Bob McTartny called me today, and asked me over to share a glass of Simpleton's whisky with him. I gladly accepted, and bought a copy of The Moon for him, so he would have something to read, while I was drinking.
Bob has changed a lot since the Reapers disolved in the 1960s, when I first met him. To start with, he no longer is so tall that I have troubles reaching his trouser pockets. Second he has become one of the richest persons in the USA - probably only behind Ingvar Kamprad and the Queen.
However, this time he was not interested in bragging about his money. At the hotel, where he was staying, he had played poker with some other guests. By a pure coincidence, all seven of them had received a telegram that particular day. To make the game more interesting, they had played about the telegrams. No one had opened their envelope, and the winner of each game could choose any telegram he wanted.
Bob had not had one of his best days. Quite the opposite actually. If there ever had been a bad day, this was it. He lost game after game, and he saw how the other players happily pocketed one cable after the other from the pile.
In the end there was just one cable left, and poor Bob had had to take it. It had been for one of the other players, called Windola. The content was unfortunately not of the uplifting kind, and Bob is now called to stand trial tomorrow for five bank robberies and one speed limit transgression.
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