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PROLOGUE

"So, they've found it again, have they? I thought we'd
taken care of it."

"The Forces of Evil are persistent, Sir."

"I'm getting too old for this. Who have we got lined
up to deal with this problem?"

"Solo, sir."

"Oh no! Not Solo!"

"Afraid so, sir."

"What about Derk or Gene?"

"Uh...dead sir."

"Isn't there anyone else?"

"Sorry sir, He's next on the list."

"Well...I suppose we'll have to make do. Knowing Solo,
he's gonna need help. A lot of help."

"I'll check the archives and get back to you sir."

THE BEGINNING

In the moonlight, New Corellia sparkles like a chunk
of cubic zirconium - an island of hollow beauty
surrounded by a red sea of radiation. Five million
souls, drowning in gamma rays.
Some lucky people have a natural immunity to genetic
mutation caused by the radiation. I'm one of them.
Most of them live in the New part of the planet, but I
don't. I live among the unlucky souls, the mutants
and the destitute, in the wreckage of Old Corellia.

My name's Han Solo. I'm a private detective.
At least I used to be. Since my marriage hit the rocks
I haven't done much of anything.
I went out tonight for the first time in a week. But
all I ended up doing was spending the last of my money
on a bottle of cheap Alderaanian Ale. Now it's past
midnight and I'm staring out the window of my office
on the second floor of the Drelict Hotel. Just like
me, the Drelict used to be something. Now it's just
another building in a run down part of town.

And I’m almost out of Ale.

As I stood there, looking over the littered wreckage
of Chandler Avenue below me, I heard my office door
creak open. And then I saw it, in the window - a
ghostly apparation, like a sour reflection of the
past.

It was the Colonel himself.

"My God, Solo," he rumbled. "You look like hell." He
clicked his tongue like a School-Marm. "Really hit
bottom, haven't you?" The old man could barely conceal
his glee.

I staggered over to my desk and sat down. "Oh I don't
usually look this bad. I forgot to take my Geritol
this morning." I tried to focus, or at least blink the
haze out of my eyes. "So, you want a drink? I saved my
first to have with you."

"No thanks," he said with a glimmer of regret. "I've
been dry for eight years now. Yeah, one morning I just
looked in the mirror and decided I needed a few
lifestyle changes. Quit drinking. Quit Smoking." He
clapped his hands together, rubbing them with obvious
relish. "Now I'm getting out of the business. Yep,
gonna move to the tropics and retire on a nice,
secluded planet with beaches and oceans and tribes of
beautiful young women."
His face cracked into a leer that qualified as a Class
4 felony in my book. I was legitimately shocked.

"You're getting out of the business? I guess that
means the end of Corellia is just around the corner
because you're the detective. I can't even imagine you
doing anything else - especially not running around an
island with a bunch of nubile women in loin cloths."

"Aaah, I can imagine it." He clasped his hands behind
his back, looking old, tight, hunched up. He shuffled
to the window, grunting. "I've been thinking about it
for years now. You know how it is: Lonely.
Underappreciated. Dangerous." He was growling now. "I
haven't had a decent night's sleep for 38 years now.
I tell ya, I'm working on a case right now and it's
gonna be my last one."

He looked down at the floor - a rare moment of
introspection. But then he brightened. "Enough about
me. What about you, Han? How's life treating you? Bad
as it looks?" He chortled, obviously enjoying the
travesty of my existence.
I played it nonchalant. "Depends. What day is it
today,
anyway? Saturday? Saturday's aren't too bad." I poured
myself another shot of Ale. "It's normally Thursday by
the time I get really suicidal." I knocked back the
shot, savoring the burn. "So what is it you wanted?
Or did you just come to sprinkle salt into the open
wounds of my pathetic life?"
"Naw, Han. You got me all wrong. Just because you
turned me in, got me suspended, humiliated me in front
of my peers...." He suddenly hissed. "You sold me
out!!" Then just as suddenly, he grinned. Like some
Schizoid Street Rat. "But that’s all in the past. See
I
quit hating you that weeks ago. Like I said, I'll be
leaving soon. And I don't want to go with any loose
ends dangling there to bother me in my golden years."

I unleashed a drunken snort. "Hey, don't worry about
me. When you kicked me out of the agency, it was the
best thing that could have happened to me. Digging
through dumpsters, sleeping in abandoned speeders. You
helped me learn a great lesson: No matter how bad
things are, they can always get worse."

But the Colonel wasn't looking for a fight. In fact,
he actually seemed concerned about my well-being. "So
what happened to you? I heard you were doing pretty
well there for a while. Did a hell of a job on that
Martian Memorandum Case." He fixed me with his
trademark interrogative stare. "What's your problem?
You one of those people who can't live with success?
Eh?"

