Chapter 1

Eighteen  years old. Only eighteen years old. You’re just beginning to really get  a feel for the world around you, how it works, what it can give and how  much it can take. It grabs you, sucks you in, and you’re off to the  races. Life’s got you by the short hairs with no way out. But, and it’s a  huge but, you’re hanging on for dear life and loving the ride for all  it’s worth. Then someone turns on the fan and life gets the upper hand.

“Harry, it’s me. I need your help.”

“Tom