Mysterical-E

He Said, She Says

Oaters
By Darryle Purcell

PART TWO OF A THREE PART SERIES

(Crime reporter Sean “Curly” Woods left the Los Angeles Examiner to become a public relations writer for Mascot Pictures during the filming of Mystery Mountain, a Ken Maynard western serial, with the hope of earning a living without having to deal with crooked politicians and unethical editors. Within a very short time period, Woods and Maynard, along with western star Hoot Gibson and Mascot driver Nick Danby have encounters with a sniper, gangsters and a mysterious and deadly flying wing. Following an air battle where they destroy the futuristic flying machine and, in the process, crash their plane, Woods, Maynard and Gibson return to the Mascot movie ranch to tell their story.)

CHAPTER 6. GOING FORWARD ALONE

Some of the cast and crew that were spending the night in the bunkhouse to get an early start on shooting joined our group as we told the story of our air adventure in the box canyon. Character actor Syd Saylor, who portrays newspaperman Breezy Baker in the serial, writer Sherman Lowe, film editor Earl Turner and leading lady Verna Hillie sat quietly as Maynard and, especially, Gibson recalled the action.

Just as the recounting began, one more member of the audience walked in from the kitchen with a sandwich on a plate and a beer – Renaldo Sharp.

“Oh, don’t let me interrupt,” he said while sitting down next to Hillie. “You gentlemen really were a sight to be seen out there splashing off the mud under the water tower.”

I noticed the slightest cringe from Maynard at Sharp’s remark. Gibson ignored the late arrival and continued right on with his enthusiastic report. Although he verbally expressed himself well, his physical pantomime showed us all why he became popular during silent films. Upon completion, individual questions were asked. Most notably, Shuffles was a bit apprehensive about the gray-suited soldiers.

“Klansmen in Los Angeles County?” he said. “What the hell is that about? It just doesn’t make sense. I’m a native Californian and it doesn’t make sense at all. This isn’t Alabama or Mississippi.”

“The attacks, the big-wing flying machine, a military training fortress and Klansmen… None of this makes sense,” Lowe said. “I couldn’t write that far-fetched of a scenario. Who or what is behind all of this? Are they trying to kill Ken or stop completion on Mystery Mountain? And why?”

All good questions for which we had no answers.

“And how do we explain all this to the sheriff?” Maynard said.

“We don’t!” Gibson and I said at the same time.

“Hoot’s airplane was illegally armed,” I said. “That would bring in the U.S. Department of Commerce Aeronautics Branch, the FBI and who knows what else. Government types frown on private citizens machine-gunning other planes and people from the air, even if those people are armed crazies.”

“I’m pretty sure they’d take away my pilot’s license,” Gibson said, “as well as a few years of my life becoming designated to break rocks with some very nasty convicts.”

“We all might have a hard time getting the government to believe we were the good guys,” Maynard said. “So where do we go from here? We know we poured salt on the slimeballs and they will be looking at getting even.”

“Whoever these nuts are, we have one good thing going for us,” I said. “They certainly won’t be calling any law enforcement agencies either.

“Nick. You contact Max and tell him everything. Leave out the part about how we looked when we returned tonight. Ken. You and I will do a little recon work and try to find out what is really going on in the box canyon. I know I need some sleep, so we’ll ride out in the morning.”

“Can I join you,” Toosie said sweetly. “So far, I’ve missed out on all the adventure. I’m a good rider, roper and all around stuntwoman…. and I can shoot.”

She certainly would improve the scenery, I thought as I gave her a good once over. She was only about five feet four inches tall and in great physical shape, if you like that sort of thing.

“She’s right, Curly,” Maynard said. “She’s the best lady rider I know. And she’s tough.”

“Me too,” Sharp said while standing with one hand on his hip. “I came here to cowboy up and this sounds like the advanced course.”

Maynard sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Okay,” I said. “But Ken and I will make the decisions and you two will do as you’re told. And Renaldo, if you cannot keep up, you will be on your own.”

Toosie seemed thrilled. Sharp looked like he may be rethinking his own words.

“What about me?” Gibson said. “I ride, I rope, I shoot and, as long as I’m in the air, I’m a pretty good flyer.”

“I have some other things I need handled by someone I thoroughly trust,” I said. “We’ll talk outside.”

Saylor and Hillie promised to keep quiet about the recent events. They both were shooting scenes in the morning and would be busy throughout the coming day. Turner slapped my back and wished us all the best of luck. Lowe promised to keep all discussion off the record and said he would be checking back with us to see how things were going.

“And down the road,” he whispered, “I might use some of your adventure in another chapter serial. I’m not sure I could pull it off on a Mascot’s budget, but you never know.”

I asked Maynard to join Nick during the telephone report to Gorn, just in case he needed to fill in some information. Gibson and I stepped outside to walk to the bunkhouse.

“Hoot. You have a lot of explaining to do to your friend the airplane designer,” I said.

“That I do!”

“If you have the time, I would like you to check into a few things for us,” I said, “and only report them to me.”

“You can trust me, Curly.”

“I’d like you to do a little research on that flying wing machine,” I said. “Your pilot friends may know if anyone has developed or imported an experimental aircraft along those lines.

“Also, I would like you to drop by the Examiner morgue and talk to Waxy Wright. Drop my name. Ask him if he has anything at all on the Klan in Los Angeles. And bring Waxy an autographed photo. He’s a real western fan.”

I told him to call me at the ranch and leave a message where I could contact him.
We all found room in the bunkhouse and hit the sack. Toosie, Sharp and Turner stayed in the ranch house.

In the morning, Nick and Maynard made their report to Gorn, who was not happy. Gibson rode away in Maynard’s Deusenberg. The rest of us prepared for our day’s work. Cast and crew got together for the morning scenes. Maynard, Toosie, Sharp and I saddled up and gathered supplies to last the day – biscuits, water and real guns and ammo.

Maynard and I both wore Levis and blue work shirts and good-guy, 10-gallon hats. I don’t know where he got them, but he came up with western six-gun shootin’ irons and gun belts for both of us.

Toosie also dressed for the trip in light blue, a tan western hat, eye-candy Levis and riding boots. Her sidearm was just as impressive as ours.