I clasped my hands behind my throbbing head.
"Oh I can live with that," I said. "I'm just afraid of
commitment."
Suddenly a wave past through me. Hell, maybe it was
time to do a little raving myself. "Now you tell me
something," I growled. "Why wouldn't you talk to me
fifteen years ago? I was a stupid kid back then! You
could have tried to understand why I told the Ethic's
Board what I did. I mean, I understand now that I was
out of line, and I made a mistake. Why'd you cut me
off like that?"
The Colonel's festering anger erupted to the surface
again.
"Because apparently you never learnt the first rule of
a P.I. - never, ever betray your friends! Now
friendship goes beyond blood or race or politics’." He
was yelling now. "You've got to find out who your
friends are, then you hold on to 'em!"
He regained some composure, and added: "They're a
precious commodity to people like me and you. Now
listen, before I go, I came here with a warning. I
heard your name mentioned in connection with the case
that I'm working on. And you stay out of it! If you
don't somebody's gonna find you floating in the bay
with a hole in your head, and I don't need anymore
strain on my conscience."
"You know, frankly, I'm pretty insulted," I said,
hauling myself to my feet. I dug a pack of Luckies out
of my shirt pocket, popped one up. "Cause I'm a pretty
damn good detective and I can take care of myself,
thank you." I clamped numb lips on the cigarette,
pulled it from the pack and sat back down.
Next thing I know, I'm staring up from the floor at
the Colonel's crated mug.
He glared down at me. "Just remember what I said, Han.
You got no idea what kind of people we're dealing with
here. Keep out of my way."
His last words danced in a boozy swirl through my
head:

"I'll send you a postcard."

DAY ONE

Cuffing Up Flemm

CASE LOG TRANSCRIPT: 12-11-42

Office
11:00 AM

It seems a little pathetic to be making entries in my
case log file Dictaphone when I haven't had a case in
nearly a year. But old habit's die hard - unlike
careers, I guess, which seems to pass away all to
easily.

So last night after 15 years, the Colonel walks into
my office. Made me take a good hard look at myself.
Maybe I have hit bottom and maybe I do look like hell.
Lord knows the only exercise I've had lately is
tipping the bottle and flipping cards into my hat.

I gotta find some work. Contrary to what the Colonel
might think, I'm as good a detective as he ever was.
Now I've just got to prove it. I'm gonna scare up some
work today. Even if it means finding somebody's lost
puppy.

Where to look though? One thing the Colonel taught me:
A good place to start any search is the Corellian
mail. Amazing what people will entrust to the care of
deranged homicidal postal workers. I glance at the
office door - two envelopes lay on the floor. Looking
on the bright side, I figure that's two good chances
of winning a lottery prize. Then again, I hear my
ex-wife's looking for me.

I grab the face up envelope first, pleased to note
it's addressed to the previous occupant - as I see it,
this immediately increases the odds that it might
contain something of value. But I don't trust odds, of
course. Corellians never do. It knocks off their
rhythm. But no, it's only a sales flyer for the new
Electronics shop next door. I try to imagine buying
electronics. You need money for that, don't you?
Even more amusing is the credit card application
that's enclosed.
But then I look closer. It's pre-approved.
Hey all I need is a pen and a stamp and I'm in
business. Fortunately, my desk supplies consist of
exactly one pen and one stamp. Soon I have a
ready-to-mail application for the Auto-Postbox out on
the street.

Maybe it is time for an electronics purchase or two. I
glance at the fax machine. Only nostalgia keeps me
from beating it savagely. My Crime Link Computer is
still shipshape, though. It's the only valuable piece
of equipment left in the office. By entering
information like Height, weight and hair colour, I can
access a suspects personal files.

Since I'm on a roll with the mail, I rip open the
other
envelope. It's a gift certificate, entitling me to
"ONE FREE COSMETIC JOB (Nose, boob, etc.), courtesy of
THE REAL YOU Surgical Clinic." Maybe now I can take
care of that unsightly groin problem that has kept me
out of the finer health clubs on the planet.

Well, whenever everything’s gone to hell, I still have
my blaster. Look at it, glistening like wet heat on
the credenza. Man, I love my blaster.

Office
11:35 AM

Today's safety tip: When playing with blasters, always
aim for appendages. Wounds to the extremities tend to
heal within weeks!

Office
11:45 AM

I'm battling the urge to drink breakfast. I made the
mistake of glancing at Sylvia's photo on the desk...
something I try not to do when I'm sober. Yeah, the
memories came flooding back into the river lowlands of
my life.

Ah, Sylvia. My ex-wife. Whenever I think things can't
get any worse, I think about her and how she totally
screwed up my life. She's a woman who loves a man -
any man, any time. I'll never forget the day I came
home early and caught her with the upholstery guy. Why
it's so vivid, I can see it now...

My latest investigation had ended unexpectedly when
the grocer I was tailing had a cerebral hemorrhage
while playing Where's the Saddle Horn? with two
hookers in chaps. His wife was most pleased, and I got
home early for once.

