Chapter 13
An expert interrogator I’m not. I don’t have the heart for it, or, as it turned out, the supplies. What I’ve always lacked in preparedness though, I make up for in resourcefulness.
Or, as Uncle Higheagle sometimes says, Boy, you don’t plan for s**t, but you sure can fake your way out of trouble.
One furniture dolly with squeaky wheels, one full roll of duct tape, and three ratchet straps later, I was ready to begin.
Phil stood strapped to the furniture dolly like some particularly scuzzy work of art, The Stinker, maybe, instead of The Thinker. Bound to the dolly at the chest, waist, and knees, ankles taped together, his hands lost in a ball of silver tape, my guest was as cozy as he was likely to get.
I began with coffee, for me, not him. It was the next best thing to actua
