it should be,” forming a v with her middle and index fingers, pointing at her eyes and then Tim’s.

Tim scoffs again, shaking his head, dropping the paper in her lap, “I’m not doing it,” and taking a drink.

“Yes. Yes, we are. You just watch and see, mister.” KC picks the paper up, gazing at the words and taking a drink. She turns and winks at Paul, smiling. He smiles back and then grins. Still looking at him, her eyes widen. “Hey, boys, why don’t we go down to the Blue Turtle?”

“Blue Turtle?” Paul quizzes.

“Yeah. My friend Quinn’s playin’ there. We’re out of beer, anyway. Let’s go.”

“Quinn’s there? Let’s go,” Tim says, taking a big gulp of his beer and standing. “C’mon, Paulie. You’re Quinn for a Treat.”

“What?”

KC rolls her eyes, shaking her head as she stands. “He always says that corny line. Quinn’s last name is Treat, honey. But you are. That boy can sure make his rhythm guitar sit up and talk,” the petite woman now standing between their chairs, smiling big, and motioning towards the door with her head. “C’mon.”

“I don’t think I should. I’m still being looked at as a murder suspect. Perhaps I shouldn’t be seen out having fun.”

KC corrects him right quick. “That’s exactly what you should be doin’, honey. To show you don’t have anything to be guilty of.”

He keeps looking back at her, skeptical. Paul looks over at Tim standing by his chair. He winks at him and nods, motioning with his head. Paul shrugs. “Why not? I don’t have to work tomorrow.”

Tim agrees with a loud, “Shoo-ch’yeah!” raising his beer.

Paul adding as he stands, “Maybe never again,” as the other two walks through the patio door.

Tim answers over his shoulder, “Oh, Paulie. Don’t be so pessimistic. You know you have to work,” stopping once he’s inside and turning to face Paul, “After Lisa divorces you, you’ll have to work. To pay your child support and alimony. Also, you’ll have to support me in the lifestyle I’m accustomed to.”

“Shuddup,” KC and Paul answer in unison, following him in. Hearing it, all three laughs.

“Speaking of which, I need to try to reach Lisa again.” He dials the number to his house once more. The other two finish their beers while they wait. “Lisa, I just wanted to let you know I won’t be on the flight tomorrow. I received a message from Dr. Wingate instructing me to take some time off. I’m not sure why, but I’ll find out and let you know. And don’t worry I... I…” he pauses and catches Tim eyeing him sternly, “I’m staying with Tim. I think it will do me good to spend some time out here with him. Maybe you, too, honey…” pausing once more; a certain sadness enters his expression. “Well, anyway, take care of yourself, Lisa, and kiss little Amy for me. I miss the two of you a lot. You can reach me here at Tim’s. You know the number… I love you… bye.” He hangs the receiver on the kitchen wall and stares down at the gold linoleum floor a few seconds; remembering the other two, Paul quickly glances up at both. “I got the answering machine again.”

Tim jumps in, “C’mon, Paulie, let’s go have some fun, buddy. I’m suspecting that’s something you haven’t had in a long, long time. Lisa’s okay. C’mon.” KC is solemn, seeing his sadness. Tim does, but he won’t have it; moving over and wrapping his arm around his old friend’s shoulder, squeezing him against his tall, muscular frame. “Let’s go let KC take Butch and Sundance out on the town. She’s Quinn for a Treat.” Tim grins big, proud of his pun; KC laughs.

Paul forces a smile, nods, and begins moving toward the door with the other two. “Butch and Sundance?”

“Well, yeah,” Tim says, opening the door. “She said you look like Newman… then I look like Sundance,” tilting back and shaking his head, his shoulder-length blonde mane brushing side to side, “we’re the tall and small, hippy and preppy version.” He flashes a huge grin and walks out. KC and Paul exchange glances, grin and shake their heads; following.

On the way down the stairs, Tim checks on his boys at KC’s apartment. And then all three pile into Tim’s car after discussing they won’t fit into KC’s 280Z. Paul starts climbing into the back when KC grabs him by the back of his smiley face t-shirt and pulls him backward. “Get in the front, sugar. I’ll sit on your lap.”

“I don’t thi—” trying to protest.

“Just do it,” she insists.

“Better do it, Paulie,” Tim advises from the driver’s seat. “Trust me, you won’t win.”

