By Clint McElroy
HQ 133 | Spring 2026
The rain spattered off the brim of my fedora, streamed forward and ran down my trench coat like it had a personal grudge. I flipped up the collar in an ineffectual effort to keep the cold water from soaking my cheap suit. It was my first trip to Huntington. I’d been in town 36 hours, and it had rained for 35 of them. I’d heard Huntington was a real nice place to live. I needed convincing.
Name’s Grabsdawabz. Gobs Grabsdawabz. I’m a private investigator — P.I., if you’re in the biz. I was working a missing persons case. The trail had gone cold. Colder than the rain. But it had led me here. The sign out front said “Nick’s News.”
I was hoping the news would be good. I walked in.
The smell hit me first, and I knew I was home. I’d been in hundreds of joints like this. The scent of books is unmistakable — wood pulp and dust, leather and time. Libraries smell that way. Bookstores, too. This was similar, but different. Add a hint of Juicy Fruit and a whiff of cigarette smoke, and you’ve got a cologne I’d wear any day of the week.
I flashed my P.I. license at the mug behind the counter. He studied it like it might bite him.
“What kinda name is Grabsdawabz?” he asked.
“I’ll ask the questions,” I growled.
“Then I guess you better be ready to answer ’em yourself,” he said, staring straight through me.
I’d misjudged him. Thought my Big City Tough Guy routine would bowl over a small-town shopkeep.
“It’s Vulgarian,” I said. “You Nick?”
“Nick opened the place in the mid-’30s. Ran it over a decade. Been gone about 30 years now. We’re on our second owners. Second location, even.”
The guy had good patter. I gave him that.
“Long time to stay in business,” I said.
“This joint is the heart of Huntington,” he replied. “People come in for out-of-town papers, magazines, greeting cards, candy.”
“Is that what Clint McElroy came in for?” I asked.
A suspicious look registered on his puss and vanished just as quickly.
“Why?”
“I’m looking for him. Missing persons. His mother hasn’t heard from him.”
A bead of sweat worked its way down his face.
“No newspapers. He came in for comics,” he said. “He’s nuts about ’em. Spider-Man. Justice League of America. Archie. He comes every Wednesday. New Comics Day.”
“Today’s Wednesday,” I said.
“Yeah. He was here about an hour ago. Hit National Record Mart next door, bought Chicago VII, came back, picked up the new X-Men and some Freshen Up gum, then took off.”
“So he’s not missing.”
“Why, did his mom report him missing?” he snorted. “Kid’s 21. Lives right here in Huntington. His mom’s in Florida.”
“She said he hasn’t called in almost a week.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Sounds like my mom.”
Maybe it was the rain. Maybe it was the wasted day and a half. Maybe it was because it sounded like my mom too. Whatever the reason, I snapped. I grabbed him by the tie and yanked him in until we were nose-to-nose.
“What about NUDIE MAGS?!” I yelled.
“Nah!” he barked back. “He never touches ’em!”
“No,” I said. “I meant for me.”
The rain had stopped when I stepped back onto the street. The sun was breaking through the clouds as I patted my trench coat pocket. My copy of Stag Magazine was safe and dry, wrapped in a brown paper bag.
I walked down Fourth Avenue and thought to myself, “Yeah, this is a nice town.”
