. Chapter One

Stating my job is boring holds true for most of the time. However, the odd time it does get exciting. When I say exciting it doesn’t mean adventurous or fun to experience. In fact, while some cases are easy and end well, some turn downright ugly. Take the case of Frederick Titman. It started out like any normal case. Titman, a fifty-five year old stockbroker was married for five years to a woman twenty-five years younger. Marriages like that seldom work out.

She used to be a model. A successful model. Everyone in the fashion world apparently knew Julia Brenner. She gave up a promising career when she married Mr. Titman.

Their happiness lasted for the first couple of years, but then the magic left; according to Mr. Titman. He suspects she’s been cheating since then.

One look at the picture of Julia told me enough. A good-looking dish like that will never be happy with one man, especially not with a man like Frederick Titman; according to my experience and view.

Some women marry for love, but plenty of them marry for money. That’s what I thought at first about Julia. How else to explain why a woman like her would marry a man who was no more then five-one, if that, nearly bald, watery eyes, a nose like a pear, and a belly that has seen too many hamburgers and fries and way too many beers. He was not a handsome man. And to top it off his last name was Titman. I’m an old-fashioned guy. I believe a woman should change her last name to that of her husband. However, with a name like that even I would not object should a woman decide not to take her husband’s last name and keep her own.

Of course, as it turned out, my assumption was way off its mark. It wasn’t the first time, either, that I was wrong, but I’m usually a little reluctant to admit that kind of thing.

“What makes you assume your wife is cheating, Mr. Titman?” It was my standard question and I expected the usual answer. His answer was close enough.

“Well, a couple of weeks ago she told me she was going shopping with one of her girlfriends. She phoned later in the evening and informed me she’d be spending the night at her friend’s place because they had celebrated a little too much. When I dialed call-return the woman on the other end answered with Silver Moon Motel. Does that sound like some sort of clue, Mr. Canon?”

“Not necessarily. Maybe your wife and her friend spent the night in the motel.” I said it but didn’t believe my own words.

He shook his head. “No. I phoned Erika, that’s her girlfriend’s name, at home. She confirmed my suspicion. Julia was not there. She had not been with her all day.”

“Hmm.” I studied Julia’s picture again. “Do you have another picture of your wife? I mean more than just her face? I can’t tell if she’s fat or skinny, tall or short.”

He chuckled. Then he pulled out his wallet and removed a picture, which he had folded in half. I had to suppress a whistle. Now…this was more like it!

He must have noticed my staring eyes, because he reached for the picture and fairly ripped it out of my hands. “Now you see what I mean?” His voice sounded almost apologetic.

When I looked at him, I noticed the color that had crept into his cheeks. I couldn’t blame him for being somewhat embarrassed. It’s not common practice for a man to show a nude picture of his wife to another man; especially not one like the one Mr. Titman had shown me. I’ve seen less revealing pictures on porn sites.

Not that I’m looking for any, but anyone surfing the internet inadvertently stumbles across them at one time or another. Sometimes more than once. I’m not exactly a prude. Looking at a picture of a nude woman isn’t something a healthy man should deny himself.

“I can provide you with a different picture, if that’s what you wish, but I can give you her statistics.” He smiled crookedly. “I know them by heart. 36 - 25 - 35. She’s five-four and weighs one hundred thirty pounds.”

That image of her nude body stayed with me for a couple of days. Not often do I have the privilege of looking at the nude picture of a woman as stunning as Julia Titman. Lucky Mr. Titman, or perhaps not so lucky. To find out that the woman you love is screwing another man cannot be considered a lucky discovery.

“So what do you want me to do, Mr. Titman?” I asked. It was just a form question. I already knew what he wanted. After all, I’m an investigator.

“Bring me proof my wife is cheating. That’s what I want you to do. You’re a detective. Isn’t that the kind of stuff you find out?”

“I do. Tell me, Mr. Titman. What if I find out your wife is unfaithful? Do you have any plans as to what you’re going to do with that information?”

“What I’m going to do with it?” He looked at me with a blank expression on his face, his watery eyes magnified by the huge, dark-rimmed glasses. He looked like an owl ready to swoop down from its perch to catch a mouse. Then he shrugged. “I don’t know yet. Let’s worry about that when you find out.”

