8 Strawberry Bank Rd.

Suite 20

Nashua, New Hampshire

   “There’s a kid over there looking for you,”  Shelly, the bottle-blonde waitress whose bra size was larger than her IQ said, pointing toward a booth near the entrance to the White Stallion Pub. “Is he yours?”

   “No, smartass. He isn’t,” I answered. “I hope,” I muttered so that she could barely hear me as I walked in the direction of the booth and the kid. He was a gangly looking boy, about 14. His head was shaved except for the very top that sported a Friar Tuck outcropping without the bald spot. It reminded me of the Chinese-restaurant-type fungi that my first wife, Witch Number One, used to call pecker mushrooms. He looked out of place framed by the green vinyl booth with the “Make-Mine-a-Bud” sign flickering over his head.

    “You looking for me?” I asked. “Kids aren’t supposed to be in here unless they’re with a parent.”

    “Are you the detective? Brewster J. Lawless?” He was fidgeting in his seat looking everywhere but at me. “I have an appointment.”

    “Well, my friends call me Jake. I run Lawless Investigations during the day. Tend bar here part-time nights. But I don’t remember having an appointment with you.”

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