Rum scratched his head in an attempt to remember. "It must have been, over a decade now. Without telling my wife I withdrew our life-savings ... There was this race see ... a definite win. I bet the whole lot.

Well ... right after the race started my wife showed up at the track ... still don't know how she found out about it. She even showed up with our kid, you know, to make me feel bad. The woman looked ready to dump me right there and then ... but my pick came through. I won and our money tripled. Suddenly she weren't so mad no more. We celebrated right there and then my wife was already listing the things she'd buy." Rum paused. "Another guy wasn't so lucky. He'd bet his life savings as well, but lost the lot. He started shooting off his mouth at us. I told him to push off so he pulled a gun, started demanding the money." Rum sighed. "And that's how things go wrong at a race track.

"What happened to the money?" Alex asked.

"I tell a story like that and you ask about the money!?" Rum replied. "The money was stolen, what do you think happened?"

Sierra edged in. "Loosen up, Alex. You can't expect him to remember every little detail. I doubt the bookies would be in a rush to reissue the money. Everything doesn't have to be a lie."

"Every story is half-truth," Alex said. "

"Yours especially," Rum said. "Now, have I earned a reward?" He looked to Sierra.

The girl released her shoulders in compassion. She'd always felt pity for the old bum, right now she felt a different kind of pity. Reaching into her coat, she took out Rum's whiskey bottle. "Is this what you're looking for?"

No sooner than she held it out, did it vanish in a flicker of Rum's snatching hand. He slurped a portion away. Watching him drink the binned whiskey, Sierra's original sense of pity came rushing right back.

"Happy Christmas, Rum," she said.

"I'll say," Rum replied. "We're already here."

He pointed across the road to a neon lit sign, reading: the Ro's. A board out front depicted the same smiling sumo wrestler from the billboard - how the owner saw the connection they could only wonder.

It looked like a club annexed to a bar, and then attached to that, a smaller building an off-licence. The total scale of the combined structure was quite impressive, really unlike anything else in this area. These three interconnected buildings may have only been the front sections.

Sierra stared daftly at the building, caught off guard by the size. "It's really big. Maybe we should re-think our strategy here. I was expecting something more ... local."

"Not really," Rum said, tossing his now empty bottle to the ground. "We can either pick a door or stand around wasting more time. I for one am not standing outside to discuss background stories."

Almost as if spurred by Rum's words a group of seven or so youths emerged from the club section of the building. They stood conjugating there, each with their heads tucked low beneath the same dark blue hoodies. They didn't appear to be going anywhere soon and seemed more intent on showing their prescience than anything. At this point the homeless group noticed further youths scattered around the main building like soldiers at a barracks, all of them wore those same blue hoodies. On the positive side of things none of them seemed particularly alert, more interested in chatting amongst themselves and snorting certain substances in their own tight little circles.

Alex inspected the scene. "Looks like we might have a bit of trouble getting into the club section. Doesn't seem like they're too interested in who's coming and going but I'd rather not risk any hassle. Let's try the off-license first."

"At last we have direction!" Rum yelled, staggering toward the off-license.

Rum led the group inside, arrival announced by a tinny bell ring. The old man rubbed his eyes to adjust to the indoor lighting, and to wash those beer goggles away. It might have been a bad idea drinking whiskey before coming in. To make amends he chose to remain near the entrance, out of the way. No way he'd risk navigating the vulnerable stacks of beer bottles dotted around the shop.

Alex, Henry, and Sierra paced eerily toward the clerk.

He was an elderly man, bald headed and dressed in suspenders like those from the previous century. He watched their approach, staring them down through thick spectacles. Drawing nearer, they noticed a golden retriever resting by his feet. It batted an eye to address their presence.

"What do you want?" the clerk demanded. "By god, my eyes might nearly be shot but my nose is better than ever. And right now I smell street scum. You ain't got no business here. Get out or I'll sick my dog on you."

Alex stepped to the counter. "A golden retriever? What's it going to do, demand attention till we get bored and walk away?"

The clerk sighed defeat. "Fine, what do you want?"

"Sorry sir," Sierra said. "We were looking for the owner of the shop."

