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Connoisseurs: A Lucifer Jones story by Mike Resnick Some people are connoisseurs of art. Some are connoisseurs of fine wines. More than a few are connoisseurs of exotic women. Me, I seem to have inadvertently become a connoisseur of jails. The best grub is in the Cape Town hoosegow. The friendliest jailer was in the Hong Kong lock- up, though there’s a lot to be said for the guards at the Sylvania calaboose. The most comfortable bunk was probably in the jail at San Palmero. The hottest and stuffiest is the Nairobi jail, though the one in Beria, over in Mozambique, runs it a close second. Probably the friendliest crowd to share a cell with was back in Moline, Illinois, though you find the best card games in the Cairo jail and there ain’t no fairer craps game than the one they play in the Madrid lock-up. Now, when this here story begins, I’d just been introduced to the jail at Bogota, which was on the shore of the Hackensack River in Colombia, though it wasn’t nowhere near the White House and the Congress, which I’m told are also in Colombia, but it must be one of the suburbs because they weren’t within a few thousand miles of Bogota, which was kind of hiding up in the Andes. I’d wandered north from the Matto Grasso after serving a brief term as King of the Jaguar Men (I think it |
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