Sharp, on the other hand, showed up in a cowboy outfit that Tom Mix wouldn’t even wear in the Rose Parade. His hat was white, of course. He wore a yellow bandana and a bright red shirt. His black, fringe-lined pants were tight enough to be rejected by a matador and his boots had to have been made from some sort of reptile. And it looked like he may have puffed some white powder on his face to hide any lines during a close up. Either that or he was beginning to question his choice to go alone with us. All he needed was a fake Snub Pollard mustache to complete the foppish ensemble.

Maynard, holding Tarzan’s reins, walked up to Sharp with the perfect poker face.

“Truly dignified,” he said while patting the Bolero dancer on the shoulder. “You’re well on your way to cowboying up for Max’s Mojave Rangers.”

Sharp smiled at what he thought was a compliment.

“You’re riding the Morgan again,” Maynard said to me. “Since it’s obvious that you like the pony, perhaps you should name him.”

“I did,” I said. “I named him after a pirate…. Henry.”

“Henry, Morgan?” Maynard groaned.

The four of us started off toward the box canyon with Sharp bringing up the rear. Maynard quietly told me he wanted it that way so the other horses wouldn’t laugh.

We rode quietly as possible and, once again, tried to stay out of large open areas. It was hard to keep unnoticed. Having Sharp along was like dragging a neon sign for a questionable Hollywood nightclub.

We passed a couple of ranches along the outskirts of the Mascot property. As we passed one ranch, I heard a screen door slam.

“Hey, Ken,” a redheaded, 12-year-old boy yelled. “You trackin’ bad guys?”

Maynard smiled and rode toward the young man.

“Yep, son,” he answered. “You work this ranch?”

“You bet,” the boy said. “Would you sign my copy of Gun Justice? I just bought it.”

Maynard dismounted and waved us all to take a few minutes. The boy ran into his family’s small ranch house and reappeared quickly with a shiny, new Ken Maynard adventure Big Little Book and a pencil.

“Gee, thanks Ken,” he said. “I see all your movies. They’re great!”

“I’m pleased to hear that,” Maynard said as he signed the young man’s book. “What’s your name, son?”

“It’s Martin, but everybody calls me Marty.”

“Well, Marty, this here is Curly; he’s a writer. That’s Toosie; she’s a top-notch stuntwoman. And that colorful feller over there is Renaldo. You may be seein’ him in some future cowboy films.”

Marty was wide-eyed and impressed with the cowboy hero and his three partners from filmland.

“Wow!”

“We gotta go now, Marty,” Maynard said. “It’s been great meeting you. Do your chores. Respect your parents. And always fight for what’s right.”

“I will, Ken,” Marty said. “Good luck on rounding up the bad guys. Good guys always win.”

At that point, I didn’t care what the studio heads said about Ken Maynard. He made that young man’s day and more. And he did it with a positive all-American, good-guy message. I saw Toosie smile as we mounted up; and I’ll bet even Sharp learned something about being a western hero that day.

“That was really something, Ken,” I said as we rode on.

“It’s what I do. Marty is the future of this country and his opinion is far more important to me than any critic.”

We rode on in silence. I believe I heard Sharp groan once and quietly ask, “Are we there yet?”

No one answered.

We were about a mile from the entry to the box canyon when we stopped.

“I’ll run a line over here by the water for the horses,” Maynard said. “We go on by foot from here.”

We dismounted and ken ran about a 10-foot line of rope between two trees along a muddy creek to tether the horses. The area was well covered with oak trees and not a lot of sunlight reached the ground.

“No one can see this area,” Maynard said. “Our horses will be safe here.”

I saw Sharp looking down to the open area below us and, obviously, thinking that it would be easier to walk there.

“You have a death wish?” I asked Sharp. “The gray soldiers will certainly post guards at the entry to the canyon. We will have to stay to the thick part of the woods to be safe as we get closer.”

“And now for your first lesson to become a cowboy,” Maynard said to Sharp. “Your outfit just screams, ‘Shoot me!’”

Sharp’s eyes got bigger.

“Take off that yellow bandana and leave it in your saddle bag. Your red shirt needs to be toned down a little. I want you to roll around in that mud a bit to darken your shirt to about a crap-brown.”

“But this is a Madelein Vionnet original,” Sharp protested.

“Well, I’m sure it would be stylish in some circles,” Maynard said, “but in our situation, if these armed Klansmen see you, they will kill you and probably us in the deal. It would be a shame to get a bullet hole in the front of that shirt because it would also make a very large hole in the back.”

“But,” Sharp started to say as Maynard moved closer. “Okay!”

Rather than roll in the mud, Sharp took off the shirt and dragged it back and forth through the stuff. Pretty soon the bright red became a nice, safe crap-brown.

“Yeuch,” he said as he put the wet shirt back on.

Toosie walked around behind me so Sharp wouldn’t see her uncontrolled but quiet giggling.

“Now we move on,” Maynard said. “Curly. You’re the infantryman. Take the point.”

It’s amazing how the training and experience we went through for just a couple of years in the war come back to us when needed in later life.

We spaced out about 10 feet apart and moved quietly through the wooded area.
I held up my hand and everyone froze. I could see the gateway to the box canyon and one gray-clad troop in a covered position on our side of the valley. There were certainly other guards that I didn’t see. Maynard moved forward to my position.

“We have to get in there,” he quietly spoke. “We can’t use our guns at this stage.”

Maynard reached down in his left boot and pulled out a Bowie knife.

We placed Toosie and Sharp in a covered position.

“Your job is to stay here, stay quiet and wait,” I told them. “If Ken and I are not back in three hours, you are to get back to the horses and go get help. That means call the sheriff, the FBI, the Seventh Cavalry if you have to. Just get help.

“If everything works out, though, we will be back before that three hour deadline.”

Toosie nodded and winked. Sharp checked his watch and gulped.

Then Maynard and I moved higher into the woods to be able to come down from above the guard. As we quietly moved forward, I noticed a second guard on the other side of the entry to the canyon. No matter what we did, we had to make sure he didn’t see us.

This wasn’t a B-motion picture. These gray soldiers had tried to kill us. And, at this point, we were the only ones who could do anything about that; and that didn’t include asking for a fair duel down Main Street.

We were within 20 feet of the first guard when Maynard motioned for me to stay. He slowly and quietly moved closer. He was almost upon him when a twig snapped under his boot. The guard turned just in time to get Maynard’s blade in his throat. There was a slight squeaking gasp.

I moved in to help drag the troop into the brush. The smell of blood and soil mixing together brought back memories. We then moved into the canyon and toward where our aerial shootout had occurred.

