Free Seattle Noir by Curt Colbert

citizens from homeless riffraff?
    They didn’t protect the girl last night, says Petey.
    Something we have in common, dear boy.
    We couldn’t stop them, says Petey. By the time we knew what was going on, it was too late.
    You said they were up to no good, lad. You could have done something .
    You didn’t either.
    I’m not the hero, says Strabo. Just an old, old man.
    You were scared, says Fox.
    Damn right I was, says Petey. You saw Widmark’s face.
    Widmark?
    The blond one. He looked like Richard Widmark used to. And the dark one with the big puppy eyes looked like Sal Mineo.
    You and your cinema worship, says Strabo. What a waste of brain cells.
    Sounds like you’re queer for the shortie, says Fox.
    I’m not… Damn! We gotta turn around. I’m not going under that bridge.
    You’re a real head case, says Fox. Scared of cops, scared of bridges, scared of Starbucks.
    I’m not scared of them . I just hate them.
    A red PT Cruiser squeezes into a parking space, and a family of tourists pops out, covering their cameras with raincoats and umbrellas, all talking at once.
    The daddy comes up, smiling.
    Excuse me, is this where they keep the troll?
    No, says Strabo. It’s where they keep the minotaur.
    Shut up, mutters Petey. The troll’s under the black bridge over there.
    That’s why he turned around, says Fox. Scared of the big bad troll.
    The daddy frowns. I thought it was the Fremont troll. With a real Volkswagen in its hand?
    That’s the one, says Petey.
    But that’s the Aurora Bridge. Why isn’t it under the Fremont Bridge over there?
    What do we look like, asks Fox, the freaking road department?
    Daddy jerks back, as if he just got a better look—or smell. Let’s go, kids. The troll’s over here.
    I hate this place, says Petey. What kind of sick mind would put a giant troll statue under a bridge?
    Someone who doesn’t have much experience with monsters, says Strabo. There are enough real ones around without encouraging them with monuments.
    Widmark and Mineo, says Petey. They were real ones.
    Yeah, says Fox. You oughta tell the tourists what the movie stars did to their sister.
    That girl was no tourist.
    A deduction! How can you tell, maestro?
    Fox picked up her address book, remember? All local names and numbers.
    But she didn’t put her own name in it, says Fox. That was dumb.
    I guess she knew where she lived.
    Har har, says Fox. Petey the comic.
    We should have helped her, says Strabo.
    We couldn’t, says Petey.
    In the long eye of the law, dear boy, silence breeds consent.
    Now you’re a freaking attorney, says Fox. Oh crap. Look what’s around the corner.
    Cops have gathered in force, surrounding the traffic island on 34th Street.
    Speak of the devil and he shall appear, says Strabo. All the king’s prowl cars and all the king’s men.
    They found her, says Petey.
    She wasn’t exactly hidden, says Fox. Just lying behind the gray zombies.
    Don’t be ignorant, says Strabo. That’s another of Fremont’s fine artworks. Waiting for the Interurban.
    The six gray plaster figures are wearing T-shirts today. FREMONT MOISTURE FESTIVAL , reads one.
    How did they get the shirts on with the cops around? asks Fox.
    They couldn’t, says Petey. The shirts must have been there last night. But we were behind the statues and didn’t see them.
    Another deduction, says Strabo.
    Uniforms hustle around the statues and a small crowd has gathered on either side of 34th to stand in the drizzle and watch.
    Are they looking at us? asks Petey.
    It’s okay to watch the cops, says Fox. Everybody’s doing it.
    A cat may look at a king, says Strabo. But curiosity kills them both. What killed Abby?
    Nobody killed Abby, says Petey.
    The young woman lying over there.
    That’s not Abby, says Petey. You’re crazy.
    I never met your dream girl, says Fox. But you said the chick last night looked like her. That’s why you had us chasing her all over Queen Anne.
    Marching after her like a parade, agrees Strabo. But no one was