Moving Right Along
“Let’s go over what we know about Freddie Dancer,” Bernie said. We were in the Porsche, me riding shotgun. Maybe this is a good time to explain that this isn’t some new fancy Porsche, but a real old one. Not the real old one we had before – if you read Dog On It you know what happened to that – but a new real old one, brown with yellow doors. It’s the one in Thereby Hangs a Tail. Bernie says to mention that’ll be out January 5, just in case anyone is wondering. If not, forget all that.
“Freddie Dancer’s not his real name, of course,” Bernie said. Uh-oh. This was getting complicated already. When it comes to names, Bernie is Bernie Little, Charlie’s his kid, Leda used to be Bernie’s wife, Suzie likes Bernie and Bernie likes Suzie, I think, but then there’s the problem of Dylan McKnight – maybe we’ll get into that later – and I’m Chet, pure and simple. Whew. A lot of information!
“Chet? You panting, big guy? Thirsty, maybe? How about a quick drink?” We stopped on the desert track. Bernie turned off the car. All of a sudden it was very quiet. One of those strange buttes rose in the distance, red in the sun, although Bernie says I can’t be trusted when it comes to colors. Bernie poured water in my traveling bowl. The trickle in the sunshine was a lovely sight. I had no complaints.
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