As I opened the door, I saw Sylvia slithering across
the room in a red leather mini skirt toward a big
puffy guy with a staple gun. She slid up behind him,
and he spun around in surprise.
"Oh, there you are!" he said. "I just got done with
the chair. Uh, I'll be sending the bill to your
husband."
"Oh...Rudy," cooed Sylvia. "Let's not think about my
husband right now." She slid her hands up onto his
shoulders. "I was watching you upholster, and your so
big and strong!"
"You really think so?"
"Yes! God, I've only know you ten minutes, and already
I feel like I've known you forever." Her hands worked
the poor sap like he was a lump of clay on a potters
wheel. "Oh yes, look... and look at this muscle!" She
squeezed a fat (very fat) bicep. "Oh, the way you hold
me! Han never held me like this! Kiss me Rudy... and
set my lips on fire!"
Rudy said, "Okay."
That was enough. I slunk into the room and rescue
Rudy, if not my marriage.
Sylvia spun around. "Oh Han, honey! I wasn't expecting
you home so soon."
Now there's a real news flash. "Well, duh," I said,
slapping my forehead. "Now I know why the Roto-Rooter
man keeps calling and asking if we need our plumbing
checked." I caught sight of Rudy's work. "Though I
have to admit, those chairs look pretty good."
"Uh, thanks," said Rudy. "Listen, how about I don't
charge you on the labor and we call it even?"
"Fair enough," I said. "But from here on out, Rudy,
customer service doesn't include my wife."
Rudy nodded. He was a good guy. For an idiot.
"See honey, I saved you some money again!" said
Sylvia. "Aren't you happy?"
OK, I married her for better or for worse.
Unfortunately, it never got any better.

Street, Chandler Avenue
12:00 PM

After the wrenching flashback, I needed some fresh air
but I went outside anyway. I though I’d nose around a
bit. Pick up gossip on scandal and mayhem, that sort
of thing.
Plus I had that credit card application to mail.
There’s an Auto-Postbox just across the street.
Surprisingly, there’s no graffiti on it. Maybe people
around here are starting to respect our government
and it’s fine agencies.

Of course, the Postal Service has gotten much faster
since the stamp price went up to ten dollars. I should
get my credit car back tomorrow morning.
Up on the corner I saw a discarded section of the Zell
City Mirror, a local newsletter - "written by mutants,
for mutants." I decided to check the latest Mutant
League scores. If you’ve never been to a Mutant League
game, you’re missing out on a real sporting event. You
never know what’s going to end up on the ground.

Anyway, I examined the Mirror. There was an
interesting article:

Burglaries Baffle Police

The total of inner-city pawnshop burglaries committed
over the past three weeks now stands at nine. Zippy
Cash, located at the corner of Jackson and Maple
Streets, was broken into three nights ago. Pawnshop
owner Urban Robey did not report the crime until this
morning, thinking this was simply a practical joke
played by his friends. Tragically, this was not the
case.
Of the nine burglarized pawnshops, Zippy Cash was only
the second not owned by a mutant. There has been some
speculation that police are not actively investigating
the crimes, since most of the victims are Mutants.
Mayor Lender, who is up for reelection later this year
and will need the Mutant vote to retain his position,
has publicly called the police onto the carpet.
Police Lt. Mac Malden, who is heading the
investigation, denies that the police are dragging
their feet: "What we’re dealing with here is some kind
of Master Criminal – he just hasn’t left us much of
anything to work with." Lt. Malden is sure that the
burglaries have all been committed by the same person:
"The MOs [Methods of Operation] have been almost
identical. A girl goes to a pawnshop, hocks a piece of
jewelry for a large amount of cash, then the shop is
broken into that same night."
Lt. Malden would not specify, but said that his team
of detectives had some evidence and hoped to have some
solid leads within the next few days.

"Baffled police" eh? Man, those words are music to a
P.I.’s ears. Hmmm. Nine pawnshops in three weeks.
Maybe I ought to chat with Rook Garner, our local
pawnbroker. He might know something about these
burglaries.

