Frank

Mrs. Sprindlebone was touching his thigh, her hand moving northward ever closer to the pole.

»I might make a trumpet of my ass,« murmured Frank. He was thinking of the Oscar Mayer weiner. Lunch was never a simple matter on the Lost Highway.

»Ma gavta la nata,« said Mrs. Sprindlebone. »In other words, shush.«

»Thief! You stole that from Umberto Eco.«

»No one reads Fucko's Pendulum. What do I have to worry about?«

She stroked and stroked, her hands like a soft-edged waterwheel.