"Mohr, L C - Fortune's Cookie" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mohr L C)

My smile came a little easier this time. As always, Jeff had made me feel better.

At first. "But why wouldn't I be around..." I began. But our train pulled into the station and, as usual, people began scrambling over us as though being the first one off merited some sort of prize.

"Besides," he said as we disembarked. "You know what they say: the fourth time's the charm."

"It's the third time that's the charm -- I'm her third husband," I meant to tell Jeff, but I was too busy jumping out of the way of a speeding car that was about to hit me -- or so it seemed.

Train stations are like that, but I was still a little shaken up when I got to my office. I sat behind my desk, trying to calm my trembling hands. That wasn't all that was trembling, but nobody could see my knees.

I picked up my phone -- to call Cookie. I put it down again.

I picked up my phone -- to call Jeff. I put it down again.

What would I say? "Hi, old pal. Don't get married, old pal. My wife and kids are trying to kill me..."

Is that what I thought was happening? Was Cookie trying to kill me? Why? For an insurance policy? But as of yesterday, they were still processing that policy, weren't they?

I buzzed my admin ass. "Melissa? Do you remember the name of Mr. Drummer's firm?"

"Who?"

I tsked to myself -- I was always having to jar Melissa's memory. "That insurance man who stopped in late yesterday..."

"Oh, you mean Mr. Pfifer? I think he said American Insurance."

"Can you get the number for me, please?"

"Do you want me to get him on the phone?"

"No, just give me the company's number."

After several sessions on Muzak-accompanied hold, I was told that there was no Mr. Pfifer, Piper or Drummer working for the American Insurance Company.

** ** **

When I got home that night there was a car blocking our driveway. Now, I don't have many pet peeves in life -- well, actually, I do have quite a few; but I can think of no acceptable reason for blocking another person's driveway unless that driveway is already full of vehicles. In this case, my nice empty driveway was beckoning -- just out of reach.

I flung the front door open with what Billie and Jillie would call "an attitude."

"Cookie!" I began. "Whose car..."

There was a strange man sitting on our couch. And sitting next to him was Mr. Pfifer.

I gaped.

Mr. Pfifer looked directly into my eyes. "Good evening, Mr. Bentley," he said.

I continued gaping.