We could see several troops cleaning up the area where the flying wing had burned. There was a new area of freshly dug ground where they probably buried their dead. The members of the work gangs didn’t seem to be in a jolly mood. A sergeant was yelling at four men who were dragging branches, casualties of the shootout, to a large woodpile.

The sergeant was speaking English, but I swear I could hear some grumbling in other languages.

We moved around the outer perimeter of the camp and got a closer look at the movie-set-like buildings. The false fronts looked like any small American town structures, except they were pockmarked with bullet holes. There was a Woolworth’s, a Grant’s, a street-side magazine and newspaper rack, a corner diner and a variety of small shops. This was a training facility for soldiers getting ready to invade America. And this army was already here!

From behind a rock and some thick foliage, we saw a lot of uniformed troops going to and from the cavern. Two privates walking next to each other were having a discussion in German. Those two obviously were not Alabama boys.

“We’ve got to get inside and take a look around,” Maynard said.

“I was afraid you were going to say that,” I answered.

The only way we could accomplish that would be to appropriate a couple of uniforms.

In the woods quite a distance from the main work area we discovered a fairly large outhouse; probably a three-seater. As we got closer, the wafting essence increased. It wasn’t a place to hang around for any length of time.

A tall, young man with sandy hair and twisted lip came up the path to visit the facility.

“He’s about my size,” Maynard said. “We’ll take him after he finishes his business. I don’t want to knock him out first and find out that he lost control of anything damp or sticky in his uniform.”

Made sense to me.

The troop was only in the outhouse for a few minutes. As he opened the door and came out, I greeted him with a “Howdy.” The surprise on his face only lasted a second as Maynard’s gun butt came down hard on the top of his head.

Quite often in the movies a knock on the head with a pistol butt will just put a person out for a short time. This wasn’t one of those kinds of knocks and this troop wasn’t ever going to wake up. We quickly pulled him in to the outhouse, stripped off his uniform and, lifting the wooden flap of all three seats, dropped him to his unseemly resting place.

As Maynard donned the gray uniform, which included a helmet, I watched for our next victim. We stepped back outside and put Maynard’s regular clothes out of sight in the brush. Almost immediately another troop in need of a potty break came up the path.

We repeated our actions, only this time I popped the soldier on the noggin. He had a pistol belt with a 9-milimeter Parabellum Luger in a flapped holster. We took his clothes and sent him to join his comrade below.

The military boots we had to wear didn’t have room for Maynard’s Bowie knife, so I slipped it into the holster with the Luger. I tied a leather thong around the butt of my six-shooter and hung it under my shirt. Maynard put his under the back of his shirt and into his belt.

Then we two gray-uniformed and helmeted troops sauntered toward the cavern entrance like a couple of good old boys. We kept our faces away from the other soldiers; no one seemed to notice or care about us.

We walked into the darkened interior of the cave. I tasted the damp air that seemed to belch out of the bowels of the Earth. Our eyes quickly adjusted to see a large cavern that had obviously been used as a hanger for the flying machine. There were many stacked cases of machine gun ammunition and what looked like some canisters of aerial bombs. Four 1932 Model B Ford station wagons were parked next to the ammo cache. Other mechanical equipment was stored along the wall of the cave and what looked like an armory of infantry weapons was segmented off in an opening in the wall to the right of the entrance.

We walked further into the hole, passing several groups of men allegedly coming from and going to work details. Toward the back of the large cavern there was a fair-sized cave entrance that led deeper into the hillside. As we looked around, the sound of a strange whistle echoed through the cavern. Then, all troops started coming in from outside and walking into the dark entrance at the back of the cavern. We joined the throng.

We moved closely together down a long, dimly lighted tunnel until it opened into a large cavern with folding chairs placed like theater seating in front of a, of all things, small stage backed with a silver screen. The troops marched in and took seats starting in the front. We held back a little and found ourselves seated on a side isle about 12 rows from the front. When the last soldiers entered and sat down, the lighting dimmed further and a projected image began to form on the screen.

“I hope it’s not going to be one of Sharp’s silent pictures,” Maynard whispered.

The image was crackly and not clear like film. Initially I didn’t understand what we were viewing. Then, although the image continued to be blurry, everything else became clear.

On the screen, a man in a white sheet with a strange looking cross in a circle on the chest of his gown began to speak into a microphone. I’d hoped he wasn’t going to croon.

“Good day, mein friends,” he said. The voice had an odd filtered sound to it, yet it also had something familiar about it. “Through the amazing technology of our comrades in Germany, I am able to talk to you today.”

I had read about experiments in televised broadcasts, but this was the first time I had seen an example. I never expected such a large-screen image could be sent through the air.

“Our plans are right on schedule in spite of what took place yesterday,” the voice said. “We have more Death Wings being prepared for our glorious sweep across this nation. A new generation of tanks, flying machines, battle ships and even death rays are being built in Europe as I speak. And you are at the forefront of this grand crusade right here in America.”

There was an excitement that was barely contained in the room.

“Our time is coming and we will destroy the morally inferior of the world,” the Halloween costumed nut spouted. “We have made inroads in city, county, state and federal government agencies. Slowly, we will bring about order. And you are the leading ground troops who will cleanse this country of those who stand in our way.”

Another white-sheet-hooded goof appeared on the stage in front of the screen. He brought a microphone with him.

“General Kuhn,” the projected image said. “How is the cleanup coming?”

“Excellent, Commandant Viper,” the new spook said. “Our coalition of southern forces and members of the Friends of The New Germany have had their first blood and they are ready for more.”

A roar of growls and rebel yells filled the auditorium. Maynard and I joined in for effect.

“And you will all get your chance soon,” the televised participant said. “But first we have to continue to train and find places to store our new military equipment. We need to bring our message to like-minded Americans so they will see the righteousness of our crusade. Many of our people are now running for office. We have representatives in the newspaper, radio and motion picture businesses. Some of our members have been quite successful in making sure only the correct news is printed in the bigger city publications. And there is a swelling number within the American population demanding their government establish a stronger code in the production of motion pictures than Will Hayes could even imagine. And we are preparing to give them that oversight and the leadership to bring our order here and to the world!”

More rebel yells reverberated throughout the room as the speaker awaited the coordinated audience response. I tried to join in the sound but I could hear Maynard’s attempt and it sounded like he was loosing his breakfast.