“I don’t know if I can spare the time, Mr. Titman.” I gave my head a shake and pressed my lips together to show him my doubts about finding a timeslot for his case. He didn’t need to know that my calendar was never full. There was always room for another case. In fact, right now my calendar was empty. I’ve learned a long time ago that you never advertise you’re in dire need of money. It always brings down the price. “I’ll have my secretary check my schedule. If you leave me your card, I’ll have her call you.”

“You don’t understand, Mr. Canon. I won’t take no for an answer.” His amplified eyes stared at me. “This is too important. I heard you’re the best. If it’s a question of money, that should be no problem. I’m not exactly a poor man.”

I cleared my throat. That was assuring to hear. It’s always a question of money. There are quite a number of people who expect me to work for free, or for next to nothing. After all, theirs is the most important problem in the universe and the world is coming to an end, according to them, and it is my duty to help them out, not withstanding the fact that even I have to eat, pay expenses and the rent on my office, as shabby as it is.

“I never doubted that you had money, Mr. Titman,” I said, soothingly. “I usually don’t discuss money with my clients. That’s my secretary’s job. She’s the one who handles all that money-stuff. I devote my time to solving my cases.”

Mr. Titman left his card behind and a check in the amount of two thousand dollars after I promised him that I was quite positive I’d find a bit of time to take on his case. He called me again the next day. He seemed pleased. “Mr. Canon, I spoke to your secretary and she assured me you’ll look after me. She sounds like a nice young woman. I sent you a picture of Julia in an e-mail attachment. Your secretary asked for one. Like I said, she seems quite competent. I can usually tell what people look like by the sound of their voice, and your secretary has a lovely voice. So soft-spoken and melodic. It can only belong to a petite, beautiful blond. Am I correct?”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he wasn’t even close. Tusnelda is six feet tall and built like a fridge. Nobody ever argues with her. Especially not after looking at the Colt 45 she carries strapped to her hip. If it’s not the gun then it’s one look into her icy blue eyes. She scares even me sometimes. She is into mixed martial arts, which means she can smash a man’s balls with her foot so deep into his belly that even a surgeon may have trouble finding them while at the same time shoving his false teeth down his throat with her fist, providing he has false teeth. If he doesn’t, he’ll have them after an encounter with Tusnelda. She must have the largest feet and hands I’ve ever seen on a woman, or a man, come to think of it. And I’d swear her bones are made from iron. If there were such a thing, one could easily believe she wasn’t quite human. She’s like a cyborg. One of those half human, half robot creatures you see in the Science Fiction movies. She could probably play in one of them without putting on a disguise. Or perhaps she’s some kind of alien, a foundling. It’s a good thing I don’t believe in those things.

She’s no beauty, and she never will be, even with a gallon of makeup, but she’s the best partner anyone could have. I always call her my secretary when I talk with prospective clients, because it sounds professional and is more impressive, but in reality she is my partner. She’s the daughter of a good friend of mine, who passed away in 2010 of cancer, and I promised him to look after his daughter once she was released from jail. Juvenile sent her there for beating up a couple of guys who tried to rob her at gunpoint. Both needed corrective surgery. The judge called it overkill. The punks were sixteen and seventeen years old. It didn’t make any difference to her; she doesn’t take kindly to being threatened by anyone. By the way, she hates to be called Tusnelda. She never forgave her parents for giving her that name. I call her Nelda.

As you can see, there is a certain kinship between Nelda and me. We both have names we hate. Why didn’t we ever change our names? It’s one of those things. Our names are who and what we are. Even if I would change my name, I would always know who I really am.

Lews Bullseye Canon. That’s who I am. No change of name would fix that. The mistake was made by our parents and once you’re branded like that the damage can’t be undone. Then again, perhaps the forces that control this universe had a reason for giving us these names, as obscure as those reasons may be. I’m not a believer in coincidences. As far as I’m concerned nothing happens without some kind of purpose.

Since I had no other case to work on, I dove right into finding out more about Julia Titman. I called Mr. Titman back and asked him if he had any idea where his wife might be the next day. Apparently, she had an appointment with her hairdresser at 9:00 a.m. He gave me the address. The next morning I drove there in my Cadillac.

That’s right. My Cadillac. I am a Cadillac-driver.

