G is for Gumshoe (Kinsey Millhone 7)

"You're on it," he said.

I took Main to the point where it becomes Beal Road, approaching Slab City this time with a sense of familiarity. I felt safer out here. There seemed to be more people about at this hour: an RV pulling into a site, kids being dropped off in a snub-nosed yellow school bus. Now the dogs were out, leaping joyously at the sight of all the children home from school. When I reached Rusted-Out Chevy Road, I turned right and soon Agnes Grey's blue trailer appeared just ahead. I parked short of the place and pulled my tools out of the backseat. Thoroughly paranoid by now, I took out my little Davis semiautomatic and tucked it into the waistband of my blue jeans at the small of my back. I grabbed an old cotton shirt and pulled it on over my T-shirt, gathered up the lumber, the padlock, and the latch, and approached the trailer on foot.

The gremlins were in residence. I could hear the murmur of their voices. I reached the front door, unable to avoid the gravel crunching underfoot. The voices were silenced instantly. I leaned against the frame, peering in at an angle. For all I knew, I'd get whacked with a two-by-four. Instead, I found myself face-to-face with the dreadlocked creature I'd spied earlier that day. A second scummy face appeared beside the first. I'd been informed by the neighbors that one was the boy-chick and one was the girl. I was guessing this one to be male, but I truly couldn't discern any sex-based differences. Neither had facial hair. Both were young, with the unformed features of cherubs, tatty mops on top, ragged clothes below. Neither smelled any better than Agnes had.

The boy and I eyed each other and swelled up in the manner of apes. So ludicrous. We were both the same size-five six, neither one of us over a hundred and twenty pounds. Little banty-weight toughs. One possible difference was that I was willing to kick the shit out of him and I didn't think he was prepared to do likewise. With a glance at his companion, he rocked back on his heels, hands in his pockets as if he had all day. He said, "Hey, Poopsie. What the fuck are you doin' here?"

I felt my temper flash. My nerves were already on edge and I didn't need any aggravation from a little punk like him. "I own this place, ass eyes," I said snappishly,

"Oh really? Let's see you prove it."

"No problem, Poopsie. I've got the deed of trust." I pulled the gun out of my waistband and held it with the barrel up. It wasn't loaded, but it looked good. If I'd had my old Colt, I could have cocked it for effect. I freely confess-while I can intimidate little boys, I'm not that good with the grown ones. "Get lost," I said.

The two of them fell all over each other trying to scramble out the back. The trailer shook with their trampling feet and then they were gone. I ambled down the passageway and peered into the bathroom. As I suspected, they were using a hole in the wall as an emergency exit.

The first thing I did was board up their escape route, pounding nail after nail into the flimsy bathroom wall. Then I used a handheld drill to set the screw holes for the hasp I was mounting. I can't say I worked with any astonishing skill, but I got the job done and the physical labor improved my mood. It felt good to smash things. It felt good to sweat. It felt good to be in control of one small corner of the universe. As long as I was here, I did a quick search, looking to see if there was anything of Old Mama's left. I couldn't find a thing. The cupboards were bare, closets stripped, the various nooks and crannies emptied of her possessions. Most of them had probably been sold at the flea market on the road coming in.

I went out to the VW and snagged the 35-millimeter camera I keep in the rear well. I had part of a roll of film left and I snapped off as many photos of the place as I could. I didn't think Irene Gersh was going to "get it" otherwise. She had talked as if her mother might retire here in her golden years.

Before I popped the padlock into place, I bundled up the gremlins' sleeping bags and miscellaneous belongings and left them by the front step. Then I went across the road and told Marcus what I'd done. As I returned to the trailer, I spotted a slice of crawl space underneath, makeshift storage, where a few items had been crammed. I got down on my hands and knees, reaching back among the bugs and spiders, and pulled out a couple of dilapidated cardboard boxes. One was open and contained a motley collection of rusted garden tools: trowels, a spade, a short hoe. The second box had the top flaps closed, sections interlocked to secure the contents without anything actually being sealed shut. I pulled the flaps back and checked inside. The box contained numerous pieces of china wrapped in newspaper, a child's tea set. It didn't even look like a full set to me, but I thought Irene or her mother might like to take a look. Certainly, I wasn't eager to leave the dishes for the gremlins to raid. I closed the box up again. I snapped the padlock shut on the trailer door. I had no hope whatever of keeping the little buggers at bay, but I'd tagged the necessary bases. I toted the box to my car and shoved it in the backseat. It was still light when I left the Slabs, but by the time I picked up my tire and headed back into Brawley, it was fully dark.