Al was done with his latest beer before there was any pause in the speeches. Clearly he had come back too early. He wished a bunch of smoking canisters would come rolling into the room, followed by a team of balaclavaed SWAT ninjas….

Not that everyone wasn’t saying smart stuff. No, that was exactly the problem – everyone was saying smart stuff. Probably a good thing, he supposed. But a lot of work. And not his work.

At least he’d had time to review some of the messages that had pinged through, especially from the German guy, and sort through the new contact codes he’d been sent.

“Well, the brothel sounded….colorful. But ya din’t say it belonged ta the Eye-ties. Reckon I’d best rexcuse myself from said venue. So I got me a little boathouse over on Harbor Island. Real quiet, an’ a hop, skip an’ a jump from woke hippie wonderland where the target is. Ya wanna make it part o’ yer rotatin’ roster o’ bolt holes, I’ll send ya the address, but it won’t take no more cars, an’ I don’t need a whole fleet o’ vehicles parked outside. Reckon I’m goin’ there now, read Silky’s file. Think about startin’ my conspicuous detectivin’.” He looked at Bronwean. “I’m in a truck, so ya wanna put yer bike inna back, be my guest. Whether you come with it or not’s on you.”