I was sitting in my dive of a hotel in Reno, Nevada, after a long night of Texas Hold 'em. (My official position is that I lost huge sums of money, if you are reading this Mr. IRS man.) Perhaps I was over-thinking this. Or to be more accurate, I was treating my search for Lipton T. Bagg as if I were searching for me. Granted, Lipton and I seem to have much in common. But how much do I really know him? Maybe I had just gotten lucky by searching in every local run down bar in or near the Florida gulf coast. I finally had to admit that I found him because he happened to be doing what I would have been doing if away from my wife on an extended stay to that location. He already told us where he was going, he just did not say exactly where, nor did he give a reason.
So, back to square one. He was not at any gambling establishment within a thousand miles of where he last escaped, er I mean left me standing outside the women's rest room. The cheerleader made me think, hey, perhaps he likes football. With an unlimited bank account and time on my hands, and football season about to get hot and heavy, I'd go to the best games in the country, as many as possible. But what if he likes pro baseball instead? The pennant races is heating up. Or, and I like this personally, what if he digs NASCAR (which somebody called "WWF for dumbies")?
I have to admit, this revelation that this might be a job too big for John Doe made me depressed. Okay, it might have been lack of sleep and alcohol, combined with the dreary hotel room and lack of female companionship (in case wifey reads this) that contributed to my depression. At any rate, I'm going to bed, and I'll think about it in the morning. Over every damn item on the breakfast served in my room menu.