“And now, for the first time via television, you will be entertained by another aspect of our great cause,” the Viper spouted. “Our message is being delivered to the masses through a new form of music. You may not of heard of Jasper Kalm, but soon this country will be enamored with his home-spun eloquence.”

A ragged looking young man who looked like he just jumped off a freight car stepped into the picture. He brought a chair and a guitar.

“Today’s young people are enthused with crooners who sing about love and happiness,” the hooded cook continued. “But now, Mr. Kalm will bring our message of reality to the working class through a new form of American folk music. The masses need to be reminded of what the depression has done to them. They need to understand what is wrong and how to protest their grievances to the cause of their pain, the police, the military, the rich and the current American government. Mr. Kalm’s ballads will help the youth and the downtrodden to unite and become part of the solution to poverty, injustice and social ills. His music will be sold in record stores, played on the radio and praised by newspaper music columnists. Within a year, his popularity will bring him to the motion picture screen in a musical biography of his rise to fame.”

The Viper stepped out of the scene. Seated, Kalm began to strum his guitar. With a cigarette hanging from his mouth, the shabby minstrel mumbled a nasal hobo song of victimization into the microphone.

“Hell, I can sing better than that,” Maynard whispered.

Then another sound was heard from the rear of the auditorium. The music stopped and all eyes turned to see what was going on. Four guards marched in with two captives. Toosie and Sharp, with their hands tied behind them, were dragged into the room.

CHAPTER 7. EXPERIMENTS OF THE DEVIL

Toosie was battered, but alert. Sharp was out cold.

Kalm was pushed aside as the Viper stepped back in front of his cameral.

“What is this?” he yelled.

“We captured these two civilians near the front of our compound,” a trooper exclaimed. “And one of our gate guards has been found dead!”

“Take them to the Hole and we will find out what they are doing here,” General Kuhn said. “They may be part of the attackers from yesterday.”

My heart sank as I tried to keep my face looking as angry as everyone else.

“Return to your work!” the image said as the screen went black.

All soldiers stood up and began leaving the auditorium. As we moved, Maynard and I watched General Kuhn.

“Let’s see where that guy goes,” Maynard whispered. “He seems to be the local ramrod. I’ll bet he is going to get right on interrogating our friends.”

With one eye on Kuhn, we stayed with the herd. We approached a large, wooden door in the wall of the cave. Kuhn pulled a key from under his robe and unlocked it.

“Sergeant. Bring three men,” he said to a large troop.

Maynard and I elbowed through to the front of the crowd.

“You three,” the sergeant said pointing at those of us directly in front of him. “Come with us.”

Maynard and I stepped forward along with a short, stocky soldier with corporal stripes. I noticed he took a quick look at the both of us and made a questionable expression. He obviously was unfamiliar with us. I hoped he would be a good little fascist and follow orders and keep his own thoughts to himself.

We went through the door behind Kuhn and the sergeant. As we descended deeper into the ground, I kept thinking about the “Commandant Viper” from the auditorium. He was obviously the big dog of this pack – in our country. It sure sounded like this was an international group of terrorists probably funded through that “New Germany” he was talking about.

I couldn’t believe there were Americans who believed our liberties needed to be taken away and that those who disagreed with that premise needed to be purged. “Believe it, Curly,” I thought. Maynard and I were, at that moment, surrounded with those people. And with the money these nuts must have, I’m sure they could buy all the recording, radio broadcasts and newspaper support needed to launch Hobo Kalm’s musical propaganda career.

An electric light bulb hung about every 20 feet in the tunnel. And we were obviously going deeper into the Earth with every step.

The hairs on my neck tingled as I noticed small reflective eyes watching us from the ceiling of the tunnel and from around the boards we were walking on along the floor. More and more rats scurried around our feet the deeper we went. Their disgusting aviator relatives, filthy bats, stretched their wings above us and watched. We had to be careful of their long, yellow, dripping strings of waste and occasional black bombs that dropped from their sticky stone perches. The floor was carpeted with guano and the damp air smelled of filth.

We arrived at an opening in the tunnel. The lighting gave the rock walls a dull green and yellow hue. It was obviously the area called the Hole. Both Toosie and Sharp were strapped to individual metal tables surrounded with medical laboratory equipment. Two guards stood in front of them and greeted Kuhn with a palms-up salute.

“Excellent. You may return to your duties,” he told them as he returned their salute. “We can handle it from here. Doctor!”

Another man who looked very unlike a doctor stepped out of the shadows. He had on thick glasses and his hair was matted with oil to hold down the thinning locks parted above his right ear and combed over the top. He was wearing a short-sleeved, brown khaki shirt with two front pockets and summer shorts. And, he was carrying what looked to be a scalpel.

“Good day, general,” the doctor said in a mild yet malevolent voice. “Are you ready to extract some information from these subjects?”

“Yes, doctor,” Kuhn answered. “You may do your specialties, but let’s not kill them right off. You might want to use them on our unique experiments.”

“Aw, yes. Thank you very much,” the doctor said almost drooling with delight. “The girl will especially be an interesting subject.”

I could see the fear in Toosie’s eyes as she stared at the scalpel. Sharp’s eyes were open but he looked to be in a daze. He also, apparently, had lost control of his bladder in his too-tight black pants.

“Sergeant. Your men will assist the doctor in his information gathering,” Kuhn demanded. “I will await the results in my chambers.”

He then turned and left the doctor and four troops to torture in peace.
“Let’s start with the gentleman,” the doctor said. “He has the essence of absolute terror about him already.”

The doctor handed a clipboard and pencil to the sergeant as we all moved closer to the terrified table-top victim.

“Write down everything he says, while he is still able to speak,” the doctor said. “It may all be very important. Corporal, bring that tray over here. We will need it momentarily.”

Sharp’s body was shaking so hard it looked like his bug eyes were going to fall out. I noticed that Toosie was looking at me and then over to Maynard. She didn’t change expression.

“Your name!” the doctor demanded.

“Sharp…. Renaldo Sharp.”

“That’s odd. You don’t look like a Renaldo Sharp,” the doctor said. “Is that your real name?” he questioned as he moved the scalpel back and forth in front of his victim.

“N-n-n-no,” Sharp said. “R-R-Ronald Shapiro is my real n-name.”

“Ah! Shapiro. Juden, ja? You will not enjoy this day, Mr. Shapiro.”

