Political Analysis (From Thereby Hangs A Tail)
“When the rich get too rich,” Bernie said, “is when the problems start.”
Problems? I suppose we had some, but I couldn’t think of them at the moment. We were somewhere I’d never been – and that was always fun – an airstrip out in the desert, with lots of small planes on the ground, sparkling in the sun.
“Any idea what it costs to run one of those babies, never mind pony up in the first place?” Bernie said.
Ponies: don’t get me started. I had a nice stretch, the walking kind, gave myself a shake, circled around a bit and lay down on the shady side of the car. A little snack of some sort would have been nice, otherwise no complaints. I heard a distant buzz, very faint, that seemed to come from beyond some mountains, brown and bare.
“The ancien regime all over again,” Bernie said, “minus the powdered wigs.”
I glanced over at him, leaning against the car. When Bernie worried he got lines on his face that weren’t normally there. He had them now. What was he worried about? All I understood from that last remark was powder. There was gunpowder, of course, so … hey! I got it! Bernie was worried about how we got shot at. Was I cooking or what? All of a sudden my mind was running at top speed. Victor Prole alibied out, even though he looked and smelled right for the shooter role. So our next move had to be all about ID-ing the shooter. I was in the picture, understood the whole enchilada just like Bernie. And why not? We were partners, after all, although the only enchilada I’d ever tried – snapped up at a dead run in an alley while chasing a gangbanger weighed down by heavy gold chains – ended up disagreeing with me.
Welcome Nick and Chomps.
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