When we were dating, my future husband wrote me unique letters. The best part was his hand drawn cartoon about the adventures of “Chicken-man, the Crime Fighter.” Chicken-man was a plucky forensic chicken who experienced many adventures.
My real life crime fighter certainly had his adventures but he was no chicken.
One afternoon he stopped at a popular watering hole in the city for lunch. The place drew saints and sinners alike. There were representatives of the legal professional as well as their customers who were not currently in “public residence,” so to speak.
Gene was sipping his after lunch coffee when the waiter wiped a nearby table and held up a small clear plastic bag, about the size of a large postage stamp. He waved the thing in the air for all to see the white powdery contents. No one looked up at what was clearly a street drug.
“Does this belong to anybody?” he asked. Without hesitation Gene approached the waiter.
“I’ll take it.”
He left the restaurant and drove to the lab, all the while checking his rear view mirror. He tested the little white goodie and sure enough, heroin.
Someone’s “tip for the waiter” ended up in the right place! Chicken man indeed!
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