Surveillance Pelicana Chapter 9: ‘Long Arm of the Law’

SURVEILLANCE PELICANA

BY

DAN WEISMAN

The entire book appears at this link with chapters added after appearing online:

Chapters 1-10: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-full-book-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/

Chapters 11-20: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-ii-chapters-11-to-20-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/)

Chapters 21-30: https://www.escondidograpevine.com/surveillance-pelicana-part-iii-chapters-21-to-30-chapters-added-as-they-appear-online/

CHAPTER NINE

Discussion ensues on the practical nature and methods of actual investigation.

Tyger traces vehicle tags at the Motor Vehicle Office where he is given free reign.

During one visit, Tyger’s mentor, E.Z. Jones, the office manager, and others are

arrested by state policemen for running a bogus vehicle registration racket.

Tyger pursues two cases during this period. In one case,

the subject is mother of a groom and Tyger catches her in a

compromising position during the wedding reception.

In another case, Tyger follows the subject from his home

in Slidell on an eventful drive along the Mississippi Gulf Coast.

Th subject is revealed to be an alcoholic litterbug

among other faults.

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Dorothy LaFleur and Joe Fine seem pleased with the

pilgrim’s progress. The caseload continues unabated during the

coming weeks, as winter comes and just as quickly

goes in the Crescent City.

Tyger is a busy little bee, working four or five days a week.

Typically, he rises early, plowing through the surveillance routine,

finishing up by 2 p.m. or 3 p.m.

Sometimes, Tyger brings along a reefer and depending on

the tightness of the situation gets personally high and tight,

or not. That is a do-it-yourself investigative lagniappe.

Many times, too, it seems like a never ending version of a

Jean Luc Godard film. Maybe nothing makes sense.

Maybe everything can be explained.

Who knows? Who cares? A lonely existential Tyger

stalks his prey through this surrealistic haze.

Sometimes too, it’s like scenes from the “Discreet Charm of

the Bourgeoisie” as Tyger seemingly finds himself wandering from

strange place to odd, odder, oddest outpost.

Tyger employs tactics suitable to specific situations.

Often, he sticks like glue to the system out of concern about

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vehicular safety or to keep a watchful eye on current events.

Other times, it’s hit the discreet road, Jack, and don’t

until much much later come back.

Urban areas are best because Tyger can go from fast — perhaps —

food restaurant to fast food restaurant killing the 4-to-6 hours,

or more, that the baby seat system runs in the crib.

A rural scene might mean hours walking down empty roads

from nowhere to nowhere without as much as a Diet Mountain Dew in sight.

A resting place is usually good for an hour or hour-and-ahalf

maximum before the management, investigator, or both

simultaneously, become antsy. Tyger notices he has put on some

weight as he tends to munch on edibles at many watering hole oases.

That is not hunger growling, but boredom.

Eating is something to do.

However, comrades of incipient gluttony, of this one can be

certain; a person can only eat so much junk food and drink so

much coffee and cold drink before exploding. Ka-Boom!

Alas, even excessive consumption ages quickly, cup after

cup, countless bowls of soup followed by endless entrees. And it

can become expensive as well as expansive — expenses on the road

don’t cover such extraneous expenditures.

Tyger usually brings along some light reading material. A

copy of the New York Times a — real? — newspaper usually hits

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the spot. Other than that, maybe the Slimes-Picayune or some local rag.

Other learning materials are encouraged although not

required. For a time, Tyger carries a U.S. Department of Defense

Turkish language instructional manual, picking up a little Turkce

lisani biraz while he waits. Merhaba y’all. And Nasilsunuz.

Mostly hurry up and wait mode. A typical series of

assignments unfolds like this:

Tyger drives by subject’s residence, sizing it up.

The investigator notes vehicle types, license plates, and

other items of more than passing interest. What type of

neighborhood? Where is the best place to set up the unit? How

does the place look in general? Are there any possible clues to

subject’s typical activities and character?

Tyger might check out a couple of subjects in the same area.

Also, he might mosey on down to the local Louisiana Motor Vehicle

Office where for the grand sum of $4 anyone may

obtain a copy of any vehicle registration.

This is the typical manner for confirming subject

residence. People always park their vehicles as closely as

possible to their home. Call it human nature.

When the car comes back registered to the subjective,

the investigator has confirmed the objective.

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Personnel at the Downtown New Orleans office and satellite

offices West Bank at Gretna, East Bank at Kenner

begin to recognize Tyger after a while as part

of the office  motif, same as the state-issued furniture.