Sharp was in a world of trouble. We needed to do something, quickly. I surveyed the room. There were several vials of colored liquid on a medical stand near Maynard. I noticed him looking around with some of the same thoughts.
Maynard stepped quietly to his left and, with his elbow, bumped one of the vials over and onto the floor. Through the broken glass, an acrid smoke filtered upward accompanied by slight hissing sound as the liquid spread across the floor.

“You fool!” the doctor said. “That is acid! Do you know what could have happened?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Maynard said.

That’s when the corporal practically leaped into the air.

“I knew it,” he yelled. “These two men. They aren’t ours. That man is Ken Maynard, the movie cowboy!”

The sergeant dropped his clipboard and reached for his pistol, but I beat him to the draw. I put a 9-millimeter slug through his chest from my newly acquired Luger. In the same moment, Maynard hit the corporal in the mouth hard enough to send him across the room and out of his consciousness.

Our resident mad doctor had stepped over to Toosie and was holding the scalpel to her throat.

“One step closer and I take her head off,” he threatened.

“And then what?” I asked. “We could shoot you right now and you might be able to cut her throat, but you would be dead. But since we have this nice laboratory here, I think I might want to get even with you for your treatment of our friends. I think a few bullet holes in non-lethal but painful areas might start us off. Perhaps some of the acid could come in handy. You see, we have questions of you, too.”

For the first time, fear showed in the doctor’s face. He knew the kind of pain that could be created in this room. After all, he had freely given pain to many with the tools at hand.

He removed the scalpel from Toosie’s throat and tossed it aside.

“Alright. What do you want?”

“First, remove the restraints from our friends,” I said. “And then get on one of the tables.”

He set Sharp and Toosie free and started to climb a table.

“Not that one,” I said. “Use the one that Mr. Shapiro was on.”

“But it has urine on it,” he protested.

I pointed the Luger at his crotch and he quickly climbed onto the table. Maynard and I strapped the doctor down tightly and then we removed the corporal’s uniform and tied his limp body on the other table.

“Who are you?” I asked the doctor.

“I am Dr. Wolf. I am a research scientist. My experimental laboratory is here to improve the lives of true patriots in the New Germany and future America.”

Yea, really. “And who is this Viper freak?” I demanded.

“He is the leader of the German-American Bund that we are creating through partnerships with pre-existing organizations within the United States,” he said. “We do not know his name, yet. But his power, our power, is growing. And soon, all of North America will salute our leader and beg to join our ranks.”

I ignored his last delusion and got right to the point.

“Why has this bunch of losers been targeting the movie ranch and Ken Maynard?” I said. “What’s Mascot cowboy movies have to do with your maniacal quest?”

“Simple,” he said. “We have tentacles into newspaper publications, radio broadcasting and the motion picture industry. Your movie ranch is close enough to our base camp and training facility to be a bother. At the same time, we could use such a ranch to produce exciting adventures for the silver screen that will further our cause. You, Mr. Maynard, and your little troop of thespians are merely in our way.”

“I think that is enough,” Maynard said. “We better start figurin’ out how to get out of here.”

Toosie was in agreement and Sharp was almost coherent; it was time to go.

“One last question, doctor,” I said. “Is there another way out of here?”

“Only the way you came,” he said with the slightest hint of an evil smile.

We looked at the far end of the Hole and saw a small opening covered with bars. Toosie and I took a closer look while Maynard kept watch. As we walked toward the opening, we both noticed a horrible smell that increased the closer we got.
The barred door was about four-by-four feet and was latched by a large chunk of iron. When I first looked in, I could hear a scraping sound in the dark. I pulled a light bulb on a long cord over to shine into the area. It was beyond belief.

There were bones and pieces of what had to be human remains strewn throughout a 20-by-20 foot room. At the far end, crouching over what seemed to be a small pile of rotten meat, was what looked like a demon from hell.

The creature was obviously the result of one of Dr. Wolf’s experiments “to improve the lives of true patriots.” It had once been human, but was now a bent, leathery thing with red, lidless eyes on each side of a hole where a nose should have been. The face, if you could call it that, was patched with mangy fur and raw, infected flesh. Ragged yellow teeth tore into the rotten meat from the floor as it periodically looked up at us and snarled.

The insane doctor had obviously spent too much time underground as his experimental victim had stretched skin under its arms in the shape of batwings.

“As you can see, there is no way out through there,” Wolf said. “That’s Vera. She would tear you all apart if she could get to you.”

“Is that what he wanted to do to me?” Toosie said.

“What a prince. I guess we have to go the way we came, after all,” Maynard said.

“Right,” said Toosie. “But first, let’s leave the doctor a dose of his own medicine.”

She reached over to the iron bolt that locked Vera’s cage and removed it.

“What are you doing?” Wolf yelled. “You can’t let her escape. She only knows killing!”

“Perhaps you can counsel her on her mannerisms, doctor,” Toosie said as the four of us left the room. We weren’t too far up the tunnel before we heard a creaking of a moving metal gate. Then there were screams of agony that went on for several minutes.

The corporal’s uniform was a little loose on Sharp, but at least the pants were dry.

“Thank you, men,” Sharp said. “I owe you my life. If there is anything I can do, just let me know.”

“We’ll talk later,” Maynard said. “For right now, just act like a pompous little corporal. That won’t be much of a stretch, will it?”

When we arrived at the wooden door into the main cave, we tipped our helmets low and I pulled out my Luger while Maynard held a six-gun. I put my hand on Toosie’s shoulder, winked at her and then we went through the door holding her as our prisoner.

The troopers in the area that seemed interested mostly looked at Toosie for obvious reasons. We marched her to the main cavern and then toward the exit.

“Where are you taking her?” a troop with no stripes asked.

“She has valuable information,” a surprisingly in-control Corporal Sharp said. “We are ordered to take her to a warehouse in town where Commandant Viper can question her.”

He grabbed her and pushed her toward one of the Model B station wagons.

“Clear the way for us, private. We must make haste,” Sharp ordered.

The troop turned and started herding gray soldiers out of the way of our departure as we climbed into a Ford. The key was in the ignition. Maynard drove; I road shotgun and Corporal Sharp got in the back with Toosie.

“Son of a gun, Renaldo, you can act,” Maynard said.

We drove out of the cavern opening, down the old runway and onto the trail to the entrance of the box canyon. As we got to the entrance, we heard shots behind us. Vera must have made it to the main cave.

We drove as fast as we could down the center of the valley until we got near to our horses. There we hid the station wagon, threw away our helmets and climbed on our horses. Tarzan and Henry seemed happy to see us; but I think Tarzan was a little confused as there wasn’t a camera anywhere in his view.

