Read Online Name Games by Michael Craft - Free Book Online Page B

story there, and I think she’s right. We’ll try to see Cantrell this weekend and get his side of it.”
    “But Carrol said”—Pierce stopped himself, rewording—“Cantrell said that he alone acts as distributor to all the big-name artisans, including Bruno.”
    Uh-huh. I asked, “When was that, Doug?”
    “Just last”—again Pierce stopped to reword—“the other day, I guess. Sure, it was Thursday, Thursday morning right after he arrived. He mentioned it to me on the stairs while we were all helping him move into the coach house.”
    I had been there, of course, and recalled no such conversation. They had discussed this some other time, on their own.
    So. I knew. I was sure: Dumont’s chief law-enforcement officer, Sheriff Douglas Pierce, whom I had just publicly endorsed for reelection, had been buggering the king of miniatures.
    Or vice versa.
    Either way, the mind reeled.
    Driving away from the house later than morning, I planned to spend an hour or two at the Register checking the wire services, meeting with Lucille Haring about the makeup of Sunday’s page one, and generally catching up at my desk. Turning off Prairie Street and heading toward First Avenue along Park Street, I passed the park itself and a succession of side streets—Durkee, La Salle, Trevor. Not quite conscious of my surroundings, I was immersed in thoughts about the obscenity issue. Was I blowing it out of proportion? Was my obsession with the First Amendment merely academic, out of touch with the real-world concerns of a great many citizens? Should I keep the paper out of the debate, merely reporting the issues as argued by others, or should I commit the Register to an aggressive editorial stance in defense of civil liberties?
    These thoughts were broken as I approached the intersection of Tyner Avenue, the street where Grace Lord’s miniatures shop was located. Slowing the car, I glanced down the street and noticed activity there, with cars parked in both directions. My reporter’s instincts kicked in, and I turned from my intended route to check out the action.
    The congestion (if that term can apply to traffic anywhere in Dumont) was thickest in front of Grace’s shop, The Nook. The miniatures show would open a week from that morning, but a mob of exhibitors had already arrived to set up for the meeting and to claim prime spaces for their booths. Cars and vans jockeyed to park near a service drive; I spotted license plates from Illinois, Minnesota, and Iowa, as well as Wisconsin. The people themselves—most middle-aged, most wearing windbreakers—ant-tracked their wares from the vehicles to the building.
    The Nook, which looked something like a dollhouse in both its cutesy decorating and its diminutive scale, was far too small to accommodate this invasion, and the transformation of the adjacent space of the long-vacant Rexall store was by now in full swing. A crew of volunteers was unsoaping the plate-glass windows, revealing a buzz of activity within. Outside, more workers attempted to hang a banner across the space once occupied by the Rexall sign, but they were having a difficult time of it, thwarted by a brisk autumn breeze. Though this operation had a farcical quality, I quelled the urge to laugh, fearing that someone might fall from a ladder.
    Cruising past this commotion, I assumed that Grace Lord was there in the thick of it, but I couldn’t spot her low-set figure in the crowd. It would have been easy to pick out Carrol Cantrell’s lanky frame, but I didn’t see him either. With my curiosity satisfied, I decided there was no need to stop, so I drove a bit farther toward the Lord house, intending to turn around in the driveway and head back to the Register.
    Approaching the drive, I noticed another car parking there at the curb, well removed from the crush near the shop. It was one of those drab sedans assigned to city and county officials, conspicuous in its anonymity, like an unmarked squad car—yes, it was tagged