From Red Righter
I was in the North Street Hotel with Cuffs, Elkton’s expert on any topic you can name. He had just returned from visiting a distant cousin in Cumberland. I asked how long his family member had lived in that area of the state. “About three years, still has about 10 to go. But he might be able to leave early, if he’s good.”
I was confused, but it wasn’t the first time Cuffs’ comments had thrown me off track. “I don’t understand,” I replied. Annoyed, Cuffs said, “He’s locked up in the federal pen. Might get out early if he doesn’t cause any trouble.”
After nodding, I asked, “What’s he in for?”
“Counterfeiting,” Cuffs said matter-of-factly, as a proud grin spread across Cuffs’ face. “My cousin, Earle, could make a twenty that put an extra sparkle in Andy Jackson’s eyes. And his fifties drew a proud smile behind U.S. Grant’s beard. It was his troubles with hundreds, mainly Ben Franklin’s receding hairline, that led the feds straight to his door.” “Sorry to hear that,” I said, offering a response.
“Anyway,” Cuffs said, ignoring my comment, “After talking to Earle through that visiting room glass, I think I have a solution to this bridge toll problem.”