”“His name?”“Paul Carlisi.”“That’s Detective Jones. Follow me.”The woman stood and walked towards the back of the big room. She led us...to the desk of a black man.“Detective Jones, this is Mrs. Carlisi.”He stood and welcomed me.“This is my friend Diana O’Dell. She has some things to put into the report.”“Please sit down and let me get my recorder ready.”“You don’t type that fast?” Deb said with a chuckle.“I most certainly do not. I’ll record our conversation and make notes. Then I’ll turn it. . you know, Mrs. Foster? She's nice, isn't she?" Alan nodded. "Junior's not such a bad kid, either." When he's let outside... which is never." Yeah, well... they can't really leave Mr. Foster, so if he's forcedout-" -Why not?!" Why not? Why not what?" Why can't they leave him?!"Grant breathed out. "...It... they..." He paused. He wanted to givehis son an answer. Any answer. Because frankly, Grant Carson wanted tounderstand it himself."...Because it's complicated, son," he settled on. . but I could go to my grave secure in the knowledge that France appreciated my actions by providing the information about the girls in South America.Then the territorial police put the certificate in a file, stamped it TOP SECRET and put the file away in a safe at the Deuxième Bureau de l'État-major général (Second Bureau of the General Staff). France ... what can I say ... they're French.As I was saying, as we finished up with the assorted Ambassadors and Chargé d'Affaires and everybody had. But you want to know about the fingering, don’t you? Alright, back to the matter in hand (arf arf)… Lying on my back, staring at the moon which cast its pearly light down on me (certain writers would, I am sure, mention something about allegorical spunk dripping down on me from the lusty Man in the Moon), I had my knees bent out sideways almost frog-like (not French, silly, just… kind of frog-like), leaving the two lips of my … I can’t bring myself to use the technical words as they sound.
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