Mind you, it isn’t a new car; actually it is quite old and has seen better days. A buddy of mine fixed it up for me and covered all the rust holes with putty and sprayed it with a coat of paint. It runs fine. Usually. Sometimes it doesn’t want to start, or the motor might stop running for no good reason at all, but after giving it time to let the motor cool down, it keeps on going. I don’t have to waste time with oil changes, as long as I add a quart of oil every couple of weeks. Unfortunately, it is somewhat hard on gas, but that is to be expected from an eight-cylinder. The interior is still nice, though, and the trunk is large enough to transport a couple of bodies if need be.

I received it as payment a few years ago from a widow who was swindled by some con-man. I tracked him down for her. She didn’t have much money left, since that son-of-a-bitch took it all from her and spent it, so she gave me her late husband’s old car. She didn’t have a driver’s license anyway and no use for the car.

I was happy to get that Cadillac, because my own car was stolen just a few days prior and I needed another car badly. By the way, the cops never did find my car and the thieves who stole it. When I told them my car was a 1994 Toyota, they actually laughed and said they had better things to do than tracking down a sixteen-year-old jalopy. They also suggested if I were a patriot I’d drive American cars, not some foreign garbage.

Well, I’m driving an American car now and it reminds me every day why I stayed away from them till now. But then again, why look a gift horse in the mouth?

Julia Titman arrived at the beauty salon a few minutes before her appointment. I have no idea what kind of work she had done, but she was in there nearly two hours. It must have been the hottest day in July that day, and it was still early in the morning. My car doesn’t have air-conditioning, and even if it had, I couldn’t afford to have the car running for two hours, not with the price of gas these days. So I sat with my window open, swallowing dust, breathing exhaust fumes, and sweating like a pallbearer wearing a dark suit and a tie waiting for the eulogy given by a longwinded relative to end.

When Julia finally stepped out of the salon, she looked like a million bucks. She had her auburn hair pinned up to reveal her ears and the diamond earrings dangling from her small earlobes. The short skirt she wore showed off her well-formed calves and more of her thighs than necessary, and she had undone the top button of her blouse to give anyone who was looking a good view of her creamy breasts. She didn’t wear a bra and it was obvious she didn’t need one.

How did I know all that? Well, it helped to have a good pair of binoculars. I remembered, though, to snap a few pictures before she got into her brand-new BMW.

Oh, how I longed to be sitting in that car with her. Not because I wanted to get between those lovely thighs she had displayed so boldly, which I wouldn’t have minded, either. No, my mind was on something much dearer to me at that moment. It would have been heaven to slide onto those smooth leather seats and to breathe the cool air blowing from the air vents.

She pulled into traffic and I knew it was time to get my car started and follow her. But it wasn’t going to happen. My car decided to throw another tantrum. The motor hummed a little, and then all the lights started blinking, but the car didn’t start.

Now, I know as much about the workings of a car as a city slicker knows about survival in the desert. Probably even less. I know how to put gasoline into the tank, how to add oil to the engine, even top up the radiator. I’ve learned how to check the tire pressure and how to make sure there is enough fluid in the windshield washer, but that’s pretty much sums up my knowledge of car engines and cars in general.

So I lifted the hood and stared at the motor, gingerly touching a few things here and there. Everything seemed in order. Nothing was out of place. Nothing seemed to be missing, as far as I could tell.

“Trouble, Mister?”

I turned around to look at the black kid standing suddenly beside me. He was perhaps twelve or thirteen years old. Skinny and tall for his age. His clothes were a couple sizes too large, probably inherited from his older brother, but then I remembered that’s how kids wear their clothes these days. I looked for an earring but didn’t see one. Give him another couple of years, I thought, and he’ll have one, possibly even more than one.

“Car won’t start,” I said. Taking off my baseball cap, I wiped the sweat from my forehead. If the stress with the car wasn’t going to be death of me, this damn heat was surely going to do the job.

“Maybe I can help,” the kid said.

“What do you know about cars?” I asked, giving him a doubtful look.

“What do you know about cars?” he countered.

I shrugged. “Not much.”

He gave a little, almost contemptuous, laugh. “I figured.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because staring at the engine isn’t going to fix anything. You’ll have to get your hands dirty. What actually seems to be the problem?”

“All the lights are blinking,” I told him.

He screwed up his face. “Sounds like a dead battery to me.” He spoke with an authoritative voice and suddenly looked much older than he was. “Do you have a battery tester?”

“A battery tester?” I asked. “Of course not. Who has a battery tester? I didn’t even know the average person could buy such a thing.”

He threw me a sidelong look. “How long have you been driving cars?”

