The Sick House

Ambrose Ibsen (Author), Jake Urry (Narrator)

Apr 20, 2016 | Audio Book, 1st pages

If there was anything to like about Jerome Klein, it was that he was quick in divulging the generalities of his case, hitting upon the points most important to Ulrich within the first few minutes of their dialogue. In fact, despite his nervousness, Jerome's entire spiel seemed rehearsed somehow. This was probably not the first consultation he'd made with a private investigator regarding the matter.

Before Jerome could finish, Ulrich took a slurp from his mug and presented him with a question of his own. “Wait, why is it you're seeking my services in this case? Did someone refer you?”

Jerome nodded weakly.

“Who?”

Licking his lips, the reply came almost too softly to be heard. “Edgar Hudson, the private investigator.”

Ulrich's eyes narrowed in fondness and he peered up to the ceiling in smiling reverie. “Oh, Hudson sent you, did he? Why, I haven't seen him in ages. The two of us used to be close; I knew him as a student many years back. I'm surprised he couldn't handle this for you. Too heavy a case-load, perhaps?”

Jerome tittered nervously, before suddenly clamming up. “Not quite.”

“How do you mean?”

He blanched. “I couldn't afford his services. He said you were, uh… more in my price range.”

Ulrich took a long sip of coffee, draining his mug. “Huh.” Such referrals from his contemporaries were more common than he liked to admit. Though he got on well with his peers in the area, he also carried a reputation for laziness and lowbrow incompetence. If any job was too simple or demeaning for the likes of Hudson et al, they wouldn't hesitate to send inquirers Ulrich's way. They all charged more than Ulrich did, too; they had the reputations to command higher prices.

It didn't help, of course, that Ulrich often loathed his own clients and would go to great lengths not to accept new cases. Though he wouldn't have necessarily termed himself lazy, it would not have been a stretch to call him reticent where work was concerned. Ulrich preferred to pass his time reading, drinking coffee or taking in films. More often than not, his cases were mere interruptions to his life's passions– necessary evils he had to face in order to keep the money flowing.

He had to actively restrain himself from ordering Jerome out of his office that very instant, and was a few moments in calming down. Still, he needed the money. There was no way around it. Like it or not, he'd have to hear this paunchy clown out. It's always easier, he reminded himself, if the client doesn't know you hate him. He ran a hand through his graying hair, leaving it a tousled mess, and then cleared his throat. “So, you want me to find your… uncle, is that right?”

“That's right.”

The Bone Feud

Wynne McLaughlin

Mar 3, 2016 | Audio Book, 1st pages

Prologue – Tin Cup, Nebraska

It’s my belief that all of the greatest tales ever told have been told in saloons. It was in such smoky, heathen-filled den of iniquity that I first heard the tale of the Bone Feud. As with all great tales, it was at its core one hundred percent true. In fact, much of it has long been a matter of historical record. But tales grow in the telling, and I therefore must apologize in advance for any inaccuracies, and beg your indulgence for any romanticized embellishments. I have decided to present the story here, just as it was told to me. I find it entirely too rich and too entertaining to alter, simply to curry favor with pedants and historians.
_____

The saloon in question was a nameless establishment in the dilapidated mining town of Tin Cup, Nebraska. In recent years, the local mine had given up the ghost and the town seemed destined to follow. But for now, the residents of Tin Cup were holding on with stubborn tenacity, and on the afternoon of my arrival, it appeared that most of them were holding on in the local saloon.

It was a nameless place, but a place of character, where whiskey flowed, cards were dealt, and Tin Cup’s scant wealth was redistributed again and again.

It was early afternoon when I arrived. I pushed through the swinging doors, brushing the stage dust from my tweed jacket, and breathed in the atmosphere with amusement and anticipation. It was a meager crowd, a mix of the unemployed and undesirable, with a table or two of chronic gamblers testing their luck at cards. From a corner of the room, slightly out-of-tune ragtime music jangled from a well-worn player piano.

I approached the bar, where a man in an apron slumped, engrossed in a dime novel. I guessed he was in his late forties by his salt-and-pepper hair. He had the rugged, outdoorsy look of a man who’d done far more in his life than pour whiskey.

“Pardon me. Are you James Garvey?” I asked him.

“That’s what my mother called me.”

I waited, somewhat impatiently I confess, while he finished the chapter before looking up at me. When he did, he appeared a bit startled, raising his eyebrows at the sight of me: a wiry young man with ginger hair and a handlebar mustache, wire-rimmed spectacles, and—with no thanks to the frontier sun—a blooming constellation of red freckles across my nose and cheeks. His reaction made me blush deeply. I suspect I looked very much like a turnip.

I clumsily shifted the stack of notebooks and papers I carried from one arm to the other, tugged a business card from my breast pocket, and held it out to him.

“William H. Ballou, sir. I’m a reporter.”