"The owner? Ain't here. That boy's gone off somewhere. Not that you need to know. I'm the one left in charge of this here shop. I'm the one you talk to."

"You ... You're in charge?"

"Wanna make something of it? Just because I'm old don't mean my wits are gone."

"Of course not," Sierra replied, trying to prevent herself looking back at Rum's mischief. The clank of rattling bottles suggested he bore ulterior motives for staying out of sight. "Could you tell us when he'll be coming back?"

"Beats me. He went off to check on one of his other businesses down near the city centre. Should have been back yesterday actually. Don't know what's taking him so long now."

"He's all the way back there?" With a sigh, Sierra rested her head on the counter. "Why? Why does every little thing have to be so hard?"

Alex took her place. "Wait ... we're looking for a man named John. We think he was in debt to the owner of this place."

The clerk pulled a dramatic pose for thought, scratching his head and humming. Alex studied his elaborate movements carefully. It seemed intended to distract them while he slipped a ledger under the counter.

"People in debt? A lot of people are in debt these days," the clerk continued. "It's nothing for me to speak of though."

Sierra winced up from her despair. "Please, it's very important. You have to help us, please."

"I'm sorry young miss, but them's the rules. And these rules above all others ain't meant to be broken. If you had half a brain on your shoulders you'd stay well away from people like mister Matters. Know what I mean? He might be my nephew and all but ... well just stay away is all I'll say."

Sierra breathed inward. She found herself standing on the edge of reasoning with him, yet unsure on how to proceed. Salvation came with the smash of a bottle. Seemed Rum's busy hands had become butter fingers.

The clerk perked up. "What the hell is that!? Who's down there, thief!" He called for the dog to strike. "Go get him Jess! Make him sorry.

Rum had already fled outside when the clerk rolled out from behind the counter to give chase yes, he was in a wheel chair too. He gave up around where the liquor bottle smashed.

"Now I've to handle this mess. My back hurts when I lean down," he moaned.

The clerk distracted, Sierra leaned over the counter and grabbed the ledger. All three of them at once flushed straight out the door.

The room now empty, the old clerk glanced around. "Hello?"

Chapter 7.

They didn't stop running until making good distance from Jack Matters' bar. The wheel chair stricken man might not give chase, but henchmen were abound these days. Something indicated this ledger would be worth chasing after.

They needed a place to blend in, the nearest one being an arched rail bridge. It ran over a road, providing a natural shelter for several homeless men huddled around a bin fire. Their boisterous cursing, while a suitable distraction from Sierra's own yelling, ensured most passers-bye took the long way round.

"Rum you idiot! We leave you alone for a few seconds and you rob the store!"

"What can I say? I saw an opening."

"And provided one," Alex said. "At least we got that book."

"Book?" Rum said. "Oh yeah, of course you did, that's what I planned all along."

Sierra hunched down, laying the book open on her lap. The others leaned over to see.

"Is that what we came here looking for?" Henry asked.

Sierra turned a page. "Maybe. I'm not exactly sure what it is. The clerk started guarding it when we asked about this 'John' fella. My guess, whatever we're looking for is somewhere in here. It's such a strange book."

The pages were filled with columns of names and numbers. The names didn't appear to be listed in any order except the date written, and even that had exceptions.

"It's a debt book," Rum said. "Trust me, I've seen a few. Flick to the last filled pages. If our guy's been here recently his listing should be there."

Sierra flicked ahead to the last few days. "I don't see any John here. There' a Joan damn it, he's not here." Her eye caught a slip of paper sticking out from the next page - it looked like a bank draft.

Holding it to the light, she read it out loud: "Payment for twenty thousand dollars, signed, John Regal."

"Could it be him?" Henry said.

Alex snatched the note. He stared at it in private contemplation, then requested the suicide note from Sierra. He juxtaposed the two.

"That's what I thought," he said. "The signature on the suicide note is the same as on the bank draft."

Rum folded arms in dissatisfaction. "No way you could notice something like that this fast even."

Alex handed Rum both the note and cheque. "It's true. See for yourself."

Rum scratched his noggin. "I can't tell. I suppose it looks ... sort of the same."