Paul looks skeptical and finally relents, sitting down in the passenger seat; smiling KC piles in on top of him. She yells, “Let’s roll!” sticking her right arm out the window. The petite powerhouse turns to Paul, leans into him. “See there. We’re both lil’. No problem.” Paul smiles uncomfortably. Tim chuckles; starting Black Betty as she lets out her beefy rumble, and blaring on the stereo:

“I fooled around and fell in love

I fooled around and fell in love,

Since I met you, baby,

I fooled around and fell in love

I fooled around and fell in love…”

Paul wonders for the first time about the dynamics of Tim’s and KC’s relationship.

Choosing to make small talk to avoid any further impending embarrassment, Paul says, “So Tim tells me you are a veterinarian.”

“Well, of sorts. I do sometimes to help a friend out with her clinic here in Culver City. I have my degree in Marine Biology. I do a lil’ of this and that.”

“A little this and that. Nothing steady? Are you independently wealthy?”

“KC’s a trust fund baby, Paulie,” Tim informs. “She doesn’t do anything she doesn’t want to do.”

“Oh?”

“Yep. My mama and daddy died when I was sixteen. I’m an only child and lived with my Aunt Shillie ’til I went off to college two years later.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that. I apologize for prying, KC.”

“No problem. I’m okay… now anyway… took me a while. They were great people. And, like Tim said… they left me well off… Daddy was with NASA.”

“Oh? Was he an astronaut?” Paul asks, attempting humor to lighten the conversation.

“No, he was an engineer. My cousin’s the astronaut.”

“KC’s last name is Shepard, Paulie,” Tim replies, looking at the road ahead and then glancing at Paul to see the funny expression on his face. Tim grins. “We just never know who we’re going to cross paths with, huh, buddy?”

Still with the funny expression, “No… we do not.”

Within a few minutes, they are at the Blue Turtle Tavern. Being a Sunday evening, the patrons consist only of the regulars to the club. But they are faithful. The crowd—a couple dozen, including the owner/bartender, a backup bartender, and two waitresses—are cult followers of Quinn Treat. The quiet, brooding, bearded and ponytail-wearing musician is a local hero of the LA County music scene; enjoying many write-ups and reviews in several Southern California magazines and newspapers. Tim Calloway authored two of those. KC introduced Quinn to Tim four years prior, not long after moving into his apartment and meeting his next-door neighbor, KC. They were a couple then, but it was short-lived. The friendship grew stronger despite their romantic split.

Thirty-one-year-old KC Shepard is somewhat a celebrity on the music scene herself; a pretty fine percussionist who sometimes sits in for bands when needed. Paul’s taken aback by several shouts of, “KC!” shooting across the ample-sized drinkery when the three walks in and make their way to a table front and center of the stage. And, naturally, KC is in the lead. “You boys sit, and I’ll get us some beers,” she orders, hustling off after leaving the two in their assigned seats. The old friends watch the little package of dynamite with feet go about her appointed rounds—her shoulder-length brunette ponytail bouncing across her tan, small shoulders and straps of her pink tank top, springing from table to table, barstool to barstool—saying hello to all the smiling greeters.

Paul watches KC a short bit. Tim watches them both. Paul shakes his head with a grin, “She’s something.”

Playing in the background on the jukebox:

“Bye, bye, baby it’s been a sweet love, yeah,

Though this feeling I can’t change.

But please don’t take it so badly,

’Cause Lord knows I’m to blame.

But if I stayed here with you, girl,

Things just couldn’t be the same.

’Cause I’m as free as a bird now,

And this bird you’ll never change oh, oh, oh…”

“She’s a mess, for sure,” Tim replies, “my best friend... next to you, Paulie.”

Paul smiles and looks over at the empty stage a few feet away. “So, when does your friend start playing?”

“Usually about nine. Should be any time now. He’s pretty darn good. I never heard anybody play such a variety like it was his own. And he does his own, too. It’s good.”

“Where’s he from?”

Tim shakes his head. “Nobody knows. He won’t talk about himself. There’ve been plenty of writers who’ve done stories on him. All have tried to get him to open up. I’m one. He just won’t,” Tim leans backward over his chair, placing his hands on his broad chest and stretching, letting out a big breath as he sits up, “Yep, Quinn’s one big mystery.”

The two are looking at each other when KC returns, interrupting their silence with her lively banter and a tray filled with drinks.

