Right now we’re on the way to Vegas, Bernie behind the wheel, me riding shotgun. Is there anything better than riding shotgun in the Porsche? A real old Porsche, by the way. Sometimes we get some bad noises and lots of smoke, and then Bernie takes out the tools and pops the hood. Nothing good ever happens after that. How come we’re going to Vegas? Bernie has to speak at a detectives convention. He told them no lots of times but they kept twisting his arm. That’s what he told Suzie – “They twisted my arm.” But when? Not when I was around. Anyone trying to twist Bernie’s arm would have to get past me first. Anyway, he’s very nervous. He keeps going over the speech out loud. I don’t understand it at all, but the desert breeze blowing all around me feels great. And what’s that up ahead? A roadrunner?
“Hey, Chet – easy, boy.”
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