“You’re Peter,” he said. “Yes, Peter Jackson.” He wet his lips. The cop shifted his eyes. “And you’re Mary.” “That’s right.” “So where’s Paul?” the cop asked, looking at them pleasantly while the rusty leprechaun squeaked and spun on the roof of the bar behind them. “What?” Peter asked. “I don’t understand.” “How can you sing ‘Five Hundred Miles’ or ‘Leavin’ on a Jet Plane’ without Paul?” the cop asked, and opened the righthand door.
