You Bet Your Life: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Three) - Plot & Excerpts
Merle coughed her way through breakfast and put up a half-hearted resistance to the orange juice I forced on her. Narducy just looked at his coffee and pulled out a copy of the Chicago Times, a tabloid with a little line drawing of a camera looking at the reader at the top of the page. Merle had a half box of Rice Krispies on a high shelf, which wasn’t so appetizing, but she also had two brown bananas, which compensated. I had three bowls of Krispies with bananas and read about Servi being found on the Lincoln Park bench frozen solid. The story was on page four with no picture. My tale of murder and machine-gunning, under O’Brien’s by-line, made page three with one-column shots of Bistolfi, Canetta, Morris Kelakowsky, and me. The photo of me was the worst, which seemed unfair since I was the only one of the quartet still alive. They had dug up an employment photo from my Glendale police days and had it sent by wire. It was a good ten years old. As awful as I felt, I knew I looked a lot better than that right now.
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