“This’ll get us started off. I just talked to Quinn and already told him what I wanted him to play. Here,” setting an empty glass in their three places, a pitcher of beer with just the right amount of head to it, and a shot glass filled with an amber-colored liquid in front of them each.

“What’s this?” Tim asks, pointing at the shot in front of him.

“Tequila.”

Looking down at his and hearing that, Paul’s eyes widen and his head snaps in KC’s direction. “I can’t—” shaking his head, grimacing.

“Now yes, you can, sugar,” placing her hand on top of his. “You need this. Now pick it up. We’re gonna have a toast.” Paul looks down at it, queasy, and up at her. He peers across the table at Tim for help. “He ain’t gonna help ya, darlin’. Now go on and pick it up,” the little dynamo orders, lifting hers and holding it in the air between them, looking back and forth at the two. “Let’s go boys!”

“Better do it, Paulie. You won’t win,” Tim advises, lifting his.

Paul makes a terrible face as he looks down at the alcohol sitting there waiting for him and back up at the two holding theirs in the air waiting for him. He sighs big and picks it up; raising it even with theirs. “I know I’m going to regret this.” The other two laughs.

“Alright, what are we toasting to?” Tim asks, looking at the other two. Paul says nothing, just glances back and forth at them like he had a gun on him. “K?” Tim asks again, looking at her.

The small firecracker mischievously glances back and forth at them thinking; as “Time keeps on slippin’, slippin’ into the future…” plays in the background. Suddenly, she smiles. “Truth. May we find all the truth and answers to this life’s questions.”

“Here, here,” Tim says in agreement.

Paul scoffs, “Yeah.”

They clink their three shot glasses together, put them up to their mouths and lean their heads back; allowing the golden liquid to slide down their throats.

“Whoo!” Tim and KC yell, grimacing. Paul grimaces more, shaking his head and sticking his tongue out. Seeing it, the two laughs.

“Aw, it wasn’t that bad,” Tim laughs.

“No, it actually wasn’t. It was actually surprisingly smooth,” Paul answers.

“Darlin’, KC doesn’t drink cheap,” she replies with a smile, filling his empty beer glass from the pitcher and setting it down in front of him. “Here ya go, sweetie.”

Paul smiles back. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, sugar.”

A tall, lanky man carrying a beautiful rhythm guitar steps up onto the stage. The owner/bartender, Felix, is behind him with a barstool; setting it down center stage and pats the tall man on the back before returning to the bar. The tall man acknowledges him with only a look. He then plugs his beautiful rhythm guitar into a big amp already in place at the edge of the stage, sits atop the barstool, and begins playing as if he is the only soul in the room. Quinn Treat. The man who plays—even sings—yet speaks very little if at all. And people love him.

Paul studies him meticulously as he drinks his beer and whatever else KC puts in front of him. By this time, the small man is relatively compliant with anything she does. Tim and KC cheer at the end of every song, along with the rest of the bar. Paul claps as well, but mostly enjoys quietly studying the musician while he works. It might be curiosity holding Paul’s attention to the man. Or the mystery surrounding him; noting every visible detail he can of the man: from his long dark hair flowing down to the middle of his back, long beard with equal portions of gray dispersed within it as his hair, John Lennon round glasses, the black t-shirt with a picture of Alfred E. Newman on it, faded jeans with holes in both knees, on down to his brown leather sandals. The man is an enigma, all right. But he is good.

Well into Quinn’s first set Tim asks, “What do you think, Paulie?”

He nods, smiling, “You are both right. He is excellent.” Paul looks back at Quinn and then them. “There’s something about him. I can’t place it, but he seems familiar.”

“That’s probably just his ‘everyman’ mystique,” Tim explains.

“Yeah,” KC agrees, “everybody says that about Quinn.”

Paul looks at the two, takes a drink, and goes back to watching and listening; figuring that’s what it is. He doesn’t much care. Paul feels good—better than he has in years—his smile purely reveals it. Tim and KC not only enjoy Quinn’s music but seeing Paul in this state; especially Tim. He knows too well the trouble his old friend has experienced. The three friends listen on for the next couple of hours, talk and laugh while exchanging banter with the waitress and other patrons.

Midway into the third set, Paul quickly turns his head toward his friends. “Does he drink?” The other two looks at him in surprise. He motions his head toward the stage, staring back at them and waiting for an answer, “him. Does he drink? I want to buy him a drink.”

