Red's Bar was filled with the usual mixture of U of M students, raucous townies, and cowboys shooting pool. I sipped my whiskey and mulled over what I had found so far in Missoula. The package had come from the town post office with no return address, but the bartender at the Bayern Brewery had told me that there was a place on North Avenue where a musician made instruments by hand. I had snooped out the place. It smelled like varnish, and a dead end. The balding hippie who ran the place seemed far too vague, and too poor, to be involved in Murder or Money Laundering.I was draining my glass, when I felt something cold nudge the back of my neck."Are you ready to die?" A deep voice intoned."Not particularly."

"Then give me the five bucks you owe me." Booming laughter came from behind me. I turned and looked up at a 7 foot Cree Indian in a Stetson. "I'll be damned! Leon Gardipee!"

"How you doin homes," said Gardipee, pulling up the stool next to me. I thanked whatever Prankster Deity that had the guidance of my soul in his hands. Leon was an old friend who had worked both sides of the law in his time. He had been a Navy Seal in Nam, a Native Rights Activist, and the most skilled marijuana smuggler in Southwest Montana. If anybody could help me get to the bottom of this, it was Leon."Four Roses times two", I told the bartender.