They give him carte blanche in obtaining vehicle registrations.

So efficient has his technique become that Dorothy and Joe

start giving him all of IRS Inc.’s tags to trace. All it takes is

a little schmoozing with the motor vehicle officials who, it

turns out, are a harried, understaffed, and bored out ot their

minds lot eager for a little understanding and friendly

interaction with birds of a feather like Tyger Williams,

insurance investigator extraordinary.

Tyger learns the routine quickly, noticing that a few other

regulars — generally used car salesmen re-registering

vehicles and the occasional competing investigator — also come

in for special treatment, if they are savvy and nice.

After a while, Tyger has become a Motor Vehicle Office

unofficial expediter. Waiting on line for a registration check

might take between 20 minutes and an hour depending on time of

day and clerkly interest. Tyger provides free advice

out of kindness to those poor lost souls

immersed in the bureaucratic maze looking to get out.

Yes comrades, there definitely are tricks to this trade.

Helping first-time losers passes Tyger’s time if nothing

else. Who knows, as R.C. said: “What goes around comes

around.”

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Tyger figures he is collecting karma kredits. Maybe he can

trade them in for a new Saints mug like the one he smashed

against his wall on playoff hell day, Jan. 3.

Of all the way stations, none has seen the smiling Tyger

visage more often than the amazingly Byzantine Downtown New

Orleans office, set in the state office building next to New

Orleans City Hall. Lonely and apathetic state employees have

begun allowing him entree to the back of the office past the

“official personnel only” stop sign.

Mr. E. Z. Jones, office manager, instructs Tyger in the arcane art of

computer codes. Everybody assumes the darling detective must be

important, influential, or at least an E. Z. Jones relation.

Once inside the Minotaur’s maze, Tyger runs the plates himself on the

officiously monstrous state computer system.

Welcome to the inner workings of that slice

of Third World pie called the Louisiana bureaucracy.

Now considered an official E. Z. Jones protege, Tyger is

treated with the utmost respect at the Motor Vehicle Office. As

the “Saturday Night Live” Church Lady says,

now, isn’t he special.

An amazing event transpires one otherwise calm day in early

February as Tyger is busy at official insurance investigator

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business at the Downtown office.

Mr. E. Z. Jones sits at his pint-sized desk.

Tyger works a few tags at a nearby terminal.

Suddenly, two state troopers and a plainclothesman burst

into the office. “Alright y’all, everybody stop what you are

doing,” a ruddy complexioned state Police Captain announces with

a flourish. “We have warrants for the following individuals…”

Those in line are visibly shocked, but that is nothing

compared to the open-mouthed fish-eyes beyond belief looks of four

employees being rounded up by the police, and standard

procedure, the cops say, ramshackled with handcuffs.

Troopers storm into Mr. E. Z. Jones’ office, promptly

read him his Miranda rights. “Sir, you are under arrest.

Come with me,” a tall equally ruddy in complexion lieutenant

orders with a slight wry smile.

They leave with a bewildered looking Mr. E. Z. Jones in

humiliated tow. The departing Captain tell the crowd and two

clerks who are left, “You can resume what you were doing.”

That would be nothing.

An assistant manager is on the horn presumably calling

superiors in Baton Rouge for new orders. Tyger has sat at his

terminal unmolested through all this.

Hmmm. Finishes up possibly risky business, asking

the assistant manager if he knows what is happening. No way.

Oi course, this is too choice an item to go unrecorded by

the local news flakes. Then again, one never knows.

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As life’s soap opera turns, an illegal vehicle registration

ring was operating out of the office. Those arrested are charged

with providing registration documents to car thieves in exchange

for medium-to-medium-large bribes.

Paperwork legitimizes stolen vehicles that are then re-sold

to an unsuspecting public after a new paint job and other minor

adjustments. In other words,

the criminals had taken over the asylum.

A whole new sad army of tyred faces populate the Motor

Vehicle Office sentry posts the next day. Tyger is rudely

prevented from using his computer terminal.

The new team from the home office at Baton Rouge doesn’t

know Tyger from Adam. The detective finally spots a familiar

female face who explains the reassignments.

Tyger, in turn, explains his previous arrangement to the new

management. “You know, it saves you guys time when I do it

myself, and…”

Sorry Charlie, new managerial fish ain’t biting, as

head guppy interruptus. “That’s the way E. Z. Jones did it,

son,” sez pez head a’bobbing. “You saw what happened to him.”

