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Harry stumbled from bed to kitchenette, still half-stuffed into yesterday. He was tired — very tired — and shuffled groggily over to the coffee pot to urge it into operation. He was on a mission to wake up enough to think.

Sitting to watch the pot slowly begin to drip — and thinking idly that the first cup of coffee every morning always takes the longest to brew — he tried to adjust his thoughts back to the present. He had woken up fully clothed, still in his jacket and tie, but wearing the Mayor’s shoes.

Just what had he done last night? And where were his shoes?

The dripping of the coffee pot seemed to stir his memory. He’d been at the Mayor’s house the previous night, at the invitation of the Mayor’s wife. Ostensibly, he’d been invited to discuss the MG gang — though he suspected otherwise. There wasn’t much to tell, other than that they were a group of mimes — mimes — who called themselves “MG” for Mime Group.

Harry hated mimes.

The Mayor hadn’t been home. His wife had. And Harry remembered plenty of alcohol. Oh, this was going to be a day, he thought grimly. He wasn’t sure how he’d ended up wearing the Mayor’s shoes, but he was fairly sure his own were still at the Mayor’s house.