Rook’s Pawnshop
12:30 PM

I did my slouchy detective walk across the street to
Rook’s place. You know the kind I mean - hands deep in
the trench coat pockets etc. I used to work on it in
my spare time. Now it just comes natural.
Rook’s a crusty old WW3 vet with a face like a raisin
and a tongue like a butchers cleaver. He spun around,
glared at me for a second, then said, "What do you
want, Solo?"
I usually try to give mutants the benefit of the
doubt… and anyway, I know Rook is all bark, no bite.
So I stayed oblivious to the hostility. I figure it’s
inbred. "Fine!" I replied cheerily to his non-inquiry
about my well-being. "And how are you doing, Rook?"
"I’m not in the mood for small talk," he rasped.
I’ll be the first to admit that sarcasm can be a fatal
affliction in certain situations - marriage, for
example. Fortunately, I am able to infuse mine with
serious purpose. I said, "Well then, by all means,
let’s discuss a serious topic."
"Are breaking, entering and robbery serious enough for
you, Solo?" he replied. "Last night, someone broke
into my pawnshop. I don’t usually have anything of
great value. But yesterday, I gave out a fair amount
of cash for an extremely valuable diamond bracelet."
Aha. Pawnshop burglary #10. My investigative fires
rekindled, I asked, "How much is a fair amount of
cash?"
"In this case, eight thousand dollars," he said.
This surprised me. I said, "Boy, that’s a lot of clams
Rook."
"Don’t you think I know that?" He spluttered. "The
bracelet was pawned by a young girl named Ema Nymton.
She said she hated to hawk a family heirloom, but had
no choice! She said she would reclaim the bracelet in
a month. Well, since the bracelet was worth ten times
the eight thousand I loaned her, it was a good deal
for me."
I made one of my trademark keen observations. "I think
you’ve been played for a sap, Rook."
"Maybe," he replied. "She left me a phone number and I
called it this morning. But the line was
disconnected."
Well, it was time to make my pitch. I needed work, and
I wasn’t above groveling for it. "Sounds like my vast
experience as a P.I. could come in handy."
"Aaa, it couldn’t hurt," he said, waving off my ‘Vast
Experience’ with a hand gesture. "The police are no
help. A mutant is on his own when he gets robbed on
this planet. I’d appreciate your help. I’m not a rich
man, but if you find the bracelet, I’ll owe you a few
favors… which could come in handy." He opened the
partition. "Come back here, and I’ll show you where
they broke in."

Alley (Behind Rook’s Pawnshop)
12:45 PM

Rook took me out back and showed me where the burglar
broke in. The back window was busted out and the latch
ripped. It’s a sloppy job. As I started my
investigation, I was looking for information to enter
into my Crime Link Computer back at the office. One
thing’s for sure: "Ema Nymton" won’t be one of the
suspect’s names. Every P.I. worth his salt knows that
"Not My Name" spelled backwards.

Alley
1:45 PM
Well, it was a standard procedural scan. I sifted
through the alley debris. Most of the good stuff was
near the busted out window. Under a tipped-over trash
can I found a key. Next to that, I found a shoe print
out-lined in a stick pool of something that resembled
chocolate. I noted it was about a size 14, then moved
under the window.
Beneath the window was broken glass. Looking closer, I
found a shard of glass. No we’re starting to get
somewhere, I thought. A closer examination revealed an
interesting titbit. Whoever broke into Rook’s window
left one of his hairs behind.
Apparently, our burglar is a carrot-top.
On the other side of the chain link fence, I found a
putrid dumpster. Perched on the side was an old radio.
I grabbed it and immediately popped out the batteries.
I used to have a thing about batteries. I used to
think it was normal, taking batteries out of
everything, keeping spare batteries in my pocket, etc.
A couple of months of therapy straightened me out. I
still do it, of course, but now I know it’s aberrant
behavior. On a whim, I opened the dumpster. The smell
was nearly fatal but the interior was unusually tidy.
Little piles of garbage neatly sorted, and stacked.
Wow. I’ve known obsessive-compulsive types. But
whoever did this gets my Disorder of the Year award.
Then it hit me: Except for the filth and stench, the
interior wasn’t that much different from the average
studio apartment in this part of town. In fact, it was
nicely furnished. Someone’s been living here … and I
wonder if he saw anything last night.
I’ll have to check back later.
The fire-escape proved to be a fascinating dead end,
and the rest of the alley trash was just trash –
classic trash, maybe, but trash nonetheless. Still, I
was happy; I’d found some pretty good clues. In fact,
things went so well I got kind of frisky with an old
Weenie World souvenir I found by the chain-link fence.
The pain should subside within days.

Office
1:50 PM

Back at the office, I’ve entered clues from my
investigation into the Crime Link Computer. It narrows
the field somewhat, but still leaves a pretty big
statistical sample of suspects. I need more leads.
Time for some old fashioned gumshoe footwork.

