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We bought a couple of Powerball tickets yesterday, mostly because we thought it would be a good way of warding off being struck by lightening while simultaneously being stung by bees and gnawed by sharks in our kitchen, which is approximately 950 miles away from the nearest ocean.
But if I don’t make the rounds in a timely fashion today, it may mean I’m out at a car dealership, looking at Lamborghinis—perhaps one for each foot. Or maybe I’m just taking a nap and dreaming of a working Honda . . .
Meanwhile, this week’s passage is about that pesky John Anderson-Smith, who’s been present at a lot of mysterious deaths, including the murder for which our Clyota was framed. Mr. Anderson-Smith has a way of installing revolving doors in police holding cells—but it doesn’t look as if he’s ever been held in a Library detention cell before. . .
“Anderso— the unknown gentleman is still in the Cooler, right?” I asked.
“First thing I checked this morning,” said Charlie. “He tried to lawyer up , which is tough to do without phone privileges, then tried a bribe—so once he does cough up some ID, he’ll be visiting our friends in Federal court.” He rolled his eyes. “We’re going to have to file his incident report under ‘Crime dash dash Stupidity.’”
“Good,” I said, looking at Reynard, who was frowning. “Not good?”
“The problem,” he said, “with trapping the devil one knows, is that one is then forced to deal with unknown devils.”
Earful of Cider 