“I’m fixing Skee-Ball machines for eight forty an hour and there’s a hundred grand waiting for us.”
“I wouldn’t say waiting for us. Anyway, I have to read about the effects of smallpox on indigenous populations tonight,
so I can’t really solve The Case of the Fugitive Billionaire.”
I eased Harold up to highway speed. I never drove him faster than the speed limit. I loved him too much.
“Well, you know him better than I do, so to quote the infallible boys in the world’s greatest pop group, ‘You’re the One,’”
which was this super-cheesy song I was way too old to love, but loved nonetheless.
“I want to disagree with you, but that is such a great song.”
“You’re. The. One. ‘You’re the one that I choose. The one I’ll never lose. You’re my forever. My stars. My sky. My air. It’s you.’”
We laughed, and I changed the radio station and thought it was over, but then Daisy started reading me an Indianapolis Star story from her phone.
“‘Russell Pickett, the controversial CEO and founder of Pickett Engineering,
wasn’t home when a search warrant was served by the Indianapolis police Friday morning, and he hasn’t been home since.
Pickett’s lawyer, Simon Morris, says he has no information about Pickett’s whereabouts,
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