“Since 1989 when I bought my first car.”

“Wow, that’s over twenty years ago.” He shook his head. “One would think after all that time you’d know everything about cars.”

“Well I don’t. I’m not mechanically inclined and never really had an interest anyway. There are other things in life than cars.”

He kept shaking his head. “For me there is nothing else. I can’t wait to be old enough to drive one. Do you mind if I have a look?”

“Do you have a driver’s license?” I asked.

Looking at me with pity in his eyes, he said, “Do I look old enough to you to have a driver’s license?”

“You could be a midget,” I said, lamely.

Without waiting for my permission, he opened the car door and climbed into the car. Sitting behind the steering wheel, he moved his hands over the dashboard. “Nice.” Looking around the interior of the car, he said, “It feels comfortable and the inside is clean. Better looking than the outside. It seems you took care of at least the inside. What year is this?”

“It’s a 1993.”

“Pretty old. I love old cars. My uncle has a 1957 Chevy. Now that’s old. They don’t build them like that anymore. He works on it all the time. It looks like new. He belongs to a club, you know.” He stroked the dashboard. “A Cadillac. This must have set you back a few bucks when it was new.”

“It would have had I bought it new.”

“I see. It was used when you bought it. That’s actually the way to go if you want to save some money. New cars cost too much, and the moment you drive them off the lot you’ve already lost at least a thousand bucks.”

“How do you know all this? Have you ever bought a car?” I asked.

“Kids my age don’t buy cars.” He gave me a shake of his head before he turned the key. For a moment I thought the car might actually start, but then all the gauges started flashing again. He let go of the key and nodded. “Yep, like I figured. It’s your battery.” He slipped back outside.

“What makes you think it’s the battery? The car started fine this morning.”

“Well, I guess you drained it while driving.” He wiggled on the terminals of the battery. “They look okay.” He gave me a sharp look. “Did you listen to your radio or play CD’s?”

I laughed. “Son, this is an old car. CD players were not standard equipment in 1993. You were lucky to get a cassette player?”

“What’s a cassette player?”

“I thought you knew everything?”

“I’m only twelve, Mister. When I’m as old as you I’ll know everything.” He touched a few things on the motor, pulled on some wires.

“Maybe you shouldn’t touch anything,” I warned him. “You might hurt yourself.”

“I won’t. By the way, I think I may have found your problem.” He pulled on one of the wires. “Was this wire always dangling around like this?”

I shrugged. “How would I know?”

“Geez, you sure are not too smart,” he said. He crawled on top of the engine and fiddled around. With a satisfied little grunt he slid off the motor. “I believe I fixed it. That was your connection to the alternator. It came loose somehow. I pushed it back in.”

“You pushed it back in,” I repeated like a dumb parrot. “How the heck can you be so sure that’s where that wire belongs? You can’t just push wires into places where you think they should go. You may have screwed up even more.”

There was nothing but pity in his narrow face. “My uncle is a mechanic. He knows everything about cars. He taught me a lot. I’ll be a mechanic once I’m old enough.”

“Is it safe to start the car now?” I asked.

“It would be if you had a full battery. As it is, the battery is pretty much dead. It needs to be charged. That’ll happen when you drive.”

“Sounds so simple when you say it, but there is only one problem...how do I get the car to drive?”

He lifted his thin shoulders. “You’ll need a boost or a tow truck.”

“They’ll charge a lot of money. I can’t afford that.”

“I kinda figured that too,” he said. “Do you have a cell phone?”

“I do.”

“Give it to me. I’ll call my uncle. He’ll give you a boost.”

“How much does he charge?”

“If I ask him he’ll charge you nothing. He’s that kind of a guy.”

“I can’t believe that. Nobody works for nothing. There has to be a catch.” As a detective I’m not only curious by nature, but also suspicious of people who offer me something for free. Nothing is ever free.

“No catch. He believes in the principle of paying it forward, just like my dad did. You’ve heard of that?”

“Of course I have. It may work for some people, but most people don’t believe in it.”

“That’s because most people don’t want to do something nice for others. It works if you believe others will follow through. You must have faith in people, Mister.”

“It’s Canon, but you can call me Lews. What’s your name?”

“I’m Billy Brandon, but I won’t call you by your first name. That’s not polite and shows no respect for a young kid like me to call an older man like you by his first name. I’ll call you Mister Canon.”

