An old man with grey-white hair (with just a few wisps of red) and a heavy five o’clock shadow, as well as heavy bags under his eyes, stepped into the Greasy Spoon. He was carrying a stack of flyers in one arm. 

	The whole diner grew awkwardly silent. The man behind the counter was the first to speak up. “H-hey, Angus... Sorry about your granddaughter, man. What can we do for you, and your daughter?”

	The eponymous “Angus” looked around the diner, nervously, before speaking up in a heavy Scottish accent. “Yes, uh, I was… I want to put a flier or two in the window?”

	The man looked confused, “I thought Greg an’ them were already putting out a search for-”

	“They’re not going to find any [i]man[/i], and you know it! I’m posting a bounty for the will-o-wisp what killed my granddaughter!”

	A man in a denim jacket and aviator sunglasses at the counter lowered his copy of the local paper, looking to the old man. “Mr. McColm?” Whoever this man was, he knew enough Gaelic culture to pronounce the name correctly; sounding it out like ‘column’. He hopped off the bar stool he was sitting at, gave a conspicuous glance around the diner, and approached the old man, trying to speak in hushed tones, “Sir, I thought we had an understanding; you need to trust us, and let us handle this.”

	Angus wasn’t having any of it, he drew himself up straight, and spoke louder, “[i]You[/i] don’ tell me mah business, Irishman! The sheriff an’ ‘em are wasting time-”

	“Angus!” The man’s shout was sharp, and sudden, as he took off his own sunglasses to look the man in the eye. He stunned the old man into silence, with his intensity, so he’d achieved his goal, but composed himself to continue quietly, “we need to step outside, where we can talk in private, alright?”

	The whole diner was tense, now. Angus shook his head, “No, I have a right-”

	“Please don’t make me use the handcuffs, sir. I am deputized, and you’re disturbing the peace.” The old man reddened at that, but closed his eyes, nodded, and quietly walked out ahead of the apparent deputy.

	He stopped at the door, and spoke aloud, to the patrons, “You all can go about your business, I’ve got this. And be sure to be inside before dark; just because we’re no longer searching for Moira McColm, doesn’t mean we’ve lifted the curfew.” He put his shades back on, and stepped out, proceeding to have a discreet conversation with the old man in the cab of a camper truck, out front.

	At that same time, a local police vehicle was slowly driving along main street, speaking over a loud speaker, “Curfew, comin’ up. The curfew is still in effect, folks. Finish your business, and get on home.”

	The squad car turned the corner, driving past the town square, just in front of the grocer/drug store. There was an ‘incident’, for lack of a better term. It had stopped, before the car had glided up to the scene, and they seemed to be trying to talk to… Whoever she was, she wasn’t a local. The window of the squad car rolled down as the vehicle came to a stop.

	“Ma’am, are these gentleman bothering you?” The deputy in the drivers’ seat had a look of annoyance on his face, and stared daggers at them the whole time he spoke, even though he was talking to her. “I can tell you’re not from around here; I’d recognize you, otherwise. Whatever your business in Nowhere, is, I’d advise against violating curfew, or hanging around with the ‘village idiots’. Who, I’m sure, are red-eyed on account of shedding tears of sympathy for the McColms, in this time of tragedy, and aren’t in need of a ride to the station for a drug test-”

	“Now, now, Deputy Holtz, no need to be so hard on these young men. You’ll make the visitors think twice about coming back- current events, not withstanding!”

	A man in a very professional suit was just reaching the end of the parking lot, a grocery bag in one arm, a carton of milk in the other. He had a devil-may care smile, and a mischievous look in his eyes. “I’ll see to escorting these people home.” He had a look over the two men, and arched an eyebrow, “...Or where-ever it is they’re staying for the night. Meet you at the station, after curfew, Deputy. You go ahead and finish your patrol.”

	The Deputy looked even more annoyed with this man and his dismissive attitude than with Ozzie, but gave him a curt nod, rolling up his window as he gave his grumpy farewell, “I’ll meet you at the station, Agent Brand.” And rolled along, resuming his broadcasting through the streets.

	Once he was gone, the be-suited man spoke up, again, “I apologize for not minding my own business; I just don’t see any good to be had by hammers treating every problem as a nail- we, in the FBI, prefer a more subtle approach, less blunt force, more… Finesse. So, where are we all going? Mustn’t go about lying to the local authorities, after all...”

	Another conspicuous glance at ‘Cheech and Chong’, and at the woman, “And to whom do I owe the pleasure?...”