Style, you
either have it or you
don't. And if you have it, you have it
all the time.The Rogue Goes to the Dogs
by Tux Toledo
Page 19
"The
lab report, sir," he said.
I read it and gave him my best penetrating Bogart stare.
"I think it's time to visit Lester Mospeete," I said.
"I believe that would be in order, sir."
James found Lester's address and we drove to a cozy five bedroom
bungalow in Pacific Heights. A black Mercedes sedan occupied
the driveway. James parked the Rolls next to the curb in
front of the house.
"Interesting," I said, nodding toward the car.
"It could simply be a coincidence," James said. "They are
quite common."
"Yes, they are."
We navigated a moss-covered winding brick walkway to Lester's
house. He opened the door when we rang.
"Hello," I said. "I'm Winston Churchill."
"I haven't got time for jokes," Lester said. He began to
close the door on us but James stopped it with his foot. Good
chauffeur, that James.
"Do you have time to talk about Nick Arthur?" I asked.
Lester recoiled slightly like he had been kicked in the shoulder by a
.410 gauge shotgun.
"Nick Arthur?" he said.
"Yes. And Spectrum Pharmaceuticals."
"Are you a reporter?"
"Of course not. Do reporters have chauffeurs?"
He looked at James and then at the Rolls. "Come in," he
said. He silently led us into his home.
It was a dark house with dark paneling, dark curtains, and dark
furniture. It felt damp even though it wasn't.
Lester led us into his study and plopped himself into a stuffed
chair. His wiry eyebrows drooped heavily over his
eyes. Tufts of thinning hair nearly obscured a once prominent
widow’s peak. His suit was off-the-shelf and was as droopy as
his eyebrows.
© 2008 David Biagini