My 6-year-old granddaughter phoned me in panic just after midnight. “Mommy says the baby is coming! Help!” I asked, “Where’s daddy?” She answered, “He k!cked mommy’s tummy and left.”…..

“He’s starting to crack,” June said. Keeps looking over his shoulder, jumping at shadows. Yesterday, he accused Dave Garrett of recording their conversations. Poor Dave was so rattled he spilled beer all over himself. Good. Paranoid people make mistakes. What’s the next move? Time to turn up the heat. Harry’s next call was to an old contact from his oil rig days, Jimmy Costanos, who now ran a small gambling operation out of Callispel.

Jimmy owed Harry a favor from 10 years ago when Harry had covered his medical bills after a rig accident left him with a broken back and no insurance. Jimmy, it’s Harry Kane. Harry Jesus, it’s been years. How you been, Hermono? Been better. I need a favor. Name it. You save my ass when nobody else would help.

There’s a man named Trent Huxley running an illegal betting ring in Bosezeman. He’s convinced his Billings bookie is skimming from him. I want you to call some of your competitors. Tell them there’s easy money to be made if they can drive Trent out of business. You want to start a turf war. I want to make Trent’s life complicated.

Can you do it? Consider it done. I know three outfits that would love to move into new territory. They hear about some small town operator who’s got heat with his suppliers. They’ll circle like vultures. Thanks, Jimmy. I owe you. No, man. We’re even now. Within 48 hours, the results were visible. Strange cars started cruising past Tren’s cabin.

Phone calls came at all hours. Two of his regular clients got approached by representatives from competing gambling operations, offering better odds and lower interest rates. Marshall, now successfully embedded as muscle for hire in Trent’s organization, reported that the man was barely sleeping and had started carrying a gun everywhere.