“That’s okay, but I don’t consider myself an old man. Anyway, Billy Brandon, you seem to be a smart, honest kid, and I’ve decided to trust you.” I handed him my cell phone. “Here. Now don’t run away with my phone. Call your uncle.”

Billy rolled his eyes, and then he made the call.

His uncle pulled up in his tow truck within fifteen minutes after Billy called him. He was a big man, with a bit of a potbelly and a wild beard. Looking at Billy first and then at me, he said, “This little rascal tells me you’ve got yourself a bit of a problem with that car of yours.”

“Battery is dead, according to Billy here.”

“Well, if he says it’s dead than it is so,” he said. “He’s a smart boy. Goes after his uncle.” He laughed. “That’s me. I’m Brandon Brandon, Jr. Most people call me Brand. My close friends call me Brandy. My pappy used to call me Junior.”

I stared at him, ready to burst out laughing. “Brandon Brandon?” I repeated.

He must have seen it in my face. I’ve never been a good actor. “That’s right. Something funny or wrong with that name?”

“Oh, hell, no. It’s as good a name as any. I just wondered what your father’s name was.”

“I don’t know why you want to know my pappy’s name, but there is no harm in telling you. His name was Brandon Brandon, Sr.”

“I thought so. By the way, my name is Lews Canon. Lews Bullseye Canon.”

“No shit. Pardon me for saying so, but why would a man with Canon as his last name christen his son Loose? And Bullseye? Whoever heard of a name like Bullseye?”

“It was my grandfather’s name.” I smiled. “It seems you and I are sort of related in a way.”

He tilted his head and looked at me with narrowed eyes. “How’d you figure that?”

“You know...Lews Bullseye Canon and Brandon Brandon? Makes you think, doesn’t it?”

Shaking his head, he said, “I don’t really see a connection there, especially since you being white and me black.” He chuckled. “Bullseye. Loose. No parents should give a kid names like that. What’s the world coming to?” He peered at me. “What’s with your eyes? One blue and one brown. You wearing contact lenses?”

I sighed a little. “No contact lenses. They’re natural.”

He chuckled to himself. “No sir, we ain’t related. Ain’t nobody in my family with eyes like that. They don’t look natural to me. Kinda creepy, if you ask me. No offense. Anyway, what is the problem with the car again?”

“Won’t start. Dead battery.”

“Oh, that’s right. Dead battery. Don’t worry; we’ll get you going in no time.” He rummaged around in his toolbox and pulled out a pair of long jumper cables. Handing me one end of each cable, he said, “Attach these to your battery’s terminals. Make sure you don’t get the polarity screwed up. Then we’ll give her a boost.”

I’ve never boosted a car before and had no idea what to do, but I didn’t want to appear like some kind of moron. One of the huge clamps was red, so I guessed that had to be the plus side. I attached it to the terminal with the plus sign on it and the other clamp onto the remaining terminal. Billy, who stood beside me, supervising, removed the clamp from the negative terminal and clamped it against the frame of the car.

“You have a lot to learn, Mr. Cannon,” he whispered to me so only I could hear.

“Go start the engine,” his uncle told me.

I got into my car and turned the key. When the engine sprang to life I was as ecstatic as a TV-evangelist after receiving his first pledge. No flashing lights, just the rumbling of the motor. What a lovely sound.

When I climbed out of the car, Billy had already removed the booster cables from my battery. He winked at me. “I told you it was the battery. You should be okay. Just don’t shut off the engine too soon. Let it charge up the battery.”

Brandon must have been listening. He chuckled. “You’ll make a fine mechanic some day, Billy. I’m proud of you.” Turning to me, he said, “Too bad my brother isn’t alive anymore. His head would be swollen with pride.”

“What happened to your brother?”

“He was killed last year. Murdered, actually. They never found his murderers and the cops did nothin’.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “Who cares about another dead nigger? I guess had my brother been white and somebody important, things woulda been different. No offence to you, Lews. That’s just the way the system works. They told us to hire a private investigator. We can’t afford that. Private investigators are expensive.”

“They need to eat, too,” I said, defending my profession.

“Everybody needs to eat but not steak every night in a fancy restaurant.”

“Is that what you think PIs do? Eat steak every night? You may be surprised.”

He eyed me curiously. “Why, you know a PI?”

“You might say so.”

