Chapter Twenty-Nine
Hugo’s Shameless Palms
As I expected, I found Hugo Farnsworth on his boat. It was a hot afternoon, and the Mediterranean sun blazed in a cloudless sky. He was literally on the deck of the boat, his lank body stretched out clad in only a pair of cutoff shorts and his battered topsiders. He was brown as a nut, and for the first time I noted the carpet of graying hair on his chest. Since I saw him last, his mustache had grown thicker and the hair on the top of his head thinner. It occurred to me that a transplant from chest to pate could be just the thing, not that the P.M. would care, but perhaps to avoid sunburn?
He was perched on an elbow, sucking on a bottle of Stella Artois. I wondered whether it was originally the name of some woman. My mind works like that.
His
