Free The Texas Twist by John Vorhaus

that’s a rare breed.
    Be on the lookout for that.
    I get ready to split. “All right, kids, that’s rock ’n’ roll. Be cool, stay in school.” I toss my duffel over my shoulder and hump it on out of there. Not before giving Valerie my skates. Something to snuggle with at night.
    As I walk away, I hear someone mutter, “That’s a cool guy.”
    Of course I’m cool. I’m a Mirplo.
    And cool is how I roll.

The Gun Smoketh
    T hey sat around the kitchen table, eating baba ghanoush on pita chips, something Allie had never been fond of before, but now, suddenly, couldn’t resist. Vic had just gotten back and was raving about New England clam chowder, and to Allie that sounded good, too. With about half a bottle of Tabasco sauce, mmm. Mirplo told them he’d tracked down Ames through his car. It hadn’t been hard. “They don’t exactly drape the landscape,” said Vic. “I asked a few car fans around town. They were happy to tell me about it. They’d never met a real Formula One driver before.”
    Allie smiled. “So now you’re a Formula One driver?”
    â€œAccording to me I am.”
    â€œVic, why do you do that?” asked Radar.
    â€œWhat, oversolve the problem? Same reason you do, dude. That’s where the fun is. Besides,” he tapped his noggin, “you’re the one saying to keep the tool sharp. If you always have a story to tell, you’ll never be short a story. We writersknow that.”
    Radar shook his head. “The amazing Vic Mirplo.”
    â€œMany people say so.” He turned back to Allie. “The guy’s got a McMansion in Orange, the next town over from Athol. The Signature, meanwhile, is frequently seen at the Orange Municipal Airport, for our hero also owns a plane, or leases it. Plus a boat. And a couple other cars. Museum-quality stuff, they say.”
    â€œDid you check out his place?” asked Radar.
    â€œOf course,” said Vic. “This ain’t my first chicken dance.”
    â€œAnd?” asked Allie.
    â€œHe’s put a lot of money into it.”
    â€œNew money?”
    â€œNope. Been at it since he moved in. Got solar. Got sauna. Raluca likes it.”
    â€œRaluca?” asked Allie.
    â€œThe girlfriend. Says he’s lived there three years. It’s mad stylish inside. Artwork up the wazoon. That’s the word she used, wazoon. She’s not exactly strong on English. And apparently in Romania they don’t see a lot of direct-to-door marketing.”
    â€œWhat’d you sell her, Vic?”
    â€œNice little rug shampooer. It’ll last ’er a lifetime. Well, it would if it ever arrived.”
    â€œIn any case,” said Radar, “that sounds like stable money. So now we can hypothesize that he’s been running games for a while, pluck-and-ducks, with a specialty in medical mischief. He finds his Sarahs, flies out to meet them, fleeces them, and recycles the proceeds into new toys.” Radar turned to Allie, “But it isn’t dispositive, is it?”
    â€œNope,” said Allie. “Just because he splashes money around doesn’t make the gain ill-gotten. Sorry, boys, I still don’t see a smoking gun.”
    â€œNever fear,” said Vic, tapping his Rabota, “I’ve got that, too.”
    As it turned out, one of Mirplo’s new race fans had a sister-in-law with cancer. From out of nowhere, Ames had become her new best friend, supporting her in her time of need, and soon producing exciting reports of cures out of Mexico. “She wrote him a lot of checks,” said Vic. “I have copies. Plus emails. The gun smoketh.”
    Allie and Radar reviewed the evidence on Vic’s tablet. When they were done, Allie said, “We’d better show Sarah.”
    That evening they brought Sarah in and laid it out for her, chapter and verse. It was not a happy moment, no sense of triumph in unmasking a