It’s all about real estate.  Land, that is, as Tracker goes undercover to uncover where the boundaries lie that separate the have’s from everyone else in Nountown.  He finds Pat Dab, a baleful broker of square footage with his boy-size fingers on the pulse of the local leases, licenses and liens. Tracker’s guise is a need for retail space, which is sure to result in a tour of properties.  Pat passes him to his trusted peon, Flip Gap.  Gap licks his little lips in anticipation of a juicy deal, but Tracker plays him like a fife and then gives him the slip.  Thank Dab, it’s Friday.  In this case, Friday is who, not when.  You’ll see, if you hear this.

Pat Dab's lock on local commercial property played into my plan of digging into the underbelly of Nountown's power structure.  But I needed a little diversion to clear a path. A cock-and-bull story about a place I might be interested in. So I'd be Lenny Friday, an old friend he just met and could barely remember. I slicked my hair back and found a Hawaiian shirt to make him think I was ready to party.  Again.  When I parked in front of Pat Dab Properties, I saw him by the window waiting for me.  When I got out of the car, Dab disappeared until he greeted me at the door with his trusty companion and aide-de-camp, Flip Gap. 

"Is this Lenny Friday?" said the little broker's little buddy.

"I don’t know, you tell me."

"So you're a sailor, Mr. Friday?" 

"I've been known to ride the waves."

"Well, you look like a surfer today!  It must be casual Friday!"

"Everyday," I said.  

"Flip knows all the intimate details about the 345 Peatmoss property," said Dab.

"We like to say that a building has more to offer than four walls and a ceiling," Gap said.

"Especially if the walls have ears," I said.

"And if they could talk," said Gap.

"Then I could negotiate directly with them, couldn't I?  Cut you guys out of the deal."

"Nobody cuts Pat Dab out of a deal, right Pat?"

"Nobody who's lived to tell about it," Pat Dab added.

"Ha!" said Flip.

"Flip, I want you to show Mr. Friday around.  Not just the site he's interested in."

"Just don't just show me the museums," I said.

"We don't have any museums."

"Good."

"A few historic markers.  You don't mind those, do you?"

"No, I like historic markers.  Read 'em and weep, I like to say.   I mean, it's always because somebody got killed there, right?  Maybe someone who tried to cut you out of the deal."

"Ha!  This guy's gonna be fun to work with, Pat.  You're going to be fun to work with."

"Thank Dab it's Friday, Flip."

"Huh?  Oh, right!  Right!"

Tracker gets a lay of the land and the land returns the favor.  His marching orders take a turn off the road, but his shoes are polished and that produces a spitting image he can trust.  Or can he?  Not if the image is that of Delicacy Smoke, a woman who seemed to thrive on driving fast American cars and letting her fingers do the speaking.  ‘Come hither,’ they said.  But Tracker was more in the mood for yon.  And some grub.  Find out if he finds either as he ventures up and down Mistake Mountain.

She planted herself two seats from my station.  Eyes like jade formed a precious triangle with her ruby lips, framed perfectly by her high cheeks and auburn hair that fell like feathers when set free from the kerchief.  I’d seen it all before, just wasn’t sure where.     When she opened her trench coat and let it fall over the back of her seat, all those eyes shifted to her chassis which featured all the options.  

The Breezy Inn cocktail lounge had turned into a showroom and just about everyone wanted to kick her tires.  

"A Cockeyed Chinaman, please."

The bartender poured a hot cup of tea and added two jiggers of gin.

"I haven't seen one of those since the English left Hong Kong."

"The English left Hong Kong?  How sad?"

"It's always sad when Colonial empires have to look in their rear view mirrors to see how mighty they were."

"Why look back at all?  It takes all the fun out of hitting and running."

"And how do you like your Buick?"

"I like it with the windows open and the speedometer needle way over to right.  How do you like my Buick?"

"I only saw it from the rear."

"Like Hong Kong saw the English."

"They were waiting for that view."

"Maybe you should see the view from the front?"

"Aimed I me?"

"That might be fun, but not as much fun as testing the brakes on Mistake Mountain."

