His Buick could nestle here for an entire season and be right at home. The backyards between the side street and Schmidt’s cottage weren’t fenced....All Moe had to do was cross through three small yards. He jogged from one to the next. His Roscoe, cradled in its shoulder holster, thumped against his side like a good buddy declaring, “I’m with you, pal.” The path around the cottage was a familiar one, only this time Moe wouldn’t be peeking in windows. He headed straight to the back door that led. Chrissy put the money in the till and then came over and flopped down in a rusty chair almost exactly like the one Bob was sitting in. As she flopped down her legs spread and the almost non-existent denim between her legs was framed in white cotton of the panties under it. Bob stared and Chrissy caught him."Uncle Bob!" she squealed. "What are you looking at?" She knew what he was looking at, but wanted to give him a hard time."A little piece of dreamland, Chrissy. A little piece of dreamland.". More

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