Tim and KC look at one another and then smile. She turns back to Paul. “Yes, sweetie. Scotch. That’s the only thing Quinn drinks is scotch.” Paul bolts from his seat, making his way toward the bar as the other two watches in wonder. He speaks with Felix, hands him a bill from his wallet, and heads back to the table. Tim and KC, not wanting to get caught staring at him, sparks an instant conversation. Oblivious to their doings Paul sits down smiling to himself in satisfaction, grabs his beer, and takes a drink as he resumes enjoying the musical sensations of Quinn Treat. The other two sneaks a peek at one another and smile.

“I want to meet him.” Paul’s whole upper body is leaning into the table in KC’s direction. “I want to meet Quinn Treat. Do you think I can?” his stare intense.

Once more the other two are looking at him in wonder; but this time, both equally want to bust out laughing. And they do not dare.

“Well, yeah buddy, you can meet Quinn,” Tim says, sincerity in his voice.

“Sure, sugar,” KC confirms. “I already talked to him about it when we first got here. He takes his breaks in private. But I did ask him to come over after he finishes. He said he would.”

“Good. Thank you,” Paul answers, relieved, returning to watching and listening. Tim and KC exchange smiles once more; her enjoying the fact Paul is so obviously enjoying himself, but he’s growing uneasy and beginning to think Paul’s behavior a bit odd. He has never seen him struck by celebrity before; big or small-time celebrity. Tim has never seen Paul stricken by anyone before—except for Lisa. He decides on not being concerned, chalking it up to the four shots of tequila and his part of their three pitchers. The boy is merely at long last enjoying himself.

Quinn takes his breaks like he takes the stage—wordless. Finishing his last song, he gets up and puts his guitar on its stand, silently stepping off the stage as everyone cheers, whistles, and claps. He heads straight for their table, stopping between Tim and KC.

Tim stands, “Quinn, excellent job as ever, dude. You never disappoint,” shaking his hand. Quinn smiles.

“Honey, you know how I feel about you. C’mere and gimme a big ol’ hug, mister.” Quinn smiles big, looking down at her holding her arms up at him. He leans down, and she wraps them around his neck; hugging her back. KC pulls away and sets her sights on Paul, appearing as anxious as a little boy at the circus; purely mesmerized by the musician’s presence. “Quinn, this is our friend, Paul. He’s been wantin’ to meet you, honey.”

Paul jets straight up out of his chair and leans across the table, thrusting his hand out. “It is truly an honor to meet you, sir. You are a master, a craftsman with your guitar. I thoroughly enjoyed myself tonight. Thank you!” Quinn is embarrassed but gracious; nodding and stepping back to glance at the three, he puts his hands together like a prayer and bows toward them, gives one more nod and returns to the stage.

Bewildered, Paul watches him walk away and looks back at KC. “Where is he going?”

“He has his final song, sweetie. He plays the same song at the end of every show no matter where he’s playin’. It’s his signature song. It’s okay. Nothin’s wrong.”

Paul looks up at the stage, slowly sitting, and turns to KC. “You think he might come back afterward?”

“I dunno,” KC shrugs, “he might. I can ask him. Quinn’s gone with us to party after his shows before. Maybe he’ll want to tonight, sweetie. I’ll ask him.” Paul keeps looking at her. His concerned expression slowly turns to relief, looking back at the stage as Quinn begins playing. Tim and KC exchange smiles; Tim’s slightly more concerned and doesn’t want to be. He leans into her, whispering, “I’ve never seen him taken with someone like this before.”

KC gives a knowing nod and waves him off, whispering back, “He’s just enjoying himself. Quinn’s really good and he likes him. Plus, I think he’s kinda drunk.”

They both grin and join Paul in listening to Quinn’s instrumental intro to his final song. And then it leads into the more familiar tune:

“I’d say, Penny, for your thoughts,

I’d give the stars above

There is nothing I would not do

Just to see that smile, to hold your love

Each morning to wake up to my Penny… my Penny, Penny Blue.”

Paul quickly turns his head to them. “This was my sister’s favorite song.”

Both smile and nod. KC looks back up at Quinn. Tim’s eyes widen at the realization of Paul’s words and stay on his friend watching Quinn, telling himself it is like KC said and he relaxes, enjoying the rest of the song with the crowd.

Paul cheers and claps as Quinn plays the instrumental; a mournful rhythmic melody coming from the huge amplifier. Quinn stops playing, looks down, and closes his eyes.