Chelsee’s Newsstand
2:15 PM

First place I went was Chelsee Bando’s, right across
the street. Chelsee runs a first-rate newsstand, with
a well-stocked selection of magazines. I wish I could
afford to buy a couple. Life hasn’t been the same
since my True Detective subscription ran out.
Chelsee herself is a hot little number. I hear she’s a
mutant, but it doesn’t show. The only weird thing is,
she won’t go out with me.
"Well, hello stranger," she said as I sauntered coolly
towards her. I led off with some sophisticated
innuendo. "Hey, Sweetheart," I murmured in a
shockingly masculine tone. "Know anyone who could use
my services today?"
She deflected with her usual flair. "Well, I guess
that depends on what kind of services we’re talking
about, big guy."
When subtle innuendo fails, one should move directly
to blatant innuendo. That’s my creed. Anyway, I said,
"So why don’t you join me for a drink… and I’ll go
over all the great services I have to offer."
Chelsee managed a pained little smile. "Gee, Han. You
know, that kind of talk could get you into trouble."
She waggled her finger at me. "But I don’t drink with
customers."
It was too much. What can I say? I’m just a big dumb
guy who’s been hopelessly pricked by cupids arrow.
"Ahhh," I groaned, "it’s painful the way you toy with
my emotions, Chelsee."
She didn’t skip a beat, as usual. "Oh please, Han,"
she said. "So is there something I can do for you?"
Yeah, I got the signal. Let’s get to business, shall
we? So I asked her point blank what she knew about the
pawnshop burglary.

"Yeah, Rook told me about it," she said. "You know, I
remember a stranger hanging around the past couple of
days. It might be a dead end, but I seem to remember
he had these bright green eyes, and a tattoo of a
blaster on his arm."
I had to smile. Chelsee didn’t miss a thing. Ever.

Office
2:35 PM

I thanked Chelsee and trotted back up to my Crime Link
Computer. Once I got the information entered, I could
see I was closer, but not close enough. I needed a
couple more pieces of data before I could zero in on
any suspects.

Seems I’ve gone about as far as Chandler Avenue will
take me on this case. But wait. Here it is, the
newsletter article on the pawnshop burglaries: "Lt.
Malden would not specify, but said his team of
detectives had some evidence and hoped to have solid
leads within the next few days."
Yeah, OK. Time to visit old Mac.

Police Station
3:50 PM

I hadn’t seen Mac since the Martian Memorandum Case. I
remember him as a surly, incompetent, fat-nosed cop.
As I stepped into his office, I could see he’d
changed. His nose was even bigger. Geez, was it alive?
He spun around in his chair to face me, then lit a
cigarette - a pure power move I had to admire. "Well,"
he said. "If it isn’t Han Solo." He took a good drag,
flashed a yellow toothy grin, and added, "I figured
you’d be dead by now."
Without hesitation, I volleyed right back at him. "I
could say the same thing about you. When’s the last
time you had your cholesterol checked?"
He bit off his grin. "Still the wise-guy, eh Solo? It
was great to see ya. Now get lost!"
Didn’t want to push him too far. I needed information
so I plucked the strings of fond reminiscence. "Aw,
come on. Remember the Martian Memorandum Case? Hey, we
made a swell team."
He gave a legitimate grin this time. The case had been
a big feather in his cap, and he knew he owed me for
it. He said, "Yeah, those were the days. I don’t get
cases like that anymore." His face tightened a bit.
"Things are harder now. The mayor’s office is all over
me again. You heard about the string of pawnshop
robberies? We have no suspects, and I’m catching the
heat for it!"
Yeah, I could see it. He was under pressure, big-time.
Here’s where I took a calculated gamble. I remembered
that the good lieutenant tends to blather mindlessly
when his pride’s been pricked. There’s nothing more
irritating to an inept cop than expressions of shock
at his ineptitude.
I said, "So you and your crack team of detectives have
no leads?"
"Of course we have leads, ya putz!" he bellowed. "And
we know he’s a norm, Caucasian, and has AB- blood." He
rubbed his temple, which no doubt ached. "That narrows
down our list of suspects to about a million. Now get
outta my hair, I got work to do!"

Office
4:30 PM

As I entered the latest information into the computer,
I had high hopes. But the Crime Link still couldn’t
spit out a match list of less than a hundred suspects.
Guess I’d better check the crime scene once more.
Maybe there’s something I missed.

