The Case of the Hail Mary Pass, Part 2

The name's Dixon. Trixie Dixon Girl Detective. It has been remarked more than once that

practice makes perfect, which is true enough

that it can honestly be said to be more than something one says to get a small child to submit

to an absurd amount of piano rehearsal in preparation for playing chopsticks before a crowded

recital room in which everyone is thinking about ways to take their own life.

Or maybe that's just me.

No, it isn't.

I digress.

I do that.

The point is that there is nothing you can do that you will not be able to do better the next time you try it. And the next.

And the next. And that is why I knew that old square jaw and I would be fine to begin our

inquiries on behalf of Nate Turner in spite of our all too recent midweek debauch. Because there is

no aspect of detective work which we could not perform admirably

with a hangover that would kill a mule, and I knew this because we had practiced longer and harder

than little Trixie ever did with her scales. And so it was that, by the crack of noon the

following day, we had divided our forces.

While Jack met the client in our inner sanctum, the girl detective prepared to unleash

one of her favorite of fake IDs, which had not seen the light of day in many moons.

Trixie Dixon, true heart magazine, I said, pumping the small man's hand with an enthusiasm that I don't genuinely

possess.

Richard Baker, Bulldogs' press manager, he said, taken aback and ever so slightly overwhelmed,

...