“Last time I saw Penny

She hung low below the stars

On that cold and dreary April day

That evil Dusty Spur

Up on Keystone, OK…

I’m left to roam this wasteland,

To carry her scars

I’m the man who did fail her

I failed her in every way…

My Penny, my Penny Blue

What did I do to you?

My Penny, ohhh my Penny, Penny Blue?”

Paul shoots out of his chair, going airborne and lunging for Quinn. Tim jumps up, catching him in midair.

“You son of a—!” Paul yells at the top of his lungs, his belly smashing into Tim’s broad left shoulder. “You! I know that song! You wrote it for her! You killed her! You killed Penny!”

Tim squeezes Paul’s midsection in a bear hug and rapidly moves for the front door. Paul’s arms are swinging wide, as are his legs; the man’s all four extremities beating the daylights out of Tim.

KC is by Tim’s side yelling, “Where’re your keys?!”

“My pocket!” he grunts, straining against Paul’s tirade. “Right front pocket! Go unlock the passenger side!” She reaches in and snags his keys, making a mad dash for the door, Tim’s doing all he can to follow with Paul thrashing about like a wild man. Everyone else is staring with their mouths open from the three to the man still on the stage—the man on the stage stands in front of his overturned bar stool, staring; eyes bugged out at the man screams: “You killed my sister! I’ll get you! You killed Penny!”

KC has the door open and Tim throws Paul into the passenger seat. The small man tries getting up, but Tim shoves him forcefully back in, loudly growling: “Don’t you move! Don’t you dare move, Paul! I’ll knock you out if you move one more time!”

Paul suddenly stops, staring into Tim’s face—both huffing and puffing. He slaps both hands to his face and sets into wailing. “I can’t take anymore!”

Seeing his friend now bawling, Tim eases up. “Aw... Paulie, you just cannot attack a man for a song. Get it together, brother.” Tim lifts his hands from Paul’s chest and stands up, looking around for KC. Not seeing her, he looks back down at Paul now loudly crying; shakes his head, steps back and shuts the door. He’s reaching for the driver’s side door handle when KC comes out of the tavern.

“Quinn’s all upset,” her expression grim; arms bent and flat against her stomach, hands cradling opposite elbows. “He’s a basket case.”

“I bet he is,” Tim answers, disgusted. “Tell him I’m so sorry. Paul has never done anything like this the whole time I’ve known him... man!”

“What’re you gonna do?”

“I’m going to take this drunk back to my place. I’m so mad at him right now I could knock his head off, K.”

“I know. I know. Just try to and patient with him. He might’ve just had too much to drink, hon.”

Tim looks at her, frowning. He slightly bends to catch a glimpse of Paul through his window, straightens and looks back at KC. “I don’t want to open his door again, K. You want to get in the back on my side here?”

“No. I’m gonna go back in and stay with Quinn. I wanna do what I can to settle him down.”

“How will you get home? I’m not going to leave you here, K.”

“I’ll be okay, honey. I’ll have Quinn drop me off at home. I’ll come over to check on you boys when I get there.” She takes a step, reaches up and wraps her arms around his neck. Tim leans down, and she gives him a kiss. “Get home safely and I’ll see you soon.”

Tim nods, “You too, baby.”

KC gives him a reassuring, yet faint, smile and goes back inside. Tim gets in his car. Giving Paul one more look and seeing nothing changed, he starts it and shifts into reverse.

“Wait,” someone calls.

Tim looks up to see KC walking up to his door. “Quinn wants to go ahead and bring me home. But,” pausing to get a look over at Paul, still crying with his hands covering his face. She leans into Tim and whispers, “he wants to come over to your place. He wants to talk to Paul.”

Tim’s looking down at his floorboard, his ear in KC’s direction to hear her over the TA’s rumbling. He quickly lifts his head, eyes big, looking into her face. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, K, you saw Paul. I can’t risk him doing that again,” he whisper-yells, “and not at our apartment!”

“I know, I know,” placing her hand on his shoulder. “But I don’t think it’ll be like that, Tim. There’s somethin’ definitely goin’ on here. And Quinn’s insistin’ on talking to Paul. You know Quinn. He doesn’t talk to many people. But he’s sure wantin’ do it now!”

Tim keeps staring up at her. He presses his lips together in thought. “Well, if it’s what it sounds like… what Paul was yelling… and if it’s true… I just don’t know, K,” he whispers back, shaking his head; his furrowed forehead revealing the sadness and worry in his hazel eyes.

