I came to, many hours later, in the Winnebago's bathroom. My pockets had been rifled and the card with Brinkley's info on it was gone. My head felt war-torn and mango, I could barely think. He worked behind the counter. He was the one always getting snotty about me washing my feet in their bathroom sink.
Feet are dirty.
They'd used Brinkley as bait and he'd fallen for it like a chump with an anvil parachute. He had a cassette in his hand. With this tape, I can rule the entire fiefdom of Phishery. He popped it into his Walkman, fingers trembling with excitement. All of 20 seconds in, a look of horror swept over his face.