Alley (Behind Rook’s Pawnshop)
4:45 PM

No wonder that putrid dumpster behind Rook’s is so
tidy. Somebody lives there.
Man, I’ve seen desperation. I mean, I’ve lived in a
few rat-infested rowhouses, and done some things with
food far beyond the posted expiration date. But this
was the lowest. Living in a dumpster!
I approached casually - you know, like I just happened
to be strolling down the alley. The farce of this was
not lost on Mr. Bum, who took a hit from his bottle
and grunted, "Yeah, whattya want?"
It suddenly struck me that maybe we had more in common
than I cared to admit. Maybe we were spiritual
comrades, of a sort. In any case, I didn’t think the
insults that popped into my mind would get me very
far, so I tried: "Looks like you’re busy drowning yur
troubles, my good man."
"Well, Mr. High and Mighty," he spat. "What are you? A
preacher or something?"
Despite the insult, I stayed friendly. "Good guess," I
said. "Actually, I’m a gumshoe and I’m looking for
some information."
"That’s what I figured," he said with a carnivorous
glint in his eyes. "You’ve got the fedora, a
trench-coat… and you look broke."
My next impulse was to ram his chocolate bottle down
his misanthropic gullet. But a good P.I. knows when to
indulge such an urge, and when to bury it and pucker
up. I counted to three, then said, "You’ve got quite
an eye for detail."
"Well, I also figured there’d be a detective or two
asking around about the robbery," he said in a
semi-human fashion.
Again, I repressed my natural desire to insult the
dirt-bag, and instead said, "Yeah, Rook got hit pretty
hard. I’m looking into the case and I could sure use
some leads."
A visible spasm seized the guy for a moment. Then he
rubbed his bald head - I swear, I heard it squeak -
and he muttered, "Listen Gumshoe. It’ll be a cold day
in hell before I give out information for free."
I almost laughed. I had a pretty good idea what he
wanted, but I said, "Well, I got some cash flow
problems right now. But I’d be happy to write you an
IOU"
That was it for Mr. Bum. "Listen Chump," he snarled.
"Find me something I want… or my lips are sealed."
Now, I’m first to admit that it doesn’t always require
a lot of brain-power to be a private eye. Sometimes,
simply adding two and two together leads you right to
four. In this case, it’s clear Mr. Bum is a world
class chocoholic. Just to be sure though, I tried one
more time.
"Oh no," he moaned, "not you again. Look I’m warning
you, I’m almost outta chocolate syrup and I’m not in a
good mood."
I’d had it with charitable posing. With my theory
verified, I launched into a cheerful assault. "Well,
why don’t you go buy some more," I said. "Oh. I forgot
- you’re a bum."
"Spare me the insults, tough guy," he said, shaking a
fist at me. "If ya got something to say, spill it."
I was having fun now. "OK." I said. "But I’m with the
Health Department, and I’ll arrest you unless you
answer some of my questions."
"God, you are a pest!" he howled.
Yeah, time to leave poor Mr. Bum alone and pay a visit
to Louie.

Brew & Stew
4:55 PM

The Brew & Stew is run by Louie LaMintz, a bloated
mutant with heart bigger than his waistline. He’s a
beautiful man - as long as you keep your eyes off his
face. The poor guy’s gene code has spawned bizarre
dermatological eruptions of a Vesuvian magnitude.
Despite that, everyone comes to Louie’s café. So does
all the street talk. If something’s going on, Louie
knows about it. He looked up from cleaning his
fingernails. "What can I do for ya, Solo?" I straddled
a stool and said, "How about a pitcher of Corellian
Ale and the love of a good woman, Louie?"
"Can’t help with the woman, Solo," he said, describing
one with his hands. "No problem with the Ale, though.
Put it on your tab?"
"Thanks, Louie," I said, thirsty and grateful. "I
should have some work soon, then I’ll be able to pay
off my tab, first thing."
Louie was almost insulted. "Don’t worry about it,
Solo," he said, waving it off. "I know you’re good for
it."
He set up a frothing golden pitcher and we commenced
another in our long line of philosophical discussions,
focusing on the Big Questions. As usual, he chided me
for my ontological leanings. And of course, I asked
him about chocolate.
"You wanna try a slice of my chocolate pie?" he asked.
"I can give you a piece to go, if you like."
I took it gratefully. "Louie," I said. "I think this
is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

Alley
5:30 PM

Pie in hand, I strolled back to Mr. Bum’s alley. He
was home, but not in a good way.
"This isn’t a good time for a social call, punk," he
gasped. "If I don’t get a fix soon I’ll go insane!"
His contortions were pretty pathetic, though kind of
fun to watch. Jaws clenched, he started babbling, "do
re mi fa so la ti do…"
After all the abuse I’d taken from him, I found it
hard to be even moderately compassionate. But I
decided against prolonging his agony.
"I don’t make a practice of helping out addicts," I
said. "But I think I’ve got something that will ease
the pain."
"Don’t hold out on me man," he blurted, pointing a
shaky finger at me. If you’ve got something, let’s
have it."
I offered him the pie.
"Praise Heaven!" He howled. "You’ve brought the
ambrosia of life! Ask me anything you want."
He knew what I wanted, but I asked anyway. And the
grateful deadbeat wasted no time in answering. "I saw
someone prowling around the back of the pawnshop last
night. It was so dark, I didn’t get a good look at
him. But I could tell he was huge, probablt six-three
or six-four, about 300 pounds."
I put the pie on the ground and got out of the way.
As I hurried out of the alley, I heard the
gut-wrenching sounds of his unholy feast.