"It's the same style of handwriting like a child's. He obviously doesn't know cursive. Then consider the date, this cheque was written up on the 24th yesterday. It ties in with the information on the suicide note."

Sierra took both papers from Rum. "That's ... useful. You're a pretty perceptive guy, Alex."

"Whatever," Rum said. "The guy's got too much time to think, that's his problem. If he's so smart then how about he thinks up a way to trace it? Having the cheque's all well and good, but it doesn't tell where the guy is."

Alex hummed in contemplation. His ideas ran short.

Henry broke in with stuttering little pips, as if waiting for everyone to finish. "I-It's not made out to Jack Matters. Or the club either."

Sierra took a second look at the cheque. "Henry's right! It's made out to a, 'Grey Oaks Retirement home.' It looks like a donation."

"Strange," Alex said. "That means the owner of that night club wouldn't have been able to cash it anyway. Looks like our Mr. John tried to pull a fast one. That might explain why his name's not on the list."

Rum snickered. "Not likely. Listen, the suicide note said Jack Matters was hassling his wife and kid. You honestly think he's going to drop a phoney cheque in that kind of threat hanging over him? If Matters doesn't break his legs then he'd likely break his kid's. He might be a deadbeat but no father would put that on their kid suicidal or not."

"What are you thinking?" Alex asked.

"Remember when Sierra robbed the guy first? He was slow, he was drunk, staggering all over the place. He was ripe for the picking. When I think back to it now his face looked busted. He wasn't staggering, he was limping. He wasn't drunk - someone beat the crap out of him. Back in my day that's what we did ... at least what they did when someone couldn't repay a loan. He must have gone back to talk his way out of it but failed at the negotiation table. They knocked the snot out of him and took what he had there and then."

"Interesting hypothesis," Alex said. "Having some flashbacks from your gambling days?"

"I'm saying it's possible. That's all."

Sierra grinned. "What's this, is Rum becoming subtly more dedicated to the cause? You've built something of a mythos around this guy now. We better get back on track before we lose the point."

Alex stood with a stretch. "Sierra's right. We shouldn't get too bogged down with assumptions. So ... our next target is the 'Grey Oaks Retirement home.' Anyone know where it is?"

The group silenced to gather thoughts - silence broken by the intrusion of an outsider.

"I know where that is!" a ragged voice cried out from the other group of bums. A nearby bum burst from the other crowd, lunging forth with an outstretched hand for permission to speak. He tripped on a box and crashed to the ground.

That's when they noticed all those other tramps gawking in on their conversation. They at once shifted innocently back to showcase positions around the bin fire.

The tramp who came forward pressed up from the ground. He opened his lips to speak, but hesitated upon noticing Sierra. "Hey, ain't you that girl from the park?"

Sierra tried looking past the splotches of dirt on his face. "Len! I didn't recognise you. What are you doing out this far?"

"Begging. It is Christmas Eve, more people shopping out this way more cash for me." He grinned widely, unleashing a vengeful odour of alcohol. "And you're with Rum 'n' all. Then again, when are you not?"

"You know each other?" Alex asked Rum quietly.

"He hangs around the park. He's good for the drink," Rum whispered back.

"What about yourselves? Don't often see young Rum away from the park like this."

"Call it a daytrip - against my will," Rum said.

"Sounded like one hell of a day trip."

"Right, you were listening after all."

"Didn't have a choice couldn't hear anything else."

"You said you know where Grey Oaks is?"

"Know it? Sure, I used to live there for a time. Then they started running out of funds, and well, let's say I'm doing better here on the street than some of the poor old bastards in that place." He searched his memory. "It's about a block from here, if I remember. Follow the river then cross the next bridge. It should be right across the road from there. That's as good as I can do."

Sierra repeated the directions to herself.

"You watch it out there. That place is a rough neighbourhood these days. Guy could go in and never come out."

"We'll keep our heads low," Sierra said.

"Won't matter, they'll come to you. I guarantee. But forget about that, worry when it comes. You're a good ways from home, stay here a while. We got a fire, always good to be warm. And if you happen to have some drink on you," he said the next part slyly, "all the better then."

"Sorry Len, I'm all out." Rum raised his arms to indicate such, coat rattling with the stolen bottles.

"Sure sounds like it."