The blond guy who’d been bidding for Medusa ambushed Steve three feet from the door. “Mr. Jaax? This is a real pleasure. Let me introduce myself. Bob Reynolds.” He stuck out his hand, and Steve, a sucker for good manners and not adverse to making nice with someone who’d been about to drop sixty-five thousand on a piece of crap—now that it was cabana fodder, it had been relegated to the realms of “crap”—took it. “Hi, Bob.” “I’m sure you don’t recognize the name. Heck. You probably get a hundred letters a week, but I’m the guy who’s been hounding you about going to Minnesota to act as grand marshal in that little town’s sesquicentennial.” Oddly enough, this was actually ringing a bell. Something to do with a parade and snow and—Oh, yeah! “Verie,” Steve said, as his agent, having finished licking some society columnist’s fingers, sidled up, “this is Bob. Bob, Verie. Bob wants me to go to Minnesota and sit on a snowmobile—” “An ATV, actually.”
