2 |

DENVER

January 14

The sky was spitting snow at Denver. Not fluffy, beautiful flakes, the small irritating bits that only manage to make streets slick and driver's cautious. It was the leading edge of a storm system that stretched all the way to the Pacific and was just beginning to crest the Rockies. The spits were the storm system's hesitation as paused to leer down at the fragile abodes of Man. As the storm rose above the flanks of mountains, the wind grew in strength, becoming the beast coming out of its lair, hungry.

Oliver O'Toole frowned through the windshield of the Jaguar, but not at the spits of snow. The tires of the Jaguar crunched on the snowy street as it idled slowly though the rundown part of Denver, the city that the Mayor and travel bloggers never talk about. This was The Pit.

"It should be just ahead," Norman said from the back seat.

"What is this place called?" Oliver asked.

"The Dark Angel Tavern. Sounds warm and comforting, doesn't it?"

"Rita?"

"Yes Oliver."

"What was the clue Shane sent us? Just to refresh my memory."

Rita pulled her phone and thumbed her way to the text message they had received from Shane an hour ago. "Ah, here it is," she said. "She says that she found an old newspaper article in the Seattle Times about a man named Bertram Liddy who had lost a fortune during the Prohibition. She said, "there is a photo of the man and he has the Meerschaum in his vest pocket." Then she added that she went on-line to track him down." Oliver groaned but said nothing. "She traced Liddy to Denver where he opened several Taverns in the middle 1930s. One of those has to be in operation still because someone is paying the property taxes on the place. It is called the Dark Angel and is," Rita paused and looked out the windshield. "Ugh. Somewhere around here." She leaned forward and stared. "There. Oh my. I remember this place now."

"You've been here before?" Oliver asked.

The brunette shrugged. "I entered a poker tournament here a couple of years back. Before Norman and I were married."

Oliver looked in the rear-view mirror at Norman. "Is she any good at poker?"

The man smiled. "You know that new house Rita and I just bought?" Oliver nodded. "There you go."

The Jaguar glided to the curb and stopped. The lighted sign above the door said Dark Angel. It was a dive, pure and simple, an after hours haunt for those who to prefer to keep a low profile. Some call it sleazy, others call it home. Oliver had his own word for it but would not say it in front of Rita.

The three Postables got out of the car but stopped at the bottom step. A sign next to the door read, "Sunday School Teachers and Mensa Candidates Not Welcome".

"Rita," Oliver said. "Ignore the sign, we're going in there."

When Oliver pushed the door open, it made a deep grating sound like the stone door of a very old crypt being forced open. To say that the place was seedy would be like saying an apple orchard had fruit in it. Both were true but woefully short of the complete picture. The atmosphere of the dive was permeated by the odor of overused urinal cakes and decades of stale cigarette smoke steeped into the walls. There were two pool tables in the back, both unused, and half a dozen tables, all but one empty. Behind the bar was a large glass case holding turn of the century memorabilia. Three men lounging at the bar turned to stare at the door when it opened. One of the men grinned salaciously at Rita. The bartender, a very large unshaven man wearing a stained undershirt, lifted a shillelagh from the counter behind the bar and thumped the man on the head.

"Leave her alone Dobber, or I'll turn your throat inside out." The man's voice was deep and gravelly. "In fact, go sit somewhere." They left and took up residence at one of the tables. "Hello Norman," the bartender said.

The man is a pirate, Oliver thought. Has to be. "Nice shillelagh," he offered. "Is it real blackthorn?"

"You must be O'Toole," the bartender said and handed him the shillelagh. Unaccustomed to the weight, Oliver's hand slipped and the heavy end of the club made a loud, "thunk" as it impacted the bar. "Concussion material for sure," he added sheepishly.

"Oliver, Rita, this is my cousin Bluto." Norman smiled.

"Hello Mr. Bluto," Oliver said.

"No Mr. Just Bluto. Good to see you again Rita."

The brunette leaned over the bar to give the large man a hug. Her arms didn't fit. "When did you get the parrot?" she asked.

"About a year ago," the man smiled. "It's a rescue."

Oliver rolled his lips between his teeth to stop from laughing. Rita was nodding while her eyes scanned the collection of memorabilia behind the bar.

"What is it you're looking for?" Bluto asked.

"We are endeavoring to recover a historical artifact significant to literature," Oliver said.

Norman quietly laid a hand on Oliver's chest, shaking his head. Then he turned to Bluto. "We're looking for a very old Meerschaum," he said. "Rizo at John's Billiards said that you have one here. May we see it?"

The obnoxious man was back, standing next to Rita and rubbing up against her shoulder. "Hi," he grinned.

Very calmly, Rita removed a glass owl the size of an orange from her purse. She smiled sweetly at the man, then thumped the owl sharply on the back of the hand he had lying on the bar, striking the index finger at the first knuckle.

"Oh," Oliver gasped at the sound of something popping.

"Go away," Rita said to the man. He left, clamping the throbbing hand under an armpit. "Little trick my mother taught me," she grinned at Bluto.

"Nice one," he smiled. "I'll remember that. He turned to look at Norman. "I do have a Meerschaum," he said and pointed to the shelf behind the bar.

"May we see it?" Norman asked.

Bluto removed the object from the case and set it on the bar. "It is the correct design," Oliver said. "That's a good beginning." He looked to the man for approval, then picked it up and examined it carefully. Norman handed the Lead Postable his jeweler's loupe. "Thank you, Norman," Oliver said. Barely a minute later, "This is a Meerschaum but not THE Meerschaum we're looking for."

"How can you tell?" Rita asked.

"This is carved from briar wood, not the mineral sepiolite. Therefore, it is the wrong Meerschaum."

Oliver and Norman exchanged a glance. "Thanks Bluto," Norman said, then took his wife's shoulders and steered her towards the door. Outside, the troop stopped when Rita's phone rang.

She looked at caller I.D. and smiled. "It's Shane. Hello?" She listened for a few seconds, nodding her head, then gave Oliver a look he knew well. "She says you need to get a SmartPhone." He groaned. Again. "No," Rita said, frowning. "He did send the jet. It's supposed to be ready in the morning. We'll be in Seattle soon after." Then she grinned. "I am sure he'll call you tonight when he gets home. See you soon."