From: Lester <maxim@netcom.com>
Date: Thu, 16 Oct 1997 18:33:44 -0700 (PDT)
Subject: The Logo Fyles #4
Message-id: <Pine.3.89.9710161813.A4024-0100000@netcom7>
"What scurvy goonda has stolen the cork to my lunch?" -- W. C. FliskWhen Kora's cold, ironic laugh trailed off, she said, "Were you drinking, you ask? Let me see. There was a tense moment when you stopped drinking, I'd say around nine. You had just drained the mobby bottle and thought we'd run dry. So you blagged my cooking advocaat and quetsch. After that, I can't say. I was busy packing."
Packing? He looked around. The closet floor, which yesterday had been cluttered to overflowing with her velskoens and bottines, was bare.
He realized she was still talking. "--where you went, I don't know. When I left, you were joypopping roborants and trying to stuff your sam-timer into your shirt pocket."
"Listen, jarta, let me make it up to -- "
"Gertcha, drongo. If you want to see me again, show up with a Betty Ford diploma."
"I'll -- "
A loud pop in his ear, followed by the dial tone. "Tedy mawr. You'll come crawling back." He slammed down the receiver.
Well, at least she had given him a clue to last night. Sam timer. He must have gone to Mineola. The casino. "Maybe my nightmare was real," Brond said to no one.
From the bedside table, Kora's zinco snapshot mocked him. He had not gotten up yet, but was ready to call it a jour.