LIND ASKED. “SPINAL TAP? Bothered with impacted teeth? Lover’s catarrh? I’m always looking for a live one.” Goddard grinned and indicated the skull jammed behind some books on the desk. “Not if that’s a former patient.” “Bought it from a Moro down in the Celebes,” Lind said. “You can still see where somebody got him with a bolo; probably the guy who sold it to me. Drink? Short one before lunch?” “Sure, if it’s that or surgery,” Goddard said. Lind yanked open a drawer and brought out a bottle of Canadian Club and two glasses. “Did you know that the references to wine in the New Testament really meant Welch’s grape juice? It was a faulty translation from the Greek.” “Yeah, I’ve heard that,” Goddard said. He looked around the cabin again. While at first glance it would appear it could only have been assembled by a pack rat, a madman, or the vortex of a tornado, a more subjective appraisal revealed the blazing and restless mind that complemented the vast male exuberance of its tenant.
