Uncle Jim was a silhouette in headlights, shotgun
on his hood, another in his hands. He held steady as we emerged. “I’ve
seen prettier pimentos stuck to the sink after a two day martini
bender.”
I shielded my eyes. “Good to see you, too. Could you kill the lights?”
“Depends. You both you?”
Nate
looked at me like a jigsaw puzzle he thought he’d finished only to find
the center missing. “As much as we can be, after that. Got whiskey?”
“Yeah, that’s you.” Jimmy shut off the lights and grabbed a bottle. “Capture the critter?”
I flinched. “Not exactly.”
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