You know how confusing the whole good-evil concept is for me.

Thomas has the kind of whiter-than-white boyish grin that makes women's panties spontaneously evaporate.

Screw up my life?" He stared at me for a second and then said, deadpan, "I'm a five-foot-three, thirty-seven-year-old, single, Jewish medical examiner who needs to pick up his lederhosen from the dry cleaners so that he can play in a one-man polka band at Oktoberfest tomorrow." He pushed up his glasses with his forefinger, folded his arms, and said, "Do your worst.

I ask people impertinent questions. Hopefully turning up pertinent answers.

Magic. It can get a guy killed.

He gave me an inscrutable look that said maybe he would and maybe he wouldn't. Mister was a cat, and cats generally considered it the obligation of the universe to provide shelter, sustenance, and amusement as required. I think Mister considered it beneath his dignity to plan for the future.

There's a fine line between audacity and idiocy.