Groovy Gumshoes by Michael Bracken

Author:Michael Bracken
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Down & Out Books

Over at the sheriff’s office, a pear-shaped lady with upswept hair eyed my business card as if I’d slapped an invitation to a Students for a Democratic Society rap session in front of her.

“Donovan, you said?”

“That’s right. And the girl’s name is Joan Morgan. Just wondered if the sheriff might have heard anything.”

“He expecting you?”

“Don’t think so. I just happened to stop by.”

“He’s a little busy right now,” she said doubtfully. “Might be a while.”

“Is that so?” I said, eyes drifting around the empty lobby. But I knew the drill. I’d seen the same lack of cooperation many a day in the eyes of supply clerks in Long Binh Post outside of Saigon. I gave her my biggest smile and said, “Won’t be but just a minute.”

“Have a seat and I’ll see what I can do.”

I sat and picked up a year-old copy of Life magazine. “Negro Revolt: The Flames Spread,” the cover headline read. I set it down and stared at my boots instead. Five minutes passed and then ten, and then the door next to the receptionist’s window opened and a man in uniform emerged.

“Mr. Hollister?”

“That’s right.”

“Sheriff Marks. Why don’t you come on back?”

A minute later I was seated in an office down the hall. Canadice County Sheriff Phil Marks, the brass plate on the door said. Several plaques of commendation hanging on the wall of the large office confirmed the information, as did the framed photo of him shaking hands with Governor Rockefeller. Marks had thinning hair, a standard-issue trimmed mustache, a bit of middle-aged spread and a skeptical look as he fingered my card.

“Private eye, huh?”

“That’s right.”

“Don’t see a lot of that down here. How’s a guy get into a gig like that?”

I thought of the Life magazine in the lobby. “Dumb luck,” I said, which earned a small laugh. “I was on the job for a little while. Up in Rochester. One thing led to another.”

“Mind if I ask what happened?”

“Just wasn’t for me.”

“Too bad.”

“I suppose.”

“Listen up, Hollister,” the older cop said, grabbing the terrified boy by the arm and dragging him down the alley. “We’re not taking any shit, you understand?” He pulled out his baton and raised it high in the air.

“What are you doing?”

“Shut up, if you know what’s good for you.”

I jumped as if shocked at the sound of wood meeting bone.

“Suit yourself,” the sheriff said. “You’re here about Joan Morgan, is it?”

I gave him the Reader’s Digest version of her husband’s story, concluding with his account of a long-haired wanna-be farmer named Donovan.

“Yeah,” he said when I finished, a frown on his face. “Sounds familiar.”

“So, you know him?”

“Not this particular guy. At least I don’t think so. But I know the type. What I told Mr. Morgan. We started seeing them more and more, two, maybe three years ago. Hair down to their assholes—that’s the guys I’m talking about—stoned half the time, decked out in nothing but tie-dye when they’re wearing anything at all. Living in tents or cabins they

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