Back to Pine Valley now, Tyger performs many boring

yet necessary investigative tasks. He conducts records

checks — criminal, civil, mortgage, chattel, conveyance,

marriage, divorce; you get the drill.

Tyger’s loss of grandfathered-in status means waiting

with the rest of school of fish in line for the clerk to call his number.

Nice  work if you can get it, nice while it lasted.

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This new age necessitates going from office to office all over town

and out-of-town to the various parish courthouses. Some places

like St. Bernard Parish are easy to research. Records

are computerized and housed in one or two places.

Orleans Parish is a big stinkin’ mess where records

are made to be broken. What else is new?

Tyger goes from office to office familiarizing himself

with each Rube Goldberg procedure as best he can.

Always surprising — call it faith in mankind or naive stupidity

— spotting subject’s names in the records never ceases to amaze.

Many of these subjects have been busy little beavers

committing crimes, getting divorces, incurring bad debts, and, in

general, defaming themselves along the legal and illegal paper

trail through life. Check fraud. Vehicle repossessions. Unlawful

detainer, elder abuse, assault, assault with a deadly;

shut Shaft’s mouth, and probably worse that has gone undetected.

Many subjects can be located through obvious sources like

local telephone directories. Sometimes a forwarding address may

be obtained from the nearby post office for the princely sum of $1.

This source, however, is dependent on the clerk’s level of intelligence,

and public interest. The Freedom of Information Act requires they

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release the addresses, but you know, all that glitters

when it comes to grifters.

Postal delivery workers provide another good source of

information on subjects, especially in rural areas. Tyger

locates the mailman on a delivery route, asks if he or

she is familiar with individual and address.

They are usually. This method works very well in places

north of New Orleans like St. Tammany, Tangipahoa, the Florida parishes.

One particularly difficult location exercise takes place in

Plaquemines Parish, south of New Orleans, best known for its long

history of excruciating segregation, continuing racism,

and coastal erosion. Tyger must locate John James Jefferson III,

African-American male, 45 years old.

Tyger drives through towns like Empire, Buras, asking citizens

of color if they know the subject. Goddamned nothing else to do,

beans are spilled within an hour. Everybody is in everybody’s business.

Jefferson lives in a modest house trailer on a former

plantation. Hell, everybody does. It is a few weird curving dirt

roads away from Louisiana Highway 23 and downtown Venice.

Tyger interviews Jefferson’s ex-wife about a statement he made

concerning an automobile accident and departs. “Who was that

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Ofay lad?” she asks an elderly female companion

as Tyger drives off into the sunset.

Two cases stand above the others during this time frame just

before Mardi Gras. In the first case, Tyger takes a nice Saturday

drive up to Covington, a suburb north of New Orleans in St. Tammany Parish.

He crosses the 29 mile Lake Ponchartrain Causeway — the

world’s longest highway bridge across deep, dark waters

dividing the Big Easy from the big uneasy work-a-day

American free world, aside from Mississippi, to the north.

Tyger spills into downtown Covington. ‘Tis a somewhat tasteful burg.

Parish Courthouse occupies a large square triangulated

by shops and small buildings from the 1940s and 1950s

The dandy-ass detective is attending a formal affair

in this case, a wedding. No snide remarks.

Barbara St. Amant, white female, 42 years old, suffering

from neck injuries incurred in a car accident, is the proud

mother of the groom. About 150 celebrants fill the First

Methodist Church on Willow Street, near the railroad tracks

a few blocks from Downtown.

During a respectful moment, Tyger identifies said

subject from a photograph. He proudly joins the wedding party.

Beautiful ceremony, by the way.

Barbara looks fine, no neck brace or other clue as to the

alleged decapacitating injury. God bless.

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Everybody looks like they walked straight out of the Better

Brides and Gardens for Redneck Mothers Magazine.

Tyger mingles enough to seem part of the package as each

side of the wedding assumes he is from the other side.

Confusion is a detective’s best ally.

A somewhat tasteful ceremony,if only those simps next to

Tyger would shut up. The wedding is over in about 30

painless minutes. Tyger has a video camera and portable tape deck

with him, but blends in well. Unfortunately, no good subJect activity.

Tyger follows the rest of the party to the reception nearby

at a banquet hall. He decides the video camera might be

pushing it setting up the baby seat system just in case the

subject does a few handstands outdoors.

