The Rusty Bell was no Three Seasons, nor was Feliks Moroe an Artuma. Certainly not in a physical sense. He was short, fat and seemed to sport his long... greasy hair with a pride that defied its stringy appearance. I arranged for a private room and two meals; tonight's dinner and tomorrow's breakfast.I found a small table by the fireplace and sat facing the middle of the room. The crowd here didn't look all that rough, but I didn't want to let any opportunistic types come to the opinion that I. “I’m lucky Edwin didn’t see it when I gave him a ride last night. He’d never let me hear the end of it.”Cal knew that the image of the black umbrella and his Mustang didn’t fit well together, but he stayed dry while others ran from their cars to the door, so who had the last laugh? Cal went in the street level door and pumped his umbrella to shake off the rainwater. He folded it up and snapped the little strap that held it together and then found an out of the way corner in which to stash it.He. More

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