Tracker gets his assignment.  No surprise, it’s in a place called Nountown.  Otherwise, this would be a place called Something Else.  Nountown is a place he’s never been.  Not many have.  Most never come back.  Tracker had no plans of doing that.  He had little plans at all.  Flying blind, he took his orders and soon entered a world that seemed to be hard to define, unless you knew where to look it up.  Tracker knew.  At least he thought he knew.  Then he met Winston Smoke, a man who seemed to thrive on life support and spoke of evil and danger and roots.  Oh, yes, roots.  There would be plenty of them.  But we’re getting ahead of ourselves and that’s what you say when you want to start in the beginning.  When Tracker gets his assignment.  He has to ‘find the evil’ and no, it’s not between evident and eviscerate.  Or is it?

"The secret of power is letting other people think they have it, Mr. Tracker."

Winston Smoke watched a big, black fly get comfortable on the jelly donut that sat on the plate before him and brought a big, sweaty glass of milk to his big, fleshy lips.

"Then you wait as they abuse it.  You let them demonstrate their lack of understanding of their condition.  You watch them dance blindly towards the abyss, until they start to fall.  Then you snatch them up and squeeze them tight.  You squeeze them until they gasp for air.  Then you sell them … air.  And what do they learn from this exercise, Mr. Tracker?"

He took a big, gargling gulp, draining 40 percent of the white liquid and swallowed like a man who never had to need for seconds.  

"Dancing is dangerous?"

Smoke slammed the glass down on the jelly donut.  Milk and red corn-starch-laden berry jelly ejaculated across the small table splattering every cup, saucer, plate, knife, spoon, creamer, pitcher, equal pack holder and my toasted English muffin, but falling just short of my suit, shirt and tie.  I packed light to avoid checking any bags.  A second pair of pants waited for me back in my room at the Breezy, no doubt flapping away, but one suit jacket was my inventory.

Smoke lifted his glass out of the smashed pastry.

Makes a nice coaster, I thought.

The fly that once thought he was set for life in powdered sugar, yeasty dough and sweet, sweet fruity compote was stuck on the bottom, fused there by the force of Smoke's slam and the glue of the destructed donut.

"They learn to take nothing for granted, Mr. Tracker.  That's what they learn.  The one's who continue to breath, anyway." 

"And the others get stuck under glass?  Like pheasants?"

"Pheasants?  Have you ever had a pheasant?  I mean, have you ever shot one with a single bullet so as not to cause hemotrauma, which makes the flesh bitter?"

"I prefer to wring their necks."

"Ah, I should try that.  It sounds … humane."

Welcome to Nountown.  Now go home.  Yeah, it’s not the most welcoming place you’ve ever been, but one thing is certain.  In Nountown, nothing is certain.  Maybe Arthur Certain.  He’s the cab driver who drove Raymond G. Tracker to this place that was neither here nor there.  But for Tracker, it would be there for a while.  As long as his assignment lasted.  His assignment?  It wasn’t clear.  All he knew or at least thought he knew was that he was looking for something, but what it was or who it was or where it was, well, that remained to be seen, met and visited.  Sounds confusing?  Put yourself in his shoes.  While he still has them on his feet, that is, because if you think you got off on the Wrong Foot, wait till you hear what happens to him.  And his feet.

If you listen to for the next nine weeks you will.  Each week, things get more and more complicated and somehow at the end it all makes … for an exciting journey.

Before you really get going, take this preview tour of Nountown, but make sure you don’t let it get to you before you get to it.  It is the ultimate noun, isn’t it?  It is Nountown.  

Who is Raymond G. Tracker?  A man, like any other man, except he’s different.  He finds things that others can’t.  And then he finds other things.  He was born in a small town just north of the border.  Which border?  Hard to tell, but it wasn’t hard to tell Tracker was going places, far from that small town.  He studied abroad and earned a degree in mechanical engineering, but soon realized he’d rather engineer things that didn’t require winding up.  That’s how he wound up at the Agency.  Not that Agency.  He tried to wind up at that Agency, but he couldn’t pass the hearing test.  Instead, he took a path that leads him to Nountown, where he would find things he didn’t even knew existed.  His favorite food?  A simple ham-and-cheese sandwich.  Preferably on thinly sliced bread and packed with crisp lettuce.  With plenty of mustard, please.  Get the picture?   Here he is.

It all starts Wednesday, aka, The Day After Tomorrow.  Nountown.  

Who's there?

Winston Smoke, who always gets what he wants, even when he doesn't.

Squinty, who spits, shines and spits some more.

Raymond G. Tracker, who has to get out of the way, else he's going to have to explain those tiny stains on his shoes.

And you.  If it's not too much to ask.