He grabs a still camera, enters the hall.  Food looks

tasty.  They have an open bar.

This is the right type of assignment.

A little drinking, a little eating, a little schmoozing.

Tyger, of course, is vague in countenance, trying to pass

as inconspicuously as possible.

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Strike up the band “a one and a two and a three…” as the

Lawrence Welk impersonator follows standard wedding procedure.

“For the first dance, as is traditional, I would like to ask the

father of the bride to dance with his daughter and the mother of

the groom to dance with her son.”

Mother-F’in yes! Dancing as in a Fred Astaire-Ginger Rogers dream,

Barbara St. Amant enters an insurance scam nightmare. Sure

enough, the slightly tipsy proud mother of the groom dances up a

storm while Hurricane Tyger furiously snaps pictures.

That petite madame subject cuts a mean, wild rug. Tyger gets in

the happy couple of something’s face. Snap snap snap, turtle eye

captures all. He photographs Ms. St. Amant dancing from every

conceivable angle with perfect wedding crasher style.

Neck injury, huh? She moves around pretty well for someone

who can’t leave her house because of incredible pain. Where

be oh noble neck brace? Questions, questions, questions.

Let’s linger for a few more dances. This lady is a regular

Arthur Murray Dance Studios advertisement. Aw shit, she does a

half-flip. Click. Click. Still shots must suffice.

Finally, paranoia settles in as Tyger believes he notices

members of the wedding party putting two and two together

with Orwellian style figuring this three is wild. Tyger figures it is

time to boogie home as he is the only big brother watching, and

two plus two does not yet yield three.

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Tyger grabs a drink for the road, natch.

Thanks so much. Disappears into the good night.

Tough job, but thank Joe Fine for the perks.

The other noteworthy case takes place nearby to the east in

Slidell, gateway to the Mississippi Gulf Coast and beautiful Florida.

An initial surveillance reveals that the subject — Paul

Satherly, white male, 58 years old, married, three children, two

grandchildren, about 5’10” 200 pounds, grey hair — lives at a

trailer park just off the first Slidell I-10 exit.

A small clump of gas stations and restaurants geared for the

interstate trade greet the intrepid investigator.

Magnolia Trailer Park sits about a mile down the road.

It seems like a nice trailer subdivision with

middle class double and triple wide rigs.

Satherly’s long, well maintained brown with white trim

trailer sits by a small garden plot at the very end ot a dirt

road fronting a beautiful little lagoon astride a large wooded area.

Tyger drives around the trailer park looking for alternative

exits. None available. Then he returns to the Satherly lifestyles

of the bizarre insurance claimants, noting nearby vehicles.

The tags check out at the Slidell DMV. A black minivan

Louisiana License Number T067435 is registered to the main man

himself. So is a grey Lincoln Continental. Two other vehicles are

registered to apparently unrelated neighbors.

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Tyger sets up the baby seat system in his car at a nearby

Big Wheels Truck Stop. And back to Lot 157 of

the Magnolia Trailer park at approximately 10 a.m.

Satherly claims a back injury makes movement impossible.

Tyger initially is authorized to cover the subject from 10 a.m.

to 2 p.m. The plan is to return on the sub at a later date.

It always seems a bit dicey setting up so late in the

morning. Considerable pedestrian activity

swarms around the terrible trailer lots.

High time for Plan ”A.” Tyger sets up at a

diagonal across from subject’s trailer getting a decent

picture of the trailer’s front door and yard.

Exiting the vehicle, it’s that old standby, car trouble.

Tyger pops the jack in the box out, popping open the front hood.

Not so bad a ruse given the smashed up atoms of vehicular conniptions.

Tyger abandons the mother lode vehicle after a few minutes of piddling

around, and walks off. The forest provides an alluring escape.

The temperature is a very pleasant 65 degrees, winds from

the southeast, as Tyger floats across the lagoon woods, pushing

aside weeds and Spanish moss from nearby trees. He sets up at a

nice spot across the lagoon from the Satherly nest.

Two kids and an old man fish to the west. Sweet sweet

smell of magnolia and honeysuckle linger in the air. It seems

like a very pleasant surveillance assignment this fine late morrow.

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Tyger relaxes somewhat, watching the trailer for tell-tale activity.

He spots a white female, mid-50’s — a real bee’s nest head —

messing around the trailer about 30 minutes later. A car arrives

and a white female, mid-20’s with small child, join the fray.

