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Here's the opening, looks like its going to be around 6,000 words
Quote:
That morning I was killing time waiting for a sign painter. I was Oh for six on tossing cards into a my hat when I noticed Steinbeck.
Least I noticed what Steinbeck had in his jaws.
The pigeon's head flopped to one side limply, neck broken. No blood. Steinbeck had shaken the poor bird to death.
“Well? What do you want from me, a treat?” I said.
Steinbeck looked at me as though I'd broken a promise.
“You know it's not polite to go around killing pigeons, anybody ever told you that?”
If they had, Steinbeck wasn't aware of it. He took a few cautionary steps toward me, then dropped the dead bird at my feet. He nudged the corpse forward with the tip of his wet nose.
“It's a city pigeon, you know that, boy? Can't do much with a city pigeon 'cept maybe fly 'em in a race or—“
The sun caught and bounced off the silver band fixed to the pigeon's ankle.
I leaned forward, hoping, praying that the metal ring wouldn't have an owner's name punched into the surface. This was my day to get my business in check. Sign painter before eleven, then a ride out to Fresno to meet the money behind my café. I didn't have time for dead pigeons.
And I couldn't ignore one either, not if Steinbeck had any say in the matter.
He rolled the corpse toward me with the tip of his nose and sat back with a big doggy grin on his face. Least it looked that way to me.
“Are you enjoying this?” I said.
He barked.
“I bet you think this is a real hoot don't you?”
He barked twice and wagged his tail. There was no hooting.
“Fine, fine I'll take a look, stop wagging that damn tail and...” I let the words drift as I stooped and snatched the bird from the ground.
What I was going to do when I had the name and the number off the band was anybody's guess. I was hoping that whoever owned the damn bird was too far away to care.
Life never goes in a straight line.
There was no name, no number etched into the metal, but attached to the underside of the band was a cylinder. And inside that cylinder a rolled up piece of paper. And on that piece of paper?
I gave Steinbeck a long, hard stare.
“Sometimes I think I should trade you in for a cat, you know that? A cat wouldn't drop this kind of problem in my lap, no sir.”
At the mention of a cat, Steinbeck stopped wagging his tail and lowered his head ready for action.
And I went back to the note.
Four letters were scratched into the yellowing paper.
H E L P
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