He rolled up the jumper cables and stored them away again. Looking back at me, he said, “It don’t really matter. My sister-in-law hasn’t got the money to hire one and neither do I.” He held out his hand. “Well, good luck with that car, Lews Bullseye Canon. You should have her checked out some time. The engine runs not badly. May need a bit of fine-tuning, though.”

“I think that piece of junk needs more than a bit of tweaking,” I commented and shook his hand. “It never fails, when I need that car the most it decides to strike. Like the labor unions. By the way, how much do I owe you?”

He let go of my hand and waved it off. “You owe me nothin’. I don’t mind helpen people out when they’re in trouble.” He grinned. “Perhaps the Good Lord will smile kindly upon me when he decides to call me home.” Looking up into the sky, he said, “Not too soon, I hope. I got a lotta livin’ still to do.”

“You’ll get your special place in Heaven,” I said, even though I wasn’t exactly a believer. “You’re a good man with a big heart. There aren’t many like you left who’d to this for a stranger. Thank you so much.” I hesitated, not really enthusiastic about what I was going to say, but something compelled me. “Perhaps I can do something for you, I mean for you and your sister-in-law.” I looked at Billy. “And for him. A boy needs to know the truth about his father.”

“What are you talking about?” Brandon gave me a puzzled look.

“I might be able to find out what happened to your brother.” There! I’d said it. Now I was committed.

“That PI you know?”

I nodded. “I’m that PI. That’s my job. In fact, I’m on a case right now.”

He was still giving me that puzzled look, laced with an expression of disbelief. “You wouldn’t be pullin’ my leg, would you now?”

I lifted both hands. “I’m telling you the truth. Wait...” I reached into my pocket and pulled out a crumpled card. “Here is my business card.”

He took it from me and smoothed it out. “Canon Detective Agency. Private Investigators. No job too big or too small. Call....” He stared at me. “I’ll be damned. You’re a Dick. Who would have thought?” His eyes became small again. “How much would you charge us for that?”

Well, here we go. There was no turning back now. “Since you helped me out of a jam, it would be my honor to do it for free.” My eyes rested again on Billy. “For you and young Billy here.”

Brandon took off his cap and scratched his bald head. “This sounds too good to be true. It’s like a miracle.” Slapping the cap back onto his head, he pulled out a big handkerchief and blew his nose noisily. I had no idea people still used those. He shoved it into his pocket again. I didn’t want to think about the germ factory in that pocket. “You know, just last Sunday in church when I was lookin’ at Jesus on the cross, I saw my brother’s face, right on top of the face of Jesus. He smiled and nodded to me. Now I’m sure I wasn’t imagining things. That was a sign. The Good Lord sure works in mysterious ways.” He grabbed my hand and pumped it enthusiastically. “You do this for us and I’ll fix your car for free, Mr. Canon.”

I felt suddenly embarrassed seeing such a big man so emotional and I felt like crying myself. “That’s not really...” I stopped talking. What the hell was I doing? I’ve never done a job for free in my career as a detective, and here I had committed myself to what looked like a problem case. If he offered to fix my car for free, I’d be an idiot to turn it down. At least I’d get something out of it. Mechanics weren’t cheap, either. This was a stroke of luck, a gift. If I were a religious man I might have waved my arms in the air shouting Hallelujah.

Fortunately, he hadn’t heard my near blunder. “I would really appreciate that,” I said. “And, please, don’t call me Mister Canon. It’s Lews to my friends.” I cleared my throat. “I need to know everything about your brother. A picture would help. Perhaps you can come by my office and we can discuss everything in detail.” I pointed at the card still in his hand. “You have my number. Give me a call and we’ll set up an appointment.”

“I could swing by tomorrow, if that’s all right.” He seemed suddenly eager.

“Tomorrow would be fine,” I told him. “Ten a.m. okay with you?”

“Ten is okay. I’ll be there.” He climbed into his tow truck. Watching him drive off, I wondered what I had gotten myself into. Now I needed to do some explaining to my partner Nelda. She wouldn’t be overly excited. We couldn’t really afford to do pro bono jobs. They didn’t pay the rent and didn’t put food on the table.

I had forgotten about Billy. He was still standing on the sidewalk waiting for me to drive away, I guess.

I gave him a little wave and pulled away from the curb. He waved back and ran across the street. I could see him in my rearview mirror. It seemed he was heading for the beauty salon Julia Titman had left a while ago.