Another car arrives and two white males, early 20’s and late

teens, arrive. Guess it’s party time at the Satherly trailer homestead.

They are a true Ray-Gun Era advertisement for family values.

Sitting in the weeds, Tyger occasionally swats aside a

mysterious flying insect, continuing to observe with great interest.

Good script, bad acting.  Typical soap opera television.

Hopefully, the system is recording.

Party time as usual, apparently. Satherly family members

come and go the rest of the morning, no doubt

speaking of Michelangelo, right, although

no sign of the slippery Satherly of a subject.

Finally, just before noon, hallelujah, Satherly, the elder,

emerges, fitting the description nicely nicely.

He moves around ever so carefully, apparently in great pain.

But hold on comrades. This is Louisiana and you know what

they say about the weather. Wait a few minutes and it changes.

Claimant looks to the west and to the east.

Looks about the same no doubt.

Noting nothing neither way, he immediately upgrades his gait.

Miracle of miracles, Mother Theresa if you’re listening.

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Praise the Lord, uncork the champagne,

miracle of miracles, Satherly appears cured.

He starts walking around the area quite

naturally with the greatest of ease.

“Hope to get around that well when I’m his age,”

Tyger tells a moth in nearby flight.

The brown moth dips a wing in apparent agreement.

Yes, it is shocking, but not surprising,

another case of insurance claim chicanery

displayed like a peacock in light of day.

Old Sath-mo is living la dolce vida, the good life, while

insurance adjusters grimly grumble.

Vehicles come and go after that impersonating

random family functions. Satherly sticks close to the hive.

Potential problems — er, challenges — arise as sun flames

the day. Dastardly daily double.

Tyger has to piss before he springs a leak. Parched dry thirsty as well.

Tyger hopes no one is looking. How rude. Pisses in the trees.

Still thirsty, however. Can’t have everything.

Activity dies down about 1 p.m. Guess “All My Children”

has ended. Tyger gives Satherly 20 minutes to see if he is going

to do some errands before “General Hospital.” Nope.

He exits the scene for the truck stop and calling Dorothy to

advise her of subject activity or lack therof.

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Dorothy suggests he leave the system running, breaking off

at 2 p.m. as planned. She will speak with the client and

advise sitting on Satherly the next day.

Tyger hangs out for lunch at the exclusive Phillips 66 Diner.

Against his better judgment, he samples the fish surprise dinner.

Surprise. Tastes like chicken.

Time passes in that fashion until Tyger charges into the

trailer camp to rescue his real meal ticket. He bends around the

corner by the last trailer park road where Satherly resides, and

cautiously checks the scene for damage.

All is peaceful. All goes well. The master of disaster jumps

in his beat-up old station wagon sans’ muffler, chugging away

to return for grins another day.

A late night review of recorded activities reveals

Satherly climbing into the van, driving off, and returning with

groceries as well as the usual family traffic

in and around his home sweet trailer home.

That next day arrives as it must. This time Tyger sets up

shop at 11 a.m. at the same location.

Mission protocol consists of operating the secret system for two hours,

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then sitting along the asphalt road that leads from truck

stop city to Magnolia Park. This way Tyger can catch the cookie

monster by his crooked tale as he makes groceries, excruciating

pain, haha good one, and all. That should cover it.

Tyger kills time in the usual honored fashion. He spends 30

minutes at each restaurant, drinking a zillion cups of hot java.

He also verifies the roadside cliche that truck drivers know the

best cuisine. Randy’s Pit Stop provides an excellent catfish

dinner, quite the taste sensation, tastes like chicken.

A last pit stop at the Pit Stop and back to the trailer

haven where Tyger spends a while in the woods communing with

nature and, oh by the way, keeping a sharp eye on Satherlyland.

The usual family party hardy activity continues through 2 p.m.

Tyger departs the scene and checks with home base. Dorothy

tells him to continue through 4 p.m. He pulls up stakes, waiting

for Godot at a field across the street from the trailer park exit.

An hour passes with no subject activity although a constant

stream of vehicular traffic keeps our boy on his toes as each

vehicle brings along an adrenalin rush. It might be, it could

be, it ain’t. Shuck, no oyster.

A van resembling Satherly’s leaves. Tyger jumps in his car,

zooms off, pursuing the jackrabbit down the red brick road.

Tough luck quickly revealed though though.

Isn’t the subject. Isn’t his time.

