And familiar. The last time I had seen a device like this one had been a lifetime ago. Frankly, I thought I'd never see one again. And I certainly hadn't expected to find another ticking time bomb in the ladies' bathroom at Jimmy G's new family restaurant. Had I not spilled the entire contents of my purse while doing my business in the far stall, I never would've found it. But there I was, on all fours, chasing a runaway lipstick when I came nose-to-nose with a couple of sticks of old dynamite taped together and wired to a battery. An old wind-up clock ticked off the seconds. Three minutes. And, with the Fourth of July celebrations this weekend, the city was bursting at the seams—Jimmy G had a full house. I glanced at my watch, marking the time. Forgetting the rest of my wayward personal items, I backed out of the tight space, grabbed my purse—no one leaves a Hermes Birkin anywhere, bomb or no bomb—and hurried out of the bathroom. Jimmy G was at his normal table in the bar by the piano, nursing his ubiquitous glass of Pinot Noir, and bending the ear of some enraptured, sweet young thing.
