Scat
Fewmits Pursues the Dirty Trickster
Fiction by Sam Aurelius Milam III
I
own a bar and grill on Highway 90, in south Texas. I call it the
Barn Grill.1
Since it's built in an old barn, my regular customers call it the Barn.
I run the place, so I spend a lot of time doing odds and ends, especially
when things are slow.
I
was polishing glasses one slow afternoon when a man walked in who looked
like he was right out of some old low-budget gangster movie with a manic
director. He was wearing a grey, double-breasted pin-striped suit,
a wide-brimmed black fedora, and black-and-white oxfords. He had
a black shirt, a white tie, and a pink hankie in his coat pocket.
The fedora had a little white feather in a white hat band. He was
a beefy guy and, the way he walked, it looked like his feet were glued
to the floor every time he took a step. I had the impression that
you couldn't have knocked him over with a baseball bat. He had a
wide face, a neatly trimmed mustache, and very serious eyes.
I
stopped polishing the glass that I'd been polishing and stood there watching
the guy walk toward me. He didn't turn his head but he gave the entire
place a real going-over with his eyes.
When
he arrived at the bar, he looked at me and said, "Fewmits".
I
gave him a blank stare.
"Scat
Fewmits," he elaborated.
"Beg
your pardon?"
He
looked a trifle impatient, reached into his coat, and brought out a wallet.
He flipped it open and, with practiced skill, pointed to it and said, "Scat
Fewmits".
I
looked where he was pointing. The wallet had a badge on one side
and an ID card on the other. He was pointing to the ID card.
"Oh!",
I exclaimed, "It's your name!"
"Special
Agent Scat Fewmits", he confirmed.
"So,
you work for the FBI."
"BFD",
he commented.
I
drew my head back just a little, wondering how to take that. He squinted
his eyes and said, "Baltimore Forensics Department".
"Oh."
He
leaned forward at the hips, looking intently at me. "Think it stands
for something else," he explained, "wrong. Doesn't. Baltimore
Forensics Department. BFD"
"Well,
of course," I hastened to agree, since it seemed important to him.
"What else could it possible stand for?"
"Looking
for a man," he explained.
"There's
nobody here but us," I replied, shrugging my shoulders.
"Few
months back. Spent some time here. Worked for local contractor.
Penny a day. Two pennies the next day. So forth."2
"Oh,
him!" I exclaimed. "Yeah, I remember the guy!"
"Name?"
he asked.
"Michael,"I
said.
"Michael
what?" he asked.
"That's
the only name he used," I replied. "Why do you want him?"
He looked suspicious, considered my question, and decided to answer
it.
"Government
research lab. Blew it up. Idaho. About six years ago.
Killed Employees. Both of them. Killed lab animals. Rotweillers.
Three of them. Think it's the same guy."3
"He
didn't seem like the violent sort," I objected.
"Fingerprints
match. Prints from his glass. Here."
"How'd
you get his finger prints from
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March 2008 |
Frontiersman, c/o
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