Chetspeak On Sunday
And then we were off, out of our neighborhood, up onto the freeway, into the passing lane. Vroom! I sank against the back rest.
“This baby can fly!” Bernie said.
Or something like that, his voice drowned out by a siren. Then a motorcycle came whizzing up beside us, blue lights flashing, and we pulled over. But no problem: it was Fritzie Bortz, an old pal. He got off the bike, not without some trouble – Fritzie was a terrible motorcycle driver with lots of crashes on his record – and came up to Bernie’s side.
“Hey!” he said. “Bernie!”
“And Chet – lookin’ good, Chet.”
So nice to see Fritzie. My tail started wagging.
“How’re things?” Fritzie said.
“No complaints,” said Bernie.
“Cool. Love those martini glasses – wouldn’t have bothered pulling you over otherwise. I was actually on my way home – haven’t had a day off since last Tuesday.”
“No one’s ever said you’re not a hard worker.”
“Thanks, Bernie. I do what I can.” Then he took out his ticket book, flipped a page, reached behind his ear for a pen.
“Fritzie? What are you doing?”
“Writing you up,” Fritzie said. “Might even make my quota on this – I had you at one-oh-three.”
– from A Fistful Of Collars
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