“Heard you got a cat.”
I was in my bathrobe and dew-soaked slippers trying to retrieve the Sunday newspaper from my very wet lawn.
The big black Mercedes was entering the town of Fitzville. It was preceded by the sounds of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. The townspeople recognized the car and its musical horn and watched as it stopped in front of the Cigar Emporium. A tall, fat man emerged. He walked through the front door of the shop and soon reappeared, a chubby Cuban cigar in his mouth. He blew out a cloud of smoke and waved to the people. The man was a private detective often called by the Fitzville police when a major crime took place. His name was Eugene Oregon.