“I know, babe. But I get the strong feelin’ this here needs to happen. We can keep a lid on it. Let’s just not get in the way of what’s appearin’ to be fate. This just might be a healin’ time for both of these boys.” Tim keeps looking at her skeptically. “Remember our toast? ‘Truth. May we find all the truth and answers to this life’s questions.’ What if that’s exactly what’s happenin’ here, Tim?” KC’s eyes pleading. The two stares silently at one another as Black Betty rumbles in the background; Paul’s occasional sobs intertwine.

Tim draws deep air into his nose and lets it all out; closes his eyes and nods. “Alright. I’m going to get him on home. I’m going to talk to him—get him ready for it. And hopefully settled before you two get there.”

KC smiles and reaches in, kissing him. “Thank you. It’s gonna be okay, honey. It will.”

As she walks back toward the door, Tim watches her. She stops, turns, looks back at him and smiles once more; another measure of reassurance. He half-smiles and gives a nod. She goes inside. Tim drives back to his apartment.

He does get Paul settled after talking with him a short bit. The small man explains his erratic outburst; well enough for Tim to understand.

“But I’m just having a hard time believing Quinn to be a part of all that, Paulie. It’s just not like him. Not the guy I’ve known these last four years.”

“Do we really know anyone, Timmy? Even ourselves?”

Tim stares at him a short spell. “No... I guess not,” stands up from the couch they are both sitting on, “you want another beer, buddy?”

“Yes. I think I’m going to need a few more.”

Tim grins over his shoulder as he walks into the kitchen. Upon returning, he hands Paul his, sits back down, opens his own and takes a big swallow. He looks to his side at Paul taking his own big swig. “You’ve put a lot away tonight. I must admit I thought you were drunk when you tried attacking Quinn. But, you don’t seem to be now.”

Glancing at him, Paul appears half embarrassed and half perturbed. “I was pretty lit. That scene sobered me somewhat.” Tim chuckles and that garnishes a chuckle out of Paul. The larger man holds his can up. Seeing it, Paul holds his up, giving his friend’s a clink.

“You’ve got a pair, buddy. You do have a pair. If I’d seen those moves in college, I’dve been after you to go out for nose guard. You’re a runt, but you’re a bad runt. Who knew?” smiling, taking another drink. Paul grins. “So, we okay when they get here, wildman? Or am I going to have to pry you off Quinn the minute he clears my threshold?”

Paul looks over at him, surprised. And then sheepish, turning his gaze straight ahead. “No. No, I don’t think so,” shaking his head. “I want to hear what he has to say. I need to hear it. And whatever it is… I’ll maintain control of myself, no matter what.” He turns back to Tim. “You have my word.”

“I’m with you, buddy. You can count on that. Wherever this goes,” giving a nod, a wink, and takes another drink.

The door opens slowly and KC peers in. “Are we good?”

“We’re good,” Tim confirms.

She looks over at Paul. He gives her a half-smile and quick nod. Convinced, she looks behind her, motioning. Quinn’s head appears cautiously behind her. KC takes his hand, leading him farther inside, remaining steadfast in her interest of resolving whatever has arisen, while protecting Quinn as well. KC glances once more in Paul’s direction, doing a quick spin at the door’s edge—Quinn’s hand in hers—pulling him deeper inside the apartment. Quinn’s eyes are also on Paul sitting only ten feet away. He stops.

“Honey, take one more step inside so I can close the door,” she sweetly instructs. The man glances at her warily and does. “Good.” KC closes the door and looks over at Tim. “Sweetie, go get Quinn and me some chairs from the kitchen.”

Tim peers at her and then to his right at Paul, giving him a stern look, and goes for the chairs. The big man completes his task with speed like that of a ninja, rapidly returning to Paul on the couch. KC grins at the sight.

“Okay, Quinn, take a seat here,” keeping her eyes on him as she sits. Not doing so right away, Quinn’s eyes still on Paul, KC pats the seat of his chair to gain his attention. “C’mon, honey, sit down. It’s alright. We’re gonna get this settled.” Quinn slowly looks down at his chair and sits; quickly getting the couch occupants back in his sights. “Okay, hon, go ahead. Say what you want to say to Paul.”

He cuts his eyes to his left at KC. “I… I… I don’t know what to say,” in a low, near whisper.

