The chauffeur snaps to attention, pushes me out of the way, and storms into my apartment, ready to take on any intruder or attacker. Since my apartment is so small, it takes him about fifteen seconds to scope out the place, even looking under the bed, in the closet, and behind the shower curtain.
"Nope," he says. "All clear. Nobody's home but us. Anyway, it's clean as a whistle. It doesn't look like anybody's tampered with it."
I step in and close the door behind me. "Nobody's tampered with it? What are you talking about? There's nothing here that hasn't been tampered with."
I point at my desk, which isn't my desk at all. Instead of a plank of wood on cinder blocks, there's a big honkin' antique desk and bookshelves, which climb to the ceiling, framing it. My papers and books are perfec