Office
5:45 PM

Finally, a suspect! After dumping the bum’s info into
the Crime Link, I got a quick match. The goon’s name
is Mick Flemm, a petty criminal with a long record of
fraud, burglary, and theft dating back more than
twenty years.
There’s also an interesting note attached to the Flemm
File. The big weasel’s been implicated in the
disappearance of Rusty Clown, Owner of the Rusty’s Fun
House just down Chandler Avenue. And apparently
there’s a street informant named Beek Nariz who’s seen
Flemm hanging about.
What kind of name was Beek?
Funny, I’ve never heard of the guy. I’ve never heard
Louie mention him either. I’ll check with Chelsee. If
she doesn’t know, I may have to do some serious brown
nosing down at NCPD - a prospect I find most
distasteful.

Newsstand
5:55 PM

It’s kind of nice to have Chelsee’s mental database at
my disposal, although she’s got some other files I’d
really like to download. As I gazed into those big
luminous eyes, I found myself drifting into a big
goofy state.
"What can I do for you, Han?" she purred, leaning
close over the counter.
Ignoring the screams of my flaming, shredded heart, I
asked about Beek Nariz.
"Oh yeah, I know Beek," she said. I wasn’t surprised.
She added, "If you want to talk to him, you might try
hanging out around Coit Tower."
I thanked her, and hurried off down the street. I was
on the verge of cracking open my first case in more
than a year. Yeah, OK, it was nickel-and-dime stuff.
But it was real, it was honest, and maybe I could get
a little positive momentum going.
At the Golden Gate Hotel I turned left, then squeezed
through the gap in the fence to follow the scenic
trail (known locally as The Path Of Death) up to Coit
Tower.

Coit Tower
6:30 PM

I walked up the steps to Coit Tower and spotted a
small figure lurking in the shadows. In the
half-light, I could see the only person’s profile -
but it’s Beek Nariz all right. At first sight of him,
I nearly shrieked with hysterical laughter. Beek is
what you might call nasally-challenged. His annual
tissue bill must run him a few C-notes.
"What are you staring at?" he whined in what I suppose
was meant to be a challenging manner. I grinned. You
had to admire the guy just for keeping his head
unbagged. "Pardon my staring," I said, "but that is a
truly impressive schnozz you’ve got."
His Royal Prominence was immediately defensive. "Aw,
come on, don’t make fun, huh? Whattaya want? Who are
ya?"
I thought I’d better establish my credentials. "I’m a
friend of Chelsee Bando," I said. "She told me I could
probably find you nasing around here."
He brightened. "Yeah, yeah, Chelsee," he said with a
smile. "Nice egg, good looker. So, uh, whattaya want?"
Time to cut a deal. I was broke, sure, but I figured I
had something on me that would be far more attractive
to a guy like Beek than just filthy lucre. "I need
information and I’m willing to deal for it," I said.
"What’s that?" he whined. "Deal? Well, I’m listening.
Whatcha got?"
I offered him the cosmetic surgery gift certificate.
"Ok! I can use this!" he said with obvious enthusiasm.
"My nose has started sagging lately. Makes it hard to
breathe. Now what kind of info are you looking for?
Hmmm?"
Beek turned out to be a veritable font of information.
First, I asked about Mick Flemm.
"Mick Flemm’s rap sheet would take a day to read!"
Whined Been with obvious distaste. "He’s a fat scum!
And he’s an idiot to boot. That’s why he’s always
getting caught. He’s been busted for burglary, mail
fraud, arson, you name it! Everyone knows he operates
out of the Snow White Warehouse. But don’t tell him."
The Snow White Warehouse? Then I remembered. The Zing
Warehouse on Chandler was formerly the Snow White Dry
Cleaning building. Nobody’d used the place in quite a
while - not officially anyway. Beek seemed to be
awfully knowledgeable, so I asked him if he knew of
the Rusty Clown disappearance. His reply was blunt,
which is always my favourite type of answer.
"I think he’s dead," he said. "And I’ll bet Mick Flemm
had something to do with it. Word was that the two of
them were smuggling illegal smuggling items from
Selonia… and Rusty crossed Flemm. Ever since Rusty
disappeared, Flemm has had a terrible fear of clowns."
Beek glance around, then leaned in for emphasis and
said, "Bo-zo-phobia." He nodded. I made a mental note.
"I once saw Flemm pretty drunk, and he said he had
nightmares about Rusty’s ghost coming back to haunt
him from the grave. He was copletely terrified."
It was obvious where I had to go next. I thanked Beek,
and ended a most enlightening conversation.