“Just start at the beginnin’. That’s a good place,” patting his leg, “You’ll get it.”

Quinn’s head lowers slightly; just enough to not make eye contact, yet afford him—if need be—the view of someone suddenly hurling their body at him.

“My name is not Quinn Treat. It’s Kevan Wales.” Both Tim’s and Paul’s eyes instantly widen—the men pivot their heads in each other’s direction and back at him—both knowing well that name. It was the name of the counselor at the Dusty Spur Ranch in Oklahoma where Penny was living; the counselor who disappeared immediately following Penny’s death. “I was crazy in love with Penny. We were both crazy for each other at first sight. In a month’s time, we shared that with each another.”

“Did you have sex with my sister?” Paul blurts, startling everyone.

Quinn raises only his eyes up at Paul; looking straight into them. “No. We never did. We wanted to wait until we were married.” His answer surprises Paul, and it shows; the scornful expression visibly melting.

Seeing it gives Quinn more confidence. “It was two months after we met that I asked Penny to marry me. We were waiting until her time was up at the ranch, she finished high school in Tulsa… and then we would marry.”

“Did anyone else know?”

Quinn shakes his head. “We kept all that to ourselves. There were a few others who knew we liked each other, but that was all. Me being seven years older than her, we both knew it wouldn’t sit well with your folks until she at least graduated.”

Paul stares at him; then begins slowly nodding. “You’re right about that. They would have been livid.”

“Were you her counselor?” Tim asks.

Quinn glances up at him, down to the shag carpeting, and shakes his head. “I was the little boys’ counselor.” He looks up at Paul. “I promise you, Dr. Randall, there was nothing inappropriate toward your sister. I give you my word.” Quinn holds Paul’s stare until he responds.

And he does, with a nod. “Thank—” Paul’s voice cracks. He clears his throat. “Thank you.” The small man looks at the floor in front of him, places his hands on his jeans, rubbing them back and forth. He clears his throat once more as his eyes begin to redden, and he turns his head toward the opposite wall, away from the others.

Tim scoots over closer to him and wraps his big arm around Paul’s shoulder, giving him a couple reassuring small shakes. “It’s okay, buddy.”

KC begins tearing up, and Tim hears her. She gets up and goes into the bathroom, returning with some toilet paper for both her and Paul; handing him a healthy bunch. “You need to get some tissue, Tim. Butt paper’s good in a pinch, but not ideal.” Paul sputters with a laugh, looks at the bunched-up paper in his hand and begins wiping his eyes.

Quinn starts sniffling and wiping his eyes on his shirtsleeves. KC sees him as she returns to her chair alongside him; tearing off and handing him some of hers. “See?” looking over at Tim.

Tim smiles. “Alright. I’ll stock up next time I’m out,” and winks.

“Need to, jerk. Never listened to me when we were together. You’re just a slow learner.” Tim nods.

Paul looks up from the paper in his hand, “Why did you disappear, Qu—Kevan… what do you want me to call you now?”

Quinn thinks briefly. “I suppose I’ll stick with Quinn. I wasn’t such a great Kevan. Not until I met Penny. She made me want to be a better man.”

Paul nods. “She was like that,” pausing and thinking. “She was also the happiest I had seen her since we were little kids… those months leading up to her death. I now know I can attribute that to you... Quinn.”

Quinn tries smiling but can’t sustain it. “Yeah.”

“That’s one of the reasons I knew Penny did not kill herself,” Paul looking directly at him. “She was so happy… so purposed… focused…”

“Yeah…”

There is a slow minute of silence.

The only sounds are from the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and a car going by outside.

Tim, KC, and even Quinn steal quick glimpses at Paul, trying to read him and see what the man might be thinking.

He then startles the others with: “What does your song mean?” staring over at Quinn. Three sets of eyes dart over at Paul.

“It, it… mmm—” Quinn clears his throat, “it‘s ju—”

“The part about ‘what did I do to you?’… what does that mean? Does that mean you are responsible for my sister’s death… or complicit?”

“N—no, no…” Quinn’s one hand up, extending outward. He drops it, his eyes sink to the floor with a heavy sigh, “I… I do feel complicit, Dr. Randall… because I didn’t protect Penny. I do feel responsible…” the long-haired musician’s eyes pleading, looking up at him, not for exoneration—understanding.

Paul’s blue eyes are cold steel upon the man.

Tim asks, “What do you think happened to Penny, Quinn?”

