Page 23

“And that, as they say, was how I ended up here,” Bob said with a flourish.

With that, he’d just finished telling his origin story — rife with tales of the circus, meetings with kings (Harry knew he meant Al Waxman, the King of Kensington), and poontang pie (which got more than one giggle from the assembled children — though Harry also knew he meant pecan pie).

The children, always amused by Bob’s antics and stories, skittered away in laughter.

“So, Harry,” Bob drawled as the last of them disappeared, “they’re a fun little bunch, aren’t they?”

Harry had stayed silent to the side during Bob’s impromptu storytime. He rather enjoyed listening to Bob’s tales, though watching the children scamper off sent his mind drifting back to his own youth — back to when he was about six years old.

That was when he knew he wanted to become a detective.

It was just after his birthday. Instead of toys, Harry had received money — cash. Cold, hard cash. About twenty dollars in one-dollar bills — a fortune for a child. He had plans to spend it all on candy.

It had vanished, though. All his cash — gone. No one had any idea what could have happened. Every dream Harry had depended on those twenty dollars being found.

Turns out the family parakeet had absconded with them — using the bills to line its birdcage.

Not only was that when Harry knew he was meant to be a detective, it was also the first time he knew it’d be a shitty job.