CHAPTER 8. LITTLE CAESAR GOES WEST

We rode quickly and quietly back toward the ranch. We were close when Maynard said we needed to stop and rest the horses. We stopped at a backwash from a small creek to let the horses drink and cool off.

I sat down leaning against a tree and Toosie came over and sat next to me.

“Thanks, Curly. You saved our lives,” she said.

There she went becoming a little too cute again.

“You and Ken are the best and I owe you,” she said. “I need to tell you some things. I had no idea about that paramilitary group before you boys brought it up yesterday.”

“Well, of course, Toosie,” Maynard said. “We didn’t think you did.”

I started to get a bad feeling about what she might be saying. I tried not to concentrate on her eyelashes.

“But I did know of some elements who are throwing wrenches into the filming of Mystery Mountain and their motives aren’t fascist domination,” she added like an anvil in a canary cage. “They are organized criminals with money motivations.”

“What the heck are you talking about?” Maynard said.

“I know a little about this myself,” Sharp said, “and I’m ready to come clean.”

Maynard and I listened to a tale of east-coast gangsters who have worked their way into Hollywood.

“On a whole, Max is a pretty good guy,” Toosie said. “But his past has jumped up to bite him recently. He was a bootlegger during prohibition and he made deals with some awfully shady characters. When prohibition was repealed, Max went straight. He used his business connections and worked his way into a decent level of administration, first with Columbia and now Mascot.

“He wasn’t alone in moving from illegal booze to motion pictures. There are quite a few former rumrunners and even one wealthy Massachusetts investor who currently crosses the street in both directions between booze smuggling and movie producing and, because of his connections in the White House, the federal administration won’t touch him. And we’ve all been to the Trocadero and seen the increasing number of boys from New York and Chicago buying everybody drinks.”

“Get to the point, Toosie,” Maynard said.

“Well, some of these boys are buying into the town industry,” she said, “and they want their own ‘properties’ working and paying kickbacks. Ken, I didn’t twist my ankle last week. I was told that a lot more of me might get twisted if I didn’t turn up lame and delay that shoot. And I can tell you the fire that burned the film was arson. I don’t know who did it, but I know there are others who come and go from the ranch who are working for the mob.”

“You mean when Tarzan went under the weather there was actually someone who poisoned him?” Maynard asked angrily.

“You can bet on it,” she answered. “And Max is between the devil and Nat Levine; and that’s not a good place to be. A former associate of his has certain information that might put Max away; it will certainly ruin his career. That associate wants his properties working in the industry. As he increases his share of the business, the associate also is working to create an east-coast, mob-run union in the film industry. By controlling the studios, the talent and the working stiffs, Hollywood’s hometown industry will take on all the credibility of a Chicago trucking firm.”

Toosie said she got involved innocently enough. She was just another excitement-seeking young girl trying to make it big in Hollywood. She enjoyed the free-running booze and parties that always need pretty young beauties near the pool to attract the wealthy executives.

“I really started burning the nights at the Trocadero and other clubs on the Strip,” she said. “I got to meet all the stars and starlets and quite a few sleezeballs who said I had what it takes to be a star. Well, one night at Thelma Todd’s restaurant I met a man who said he could really boost my career to the top. Charlie ‘Lucky’ Luciano got me a couple of modeling gigs. I’m a stuntwoman. Modeling gigs were like… Wow! Then he put me on a payroll as ‘entertainment’ at certain events. All I had to do was show up and flirt with whomever he pointed out. I wasn’t a whore – just a party girl.”

Okay, I thought. Not necessarily a problem.

“But then things went dark,” she squished her expression like a rain cloud. “He told me he was going to give me a lead in an A-picture, but I had to help him get other ‘properties’ parts and jobs as well. That made a sort of sense at the time, until the sabotaging of Mystery Mountain came about.

“I’m sorry, Ken,” Toosie said with tears in her eyes.

“And I’m one of those mob properties,” Sharp said. “I also associated with some of the shady characters of the prohibition era. That was expected of young actors in those days. Then my career hit bottom. I had several years of failure and I was broke. Out of the blue, this guy gets in touch with me and tells me Charlie Luciano remembered me from the old days and wanted to help. Well, I guess I was exactly the type of person he wanted to use – the guy who will do anything to get back in the business. I signed a contract that gives Luciano 50 percent of everything I make.”

The consensus was that Luciano had no interest in any actor who might not buy into mob ownership.

“So my reputation as a pain in the ass is proof to the mob that I cannot be corrupted?” Maynard said. “And because of that Lucky Luciano wants to kill me?”

“Oh, no,” Sharp said. “The mob doesn’t want to kill a star that they do not own; only the star’s career. Murder leads to too many headlines.”

“Apparently, that isn’t true for the local Klansmen, though,” I said. “They want to move into high gear with mass murder; as you, Renaldo, can testify.”

“We have two terrible enemies,” Sharp said. “As for the gangsters, I quit. I don’t need to be a movie star. This trip has taught me I am not cowboy material. As soon as I can get back to the city, I am catching the first train to somewhere in this country where there are no gangsters or racists.”

“Good luck with that,” I said. “Ken. Let’s get back to the ranch. You and I and Toosie are going out tonight.”

Gorn was waiting for us as we rode up. He started to tear into Maynard, but quieted down as we told our story. By the time we finished, he was a broken man.

“Max, you pay me to clean up messes,” I said. “I think I can get you out of this one with the mob if you’ll string along with an idea I have.”

I shared some of my plan with Gorn and then I went into the other room and called an old friend from my days as a crime-beat reporter. Big Jim Webber had no love for fascists or mobsters. Most G-men didn’t.

Maynard, Toosie and I swung by my Culver City apartment so I could get ready for the evening. I didn’t want to wear western clothes to the Trocadero. I had an almost-decent blue suit and Fedora. Both Maynard and Toosie wore city clothes as well.

We arrived at the club at nine, early for a Hollywood evening. Not much was going on, but that would change in the next two hours. I looked past the bar to a table against the wall and saw Webber in his government-issued black shoes, brown suit and hat; every inch the hard-nosed federal gumshoe. We joined him.
As I was doing the introductions, a waiter seemed to drop off some invisible perch to land next to our table.

“I’m Tyrone and I will be serving you tonight,” he said. “Here is our dinner and appetizer menu. Could I start you all off with a Trocadero frozen banana daiquiri?”

