"And you're a bad liar, Epstein. You want to see what's going on inside of that VFW hall as much as I do."
"All right Dionne," he said angrily. "But if anything starts going down, you're on your own."
I took a deep breath and tried to conceal my jagged nerves as we entered the Hall. They say the Nebraskaners can smell fear a mile away, and I would be damned if my life was going to end over a red plastic basket of deep-fried cod and a can of Falstaff.
I could feel the eyes of the lodge penetrating my coat as we walked across the linoleum and took a seat in a booth near the skee-ball machine. A zaftig waitress approached.
"Tell her I'd like the pan-seared mahi-mahi, and a glass of the house chardonnay," I instructed Epstein.
Before he could respond I was startled by two hulking, bearded men in snowmobile suits who began prodding my coat with their fingers. They traded gibberish with Epstein.
"They want to know what kind of coat that is," said Epstein, warily.
"Tell them it's from Burberry's," I said, trying to avoid eye contact.
"Buh-bay," said the men, curiously. "Buhhh-behh."
It reminds me of "A New Yorker's View of the United States," which I still have.
Hat tip: Instapundit.