Zing Warehouse
7:15 PM

The old Zing Warehouse is not exactly the kind of
place I like to spend my evening hours. It’s an
abandoned, run-down, vermin-infested hellhole. The
only good thing I can say about it is that it isn’t
haunted.
Well. Not yet, anyway.
The front door was unlocked. Inside, a power box and a
nearby storage compartment were both locked. I climbed
the stairs to the landing, where I noticed a huge
pulley hook dangling on a track.. I was about to head
back downstairs when a dim glint of light caught my
eye. Just under the hook, hanging on the wall, was a
key.
I trotted back downstairs and tried the key in the
storage compartment first - no go. I t did work on the
power box, however. The door panel opened to reveal an
on/off lever. I gave it a yank. Something mechanical
sprang to life up on the landing. The pulley hook was
now running back and forth along a track.
Hmmm. I was getting ideas. Naughty ideas.
I looked at a pile of crates nearby. The smelled like
laundry soap. The one in front, I noticed, was
partially open. Geez, I hate to see things like that.
Being the kind of guy I am, I finished the job.
Inside, I found a vintage fire uniform. Apparently,
there’s a naked fireman running around out there
somewhere. I thought, Cool, and took it.
I’d seen what I needed. Now it was time to do some
serious clowning around.

Rusty’s Fun House
8:30 PM

Rusty’s door was locked, and of course, I had no key.
I cast a wary glance at the welcome mat. Anything on
the doorstep of a novelty shop… well, you can never be
too careful. In this case, however, I had nothing to
fear, and everything to gain.

Inside, I made a quick reconnoiter of the place. Rusty
was a neighbor, though I can’t say I knew him well. He
hosted a insipid Holovid kids show. But I had a
feeling about him. His stage laugh was just too
perfect.
It resonated with failed therapy, bad group sessions.
Trying to work out the clown thing. The big red nose,
Rusty. What’s that all about, man?
Anyway, the first thing I nabbed was a nifty dart
crossbow, from the front shelf. I couldn’t resist the
hideous ‘Inspector Burns’ mask on the floor. I toyed
with the in-house holovid a bit, then scored a Rusty
doll from the boxes on the floor. The thing gave me
the creeps. It also gave me an idea.
Didn’t Beek mention something about Flemm’s
"Bozophobia" fits?
By then, I’d really worked mytself into a perverse
er-Christmas spirit. The store was screaming to be
investigated. The plastic weaponry didn’t appeal to
me, but I did grab the stacking ring. I found a key,
taped to a corner column - what does it open? Who
cares?
I tried the ‘Employee’s Only’ door. It was locked. I
tried the key. Bingo. Rusty’s back room is covered
with photography posters. Obviously, Rusty does a
little image work on the side. One can only guess what
kind. Of course, that really grabbed my attention was
the suction dart on the wall, which shows you where
I’m coming from.
I also found a balloon in the sink, strategically
located near a water faucet. If Rusty went down, he
didn’t go down without a fight. I glanced over at a
50-gallon drum of toxic chemicals - and I’m thinking,
Who needs that many chemicals?
Since I am an investigator, I decided to investigate.
Guess who popped up?
Poor Rusty. What a way to go. And I’m willing to wager
he didn’t crawl in there on his own. Someone murdered
him. If Mick Flemm did this to Rusty - and I’ll bet my
fedora, he did - then I’m really going to enjoy the
little event I’m about to perpetrate.

Warehouse
9:30 PM

It was getting late, and I knew rats like Mick Flemm
would be crawling home to lick their wounds soon. So I
got right to work. First, I pulled out the batteries
I’d scavenged from Mr. Bum and popped them into the
rusty doll. Then I carefully hung Rusty-Redux on the
pulley hook.
And not a moment too soon. Suddenly, I heard heavy
footsteps. It had to be Flemm, all 300-pounds of him.
But I was ready. My Rusty-trap was all set.
I lept behind the stake of crates by the pulley
control box.
I let Flemm go, knowing he’d be doing time with his
nightmares soon enough. I grabbed his keys and Rook’s
bracelet, thinking: Damn, I’m good. Out of curiosity,
I tried the keys on the locked storage compartment.
Voilá.
Hmm. A locked box within a locked box. I figured it
must contain something worth having. None of Flemm’s
keys worked on it, though. But didn’t I have another
key? The one from the Alley. Yes, it slid neatly into
the lock.
I gave it a twist. The box clicked open.
Holy carnuaba! I’ve never seen finer quality jade. Oh
I’ve seen prettier shades of green, maybe - mostly in
the eyes of women who wouldn’t give me a second look.
This baby, however, was going home with me tonight. I
left the glow-in-the-dark Rusty Clown doll dangling
from the pulley hook, waiting to scare the bejesus out
of a whole new generation of children. As I strolled
down Chandler Avenue back to my place… OK, I’ll admit,
I felt like a new man.

EPILOGUE: DAY ONE

"I’m telling you, it’s impossible! It can’t be done.
I’ve tried everything."

"The prophecy is very clear. We can’t go on until this
step is completed. Surely your unique skills give you
the opportunity,"

"My ability … has gotten us nowhere. CAPRICORN got
there before me. They’re always one step ahead of me.
It’s like they can read my mind."

"We can’t let them stop us. Maybe we can use your
skills on someone else. I’ve made inquiries. And if he
hasn’t gotten himself killed…… maybe he’s just what we
need. Solo. Han Solo."

*****************************************************