You scramble back out of the hole and onto the basement floor again, crab-walking across to the laundry room, where you know the staircase to the Jungle Room to be located. Tiptoeing as quietly as possible, you ascend the old wooden staircase and, upon reaching the bolted door at the top, you feel around until you find the latch to slide open the deadbolt from the inside.
Imagine your surprise when, pushing the door carefully open, you arrive face-to-face with a selection of Memphis’ finest boys in blue.
Their eyebrows shoot up in wonderment. “You’re not on the house staff,” one of them drawls. “Why don’t you just stand there for a minute? Tell you what: You are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…”
It’s going to be a sorry weekend.