Putting Our Heads Together
“A guy like Foster doesn’t leave money on the table,” Bernie said. We were sitting in the car at the empty housing development; a big scrap of pink insulation blew by. I didn’t like the smell of insulation, not one bit. And the wind was also carrying this other scent, very faint, but –
“I mean, money’s his raison d’etre, right?” Bernie said. Raisins? Were raisins coming out? Not my favorite, but I was pretty hungry at the moment, would settle for just about anything. But Bernie didn’t reach into his pocket, or the glove box, or anywhere else raisins might be. Also, did I smell raisins? No.
“On the other hand,” said Bernie, “there are probably underlying psychological motives with the Fosters of the world. And certainly with the Albies. Although maybe not the Nuggets Bolliterris.” Hey! I remembered Nuggets. Did he actually eat that light bulb? Hope he was doing okay now in his orange jumpsuit.
“Sure would be interesting to know whether Foster’s really headed for L.A.,” Bernie said. Would it? Didn’t seem interesting to me, but if Bernie said it was then that was that. “But the only way to approach that problem is to check the one place he definitely won’t be if his story is straight up.” Bernie sighed. “I just hate going there, that’s all.”
I waited to find out where, or to find out what he was talking about in general, or for a snack of just about any kind. There’s a lot of waiting in this business.
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