Two Troubleshooters Walk Into a Bar
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"Dad, I have to go where my source will feel comfortable. If I can get this story it'll be a real coup."
"Yeah, I understand all that. I'm still coming . . . unless you think a little backup will just get in the way."
"Um . . . not exactly – I'd be glad to have you there. Just, well . . . "
"Stay cool?"
"Stay open-minded."
"Right."
"One thing: nobody's gonna hassle either of us if we don't order any booze. Just don't expect the ginger ale to come cheap."
"I won't. But, Sam – what about ID?"
"Dad, get real."
"You're nineteen!"
"Only on paper."
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The lineup of motorcycles outside the bar was impressive – all makes and models, all well used and well cared for. Most sported helmets; that was a surprise. MacGyver stopped to admire.
"Whoa, Dad. Wait."
"What?"
"Your bandana."
"What?"
"For Chrissake, Dad, take that damned bandana outta your back pocket! You don't know what kind of trouble it can cause!"
Mac yanked out the bandana and stuffed it deep into an inner pocket of his leather jacket, flushing as red as the fabric. "Sam, do me a favour?"
"What?" Sam never bought blind.
"Don't ever tell me what that woulda meant in there."
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