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Tyger executes a quick pass-by to confirm the van’s

presence. It is still there. A moment of paranoiac uncertainty strikes

home. Maybe Satherly has departed in one of the other family vehicles.

Oh dear . Tyger calls the Satherly number, hanging up relieved

when said sub answers.

The prey remains by the green lagoon. Tyger returns to his lair,

waiting through about 3:30 p.m. Lo-and-behold, at long last

this way the Satherly van goes.

Van go stops at the Shell Station. Satherly and a white

male, mid-20’s, presumably his son, emerge. Satherly pumps gas.

His son goes into the highway super-station, emerging, deus ex machia with a

sack of something, no telling what.

Tyger, sweating somewhat, records this activity. Look pa no

hands. They are hidden from view beneath the dashboard, motor

controlling the camera into action. Looking good, deus ex machina,

The two men return to their moveable cocoon, headwinding off

due east on venerable l-10 with Tyger in lukewarm pursuit giving

them some breathing room. Where can these clowns be going?

Curiosity runs rampant. Might as well follow. It’s the law,

and besides, getting that 20 cents per mile is additional lagniappe.

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Two projectiles are ejected from the van about 10 minutes

along the journey to somewhere undisclosed. What the heck?

Happens too quickly to videotape.

The feat is copy shop duplicated ten minutes later.

Objects bounce lively, looking very like beer cans.

Another repetition nearing the Mississippi state line.

And a last can makes six.

Not content with insurance claim sleaz-hood, Satherly

also appears to be an alcoholic litterbug.

This guy has no respect for anything.

Pulling into Waveland, Mississippi, the Satherly party exits

to Highway 90, the main road through the towns along the beach front.

Satherly hops out of the car. He enters yet another inconvenience

store emerging with yet another paper bag covered package.

No great mystery now. They are drinking their body weight in malt liquor.

Tyger becomes somewhat concerned as the Satherly clan drives

erratically through Waveland. What the hey line.

Could they be heading somewhere special? Have they made him?

The van, the van stops at a vacant lot. Tyger turns more paranoid

than usual. Satherly’s porta party disembarks, bee-lining to a

secluded spot by a clump of oak trees. What do you know?

They piss in the bushes like a pack of dogs. Bow wow.

And zoom zoom, they are off again without a care on

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the Highway 90 through Bay St. Louis and Pass Christian to hell.

Beer cans are ejected from the vehicle module at regular 10 minute intervals.

They stop at Long Beach, buying at least two six-packs judging from celestial modeling.

This time Tyger shoots a nice picture of Satherly hopping about,

a demented bunny rabbit, half drunk and half crazy, forgetting all about

the delicate condition his condition supposedly is in.

What’s more, Satherly the elder is driving.

Must be pretty tough with such an incapacitating injury.

Say hey, Gulfport and shiny white beaches

fairly empty this February passing as in a travel video.

Sweet supple Gulf wind invigorates landward.

White sea gulls fill the blue sky nearing sunset.

It is an absolutely peaceful and wondrous sight.

Meanwhile, in painful disregard of law and natural

Satherly is drunk as a skunk, weaving all over the road,

a road theoretically impossible to negotiate due to his back injury.

Cans fly out the van’s open side window at regular intervals.

They kerplunk asphalt, bouncing wildly along the black asphalt

road as Tyger swerves to avoid them. Fun guys. If you like beer.

The Sath school of scandal eases into a final pit stop just east of Biloxi.

This is a more discreet encounter as they use the lavatory, egads, finally.

Always a first time. Then, return to sender with the now traditional

mega-packages of by-now-you-know-what.

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A very beautiful sunset has crept past the assignment.

Soon too dark for good pictures.

And Biloxi is a long way from Tygertown.

Low on gasoline, due to the unanticipated length of

pursuit, Tyger psychically calls it a mission waving in mock

salute at the blind drunk subject, turning around, and

reverse engineering west towards home.

The detective fills the tank with Mississippi

gasoline, checks in with Dorothy who okee-dokes the departure.

Tyger also buys a cold drink. Beer? No way.

There is a number one in the glove compartment.

Mr. Satherly by now is history, litterbug creep.

Evidence of his fakery abounds, duly submitted

with report and invoice.

Final verdict: 15 hours, 224 miles, $16 to run

tags, $4 for videotape and a final accounting of $212.

Tyger has a scheduled meeting in Downtown New

Orleans with the Super Sleuth Joe Fine,

to go over cases manana.

Here’s to good times.