He shakes his head slowly, looking down. “I wish I knew. I’ve thought about it every day for the last ten years.” He looks up at Tim fully; getting a little bolder, “tell you something else I also think about—every day... going back there and finding out. No matter if it’s the end of me. Because this is not living... this is mere existence.”

There is a brief silence. The other three keep looking at Quinn.

“Let’s go,” KC says. The other three are now looking at her. “I mean it, let’s go. We can all go together.”

Paul shakes his head. “We can’t do that.” He looks over at Tim for help. Tim’s staring at KC with a blank expression. “We can’t do that.”

Tim turns to Paul. “Why? I’m off. You’re off. Quinn works for himself. And she doesn’t even need to work.”

“Hey!”

“Shuddup.”

“You shuddup.”

“See? That’s why. That’s what it will be like.”

After sticking his tongue out back at KC, Tim looks over at Paul. “What?”

“That!” pointing, “it will be like being on the road with a traveling circus. This must be done correctly for us to get the truth about Penny, Tim. This here,” his hand up making circles, head shaking, “is just an insane notion,” growing frustrated from the whole scene getting away from him.

“Hey!” KC sits up, frowning, “It’ll work. Just give it a chance, Paul.”

“Yeah,” Tim nods big, “We can do this, Paulie. I can get a job as a counselor there… or a handyman… or—”

“Handyman? You?” Paul scoffs, “You don’t know—”

“Well, I can fake it, Paulie. The point is I am an investigative journalist. And I’m good at my job. We can do this. C’mon, at least give it a chance. Think about it,” Tim begins shaking and squeezing Paul.

“We haven’t even heard from Quinn about it,” Paul argues, not really caring, only wanting the backup.

All three looks over at Quinn staring down at the carpet deep in thought when suddenly realizing no one is talking. Feeling all their eyes on him, he looks up and around. “Yeah… I’ll go.”

Disgusted, Paul continues stating his case why it cannot happen. “How are we all going to go? Fly? Rent a car and then drive a rental car around the ranch?”

“We can take my bus,” Quinn answers.

“And I’ll ride my HOG,” Tim chimes in. He looks over at Paul; shaking him once more. “You will stop shaving and grow your hair out. You’re too preppie. We need you blending in with the rest of us.”

Paul pushes him away. “This is insane,” frowning, “and I am not preppie… I went to OU,” shaking his head.

“No, it’s not, honey. And you’re a lil’ preppie. But that’s okay. I’ll change that,” KC says, then looking over at Tim. “We have to take Benny.”

Paul curiously looks over at her. “Who is Benny?”

Tim looks over at Paul, “her turtle,” back at KC, “Well, if you get to take Benny, I get to take Harry and George.”

Paul scoffs again. “This is insane,” shaking his head, catching Quinn watching him out of the corner of his eye as KC and Tim continue arguing in the background; oblivious to the other two.

Quinn holds up a bottle. “I have some Johnnie Walker Blue here… if you’d care to drink it with me.” Paul keeps looking at him. “I… I can get you a glass if you’d like…”

Paul gets up and walks to the kitchen, coming back with two glasses; holding one out in front of him. Quinn looks at it and then up at expressionless Paul. The musician cracks the seal of the expensive bottle and pours two fingers into the glass. Paul holds out the other empty for Quinn to repeat it. After doing so, Quinn secures the lid on the bottle and sees Paul still holding the glass out to him. He peers up, giving him a faint smile and takes it.

Paul returns to his seat on the couch. “Scoot over,” ordering Tim. “We’re not dating.”

“Aw, don’t be like that, honey,” grinning, reaching to pinch his cheek. Paul deflects his hand with his arm. Tim quickly looks over at KC. “Let’s get my boys, K. I miss ‘em.” He jumps up and sees she’s not moving. “C’mon!”

“You know where they are. Go get your boys yourself.” Tim scoffs, shakes his head, and walks out the door. Within minutes he returns with a bandaged Harry all smiles and happy to see everyone; George, the Russian Blue in Tim’s arms, looking the same—his slate gray tail the only evidence.

By this time, it is a quarter after three. Tim and KC continue badgering one another as Paul and Quinn silently observe; sipping their scotch. That goes on for another half hour, transitioning into talk of the trip to Oklahoma. Eventually the four wind down, each at different times, finding a spot on the couch, a bean bag, or a place on the floor to sleep.

Next Chapter: Chapter Three