Must be two hundred billion bad ass ugly trees in New Jersey’s pine barrens. And half of them are staring back at me, blocking my course. I feel like a tick, fighting his way across a dog’s hairy back. My progress is slow and increasingly unsteady. Through, around and under these nasty scrub pine trees is a trail I carve myself, each step a road builder. Adding to my immobility, Gianni’s bug-out bag hangs on my back like a dead horse. Although there is a lot of good stuff in there. Checking the compass, for instance, I know I’m hiking due east. This is strategically important because I can’t negotiate two steps without tripping over a cone, make two yards without ducking under a snapped, sharp limb. I’ve suffered equally tough terrain getting to a bathroom stall at Giant Stadium, true, but keeping my direction would be impossible for this backwoods tenderfoot were it not for Gianni’s unusual compass. Inside a hexagon-shaped, black plastic frame, the bubble lens magnifies a tightly-bunched field, the N, S, E and W part of a luridly 1960s psychedelic nude woman with large breasts.
What do You think about Big Money (Austin Carr Mystery)?
