Page 33 of Skotos
As soon as the man spotted us, he beamed like we were long-lost friends and prattled on like a young girl who’d just been kissed for the first time.
“Gentlemen! Welcome to the land of precision, chocolate, and world-class neutrality. I am Otto. You are FBI, yes? Real agents?”
“As real as we can be.” Thomas gave a faint smile.
Otto’s eyes sparkled. “Ah,fantastique! I have so many questions, but first—your luggage. Hand them here, please.”
Showing far more strength than his wiry frame revealed, he flung our bags into the trunk like they were made of feathers, then jumped behind the wheel and peeled away from the terminal with barely a glance at the road. “So tell me—do you find ghosts with your bureau?”
I blinked. “Ghosts?”
“Yes, yes! I read you are ‘spooks.’ This is your nickname, no?”
I shot a look at Thomas, who appeared ready to leap from the moving vehicle. “That’s a different kind of spook, Otto.”
“Ahhh,” Otto said, nodding solemnly. “Of course. American idioms are like eggs in a blender.”
I couldn’t help it—I snorted.
Otto grinned at me in the rearview mirror. “I am right, no? You throw them all together and boom! No one knows what the omelet is.”
Thomas groaned softly and leaned into the window. “Close enough.”
“And tell me—do you live off the grits?”
“Grid,” I corrected, another snort slipping free.
“Like a griddle? Does that have special meaning? It makes no sense, living on a frying pan. That would be silly . . . and difficult . . . unless the pan was quite large.”
I covered my mouth to stifle another laugh. “No, not like a griddle. A grid, you know, rows and columns of lines, like an architect might use.”
“A grid?” Otto quirked his brow and muttered a few words in German I didn’t catch. “Why would you live on lines? That makes no sense.”
“Americans rarely make sense,” I offered, hoping to ward off any further inquires or chatter.
Thomas mumbled something about regretting every one of his life decisions that led to this moment. I patted his leg in sympathy.
Otto wasn’t deterred. “Is true you wear only cowboy boots at home? That all Americans chew gum while they fight crime? Does every American own a rifle?”
“Only on Thursdays,” I said.
“Thursday gum! I love it.” He brightened. “Wait, do you mean gum on Thursday or cowboy boots?”
“Both,” I deadpanned. “We couldn’t wear cowboy boots without chewing gum. They go together.”
“Ah,” he said, as though some vital information just fit together like perfect furniture joints. “And UFOs? You do not believe in them, but your government does?”
Thomas muttered, “We just got off a seven-hour flight, Otto.”
Even Thomas’s grousing couldn’t kill the grin creeping onto my face. Otto’s enthusiasm was contagious.
“Tell me about Ohio,” he said.
“Otto,” I said, half laughing, “Ohio?”
“Yes!” he exclaimed. “It is the promised land for potatoes, no? Flat, fertile, heavenly loam. I will buy a tractor and name him Henry.”
“Henry?” I had to fight tears. “I’m sure the tractor will appreciate that.”