We all gave him our no-way-in-hell look.

“Three mugs of beer,” I said. Webber already had a drink in front of him.

The waiter looked down and then started to write something on his pad. He then did a double take as he noticed Maynard.

“Oh, God! It’s him!” he squealed while backing up.

“Just simmer down,” Maynard said. “We’re not here to make any trouble. If you just keep your hands to yourself and serve the food, nothing can go wrong.”

Tyrone ran sideways like a crab to fetch our beers.

“We have another friend due any time now,” I said about the time I heard a loud noise coming from the front entrance.

“Where’s my old pal Ken Maynard?” Hoot Gibson yelled as he entered the club.

“Oh, God!” Tyrone said.

“Over here, Hooter, and pull it down a key,” Maynard said, “and Tyrone, fetch Mr. Gibson one of those frozen banana drinks.”

Webber looked at me as if he doubted my sanity.

“Your friend Waxy was a fountain of information,” Gibson said to me, “and a good judge of quality motion pictures.”

“He liked yours, did he?” Maynard said.

“Yep. And he had a lot of copy clippings on the Klan’s increasing movements out west.”

“Let’s hear it, Hoot.”

Gibson, who was wearing appropriate dude wear (other than the 10-gallon hat), took a quick drink of his daiquiri.

“Whoooeee! That’s sumpin’,” he said as he brushed the front of his hat back revealing his thick hair and a real Hooter grin.

I believed Gibson might have stopped off for a couple on the way over.

“Well, Waxy showed me a half dozen articles on situations where Klansmen were involved in the area,” he said. “To sum things up, it seems there has been a focused movement of southern Klan members and northern Friends of The New Germany to our fair county. They also have been driving to get new members. And, although there have been some law breaking and arrests, the majority of their actions have been legal.”

I find it disgusting that there are organizations that use our Constitutional rights and laws of this country to further their work to destroy the Constitution and this country. What’s worse, there are lawyers that defend those organizations’ rights to advocate the revocation of those same rights. That’s where our system is flawed. The free market is the basis of American freedom, but some lawyers will accept big payments, dirty money, to fight for enemies of freedom.

That’s how I felt and that’s what I said.

“Yea, and apparently these folks have some money coming from somewhere as even simple assault cases against their members are being handled by one of the highest priced mouthpieces and his firm,” Gibson said. “Some guy named Steven March, I believe.”

“It’s Marsh, like the swamp,” I said.

That’s the reptilian Congressional candidate slime bucket who was responsible for the removal of yours truly, as well as the truth, from the L.A. Examiner. He doesn’t care where a fee comes from as long as it is big money. I would think opposition candidates would use his tendency to defend the rights of scum in their campaigns, but, then again, I’m sure he also spends enough to make sure their side of the story never reaches the public.

“Did any of the clippings mention anyone named Kuhn?” Maynard asked.

“As a matter of fact, they did,” Gibson said. “A German-born American by that name who was on the other side during the war has been making a lot of noise back in Buffalo, New York. He’s been whipping up the racist and anti-immigrant fervor, except for Germans, back there and has even developed a few quasi-military training camps for his followers. One recent news photo showed him at a political party fundraiser along with a couple of activist celebrities, a well-known aviator and an aging syndicated columnist.”

“Did you find out anything from your pilot friends about the plane we blew up on the runway?” I asked.

“Not much. Only one of them knew anything and his information was sketchy. He’s the designer of the plane we used, and he was a bit perturbed. But he was thrilled with the account I told him and the hoops I put the plane through. I gave him a few bucks, so, Ken, if you know anybody – I need work.”

“What did he say about the flying wing?”

“Oh, yea. He said there was some talk about a new aviation plant coming to the west coast to try to develop the German designs. That’s about it. He doesn’t know where it will be built or who is going to pay for it.”

I faced Webber.

“Does that help?” I asked.

“The information on the potential aviation plant is new and we can look into that,” he said. “The news on Kuhn, the Klan and the other enemy organizations coming west is about what we have been following. What you told me on the phone about your adventures in the Valley is extremely important. We are very interested in the box canyon site and we are presently setting up a very wide perimeter for information gathering.

“But we don’t want to move in until we have the complete package,” Webber said. “That means we have to know who those tentacles are within government, radio and the film industry. We want to know how the money is getting to the organization. And we want to catch Commandant Viper with his pants down.”

We discussed keeping our names out of the situation and making sure we weren’t charged for any of the many federal criminal acts we openly admitted to, such as our aerial attack on the Viper’s den.

Webber laughed.

“We don’t necessarily let reprobates like you off the hook, Curly,” he said, “but this time I think we can make a deal. Same goes for the rest of your gang.”

Both cowboys and the cowgirl smiled.

We drank, laughed and answered questions for Webber during the next hour and a half. Then the second part of my plan started to come to fruition.

Hollywood’s past and future stars, directors, paper pushers and toadies began to arrive at the Trocadero in small entourages.

A young actress with great potential, Ida Lupino, arrived with Olympic swimming champion Buster Crabbe. Silent star John Gilbert, who had struggled to adapt to talking pictures, came in with Marlene Dietrich holding him up. Dapper Warren William entered with his wife, Helen.

“Here they come,” Toosie said, nudging me.

Actress Thelma Todd strutted in with her friend, director Roland West. And right behind the couple, Charlie “Lucky” Luciano came in accompanied by, of all people, thug one and thug two.

Todd and company walked up to our table.

“Hi, Toosie,” Todd said. “It looks like it’s good guy night. Howdy, Ken. Howdy, Hoot. What brings all y’all to this neck of the woods?”

The cowboys greeted the comedy star warmly.

“And this is Big Jim and Curly,” Toosie said in introducing Webber and me. “I see you and Roland aren’t alone this evening.”

As if on cue, Luciano and the thugs walked up. I noticed the thugs were surprised and ready for trouble. Luciano, not yet in his 40s, had a weathered, unemotional face. I could see crevasses stretching downward from his dead-like eyes.

“Boys, go to the bar,” he told the thugs while exhaling cigarette smoke. “I won’t need you here.”

The two thugs silently snarled at Ken and me as they turned and went to the bar. They pulled up stools next to George Raft, who told the bartender to put their drinks on his tab.

    “Hello, Curly,” Luciano said. “I followed your work at the Examiner. You’re a pretty good crime writer. I find it interesting that with all the hoods you wrote about, nothing ever happened to you. And then you got the goods on one of the worst kinds of criminals – an attorney-politician. And like tripping a rat trap,” he snapped his fingers, “you’re out on your ear. Why do you suppose that is?”

I was surprised at his remarks in that this is the first time I had ever met him face to face.

“That’s because bootleggers, pimps and those who run numbers all know they are going against the law,” I said. “They supply products some people demand and they understand that they can get caught and their stories will hit print. But sleazy attorneys, especially those who have political ambitions, believe they are the law and anyone can be turned, bought or destroyed.”

“You’re a bright guy,” the gangster said with a slight smile. “I’m not too dumb myself. I believe you, the western stars and the G-man – hello, Big Jim – aren’t here to raise hell. Oh, maybe Ken is, but you have other things you need to deal with.”

With a flick of an eyebrow from Luciano, Todd and West moved on to another table. Luciano pulled up a chair and joined us.

“I take it you know about the deal I had with young Toosie,” he said, “and you’ve put two and two together and figured out there may have been attempts to sabotage Mr. Maynard’s film.”

“Yep, and we also understand your plans placing other properties into the film industry and eventually for the formation of a union,” I said.

“And what do you plan on doing about it?”

“Not a thing that would cause you any trouble,” I said. “But we need to share some information with you and explain a few things concerning our friends.”

The jumpy waiter brought Luciano a Scotch and that gave Maynard a chance to order refills on the rest of the drinks.

“I’m listening,” Luciano said.

Over the next 45 minutes, Gibson, Maynard and I explained that it wasn’t only his organization that wanted to scuttle the filming of Mystery Mountain. Of course, he knew about the bar fight and some of the minor delaying situations. We told him we knew why he wanted some people out of the industry and others into it. But we also recounted the shooting, the flying wing attack, and the Germanic-Klan terror organization and its goals for the film industry and the country.
Luciano’s face didn’t change throughout the presentation. He quietly sipped his drink and chain-smoked.

“This is very enlightening,” he said. “It seems we may have a common enemy. My family, my organization, is capitalistic. We are in America because we have freedom here. We can make a profit. You may not understand this, Mr. Webber, but we love America. In Sicily, the fascists are detrimental to freedom and business. Fascism, National Socialism, Communism all destroy what we, together, value.”

The murdering, drug-dealing, casino-running mobster seemed sincere.

“Your organization and my organization will continue to differ on certain issues,” Webber said to Luciano. “But our issues seem to pale next to the demise of freedom and possible extermination of those of us who are not the color and mentality of the fascists.”

“You’re right, Jim,” he answered. “In the last decade, successful rum-running demanded many peoples to work together. My family had even, earlier on, restricted our business associations to others of our kind. I taught the Mustache Petes that we could do a much bigger business if we only looked at the dollars and not the markets. I have friends…. who do business from the Irish neighborhoods, the Jewish neighborhoods and the colored neighborhoods. We do well together.”

Webber and I were very well aware of the organized crime’s growing strength because of the ability of Luciano, Rothstein, Lansky, Touhy, Moriarty and others to form sometimes-tenuous, sometimes-lasting partnerships.

“We have come to seek assistance and to offer the same,” Webber said. “First, our government is going to move on the internal fascists soon. But we need to track their movements, any attempts at money laundering, importing of weapons of war, and to put names to their leadership. Perhaps, with your many contacts in both the east and west coasts, and the docks, you could help us with that endeavor. I guarantee that will do a world of goodwill between you and Mr. Hoover.”

“Go on,” Luciano said.

“We are going to do nothing about your attempts to create ‘properties’ in the movie industry,” I said. “There are a lot of people working to put their people in the business and they all get pieces of the action. At least your properties would not be pushing anti-American propaganda productions down our throats.

“The same with your ideas on creating a motion picture industry union. It’s up to the people whether unions are created or not. If enough people decide they are needed, then there will be unions and rules will be made at that time.”

“You are being very accommodating, gentlemen,” Luciano said. “I’m not used to this. But there is more, isn’t there?”

“We want you to stop throwing wrenches into production at Mascot,” I said. “Mystery Mountain is already over budget and it needs to be completed. And Ken Maynard is quite often his own worst enemy. He doesn’t need any help from you.”

Maynard grimaced. Gibson chuckled.

“I noticed your earlier statement in past tense regarding Toosie,” I added. “She’s doing fine as a stuntwoman. And if a leading part comes along for her, we would rather it be because someone likes her work and not because they are afraid of getting hurt.”

Luciano blew smoke and looked at the table for a moment.

“Toosie is on her own,” he said. “No hard feelings. Ken, you have nothing to fear. You either, Hoot. I’ll take your name off the list, too.”

I’m sure that last remark was just to see if Gibson could do a spit take on his banana daiquiri. He could.

“And Max Gorn,” I said. “Is there anything we can do to pull his life out of hell?”

“Tell Max to forget about it,” Luciano said. “We go way back. He’s off the hook, for now. Maybe we’ll do business in the future. And tell Red Eye, his supply of happy tobacco is cut off. He’s on his own.”

At least Gorn would have some temporary relief, except from Nat Levine. I was surprised about Red Eye, but not too much. Someone had to be doing some of the minor scuttling at the ranch.

“Now that that’s settled, we can enjoy the evening,” he said. “I understand that Ronaldo Sharp is no longer in the business. Too bad. He had potential.”

“Not as a cowboy,” Maynard said. “But we did see some latent ability as a character actor.”

Luciano motioned for his two thugs to come over to the table.

“I know you boys have run into each other before, but let me introduce you. This young fellow is Benjamin Siegel (thug one) and you may already know Jack Dragna (thug two),” he said. “Like me, Ben is just a tourist from the east coast. And Jack is very important to our west-coast investments.

“Jack, these men have just given me some very important information that I will discuss with you later. We have common interests and I am sure I can trust you will assist me in the Los Angeles elements of same. Ben, you will do a little research for me within our casino interests. We will talk later. For now, these people are not to be harmed.”

He then dismissed the two men and stood up to leave.

“I love my California visits,” he said. “I get to mix business with pleasure,” motioning toward Thelma Todd, “and I get to meet interesting people. If you need to contact me, just call Thelma. I will be in touch soon.”

He moved over to the Todd table and then, quickly, he and his two companions were gone.

“That went well,” Gibson said.

“So why do I feel like I need a bath?” Webber responded.

END OF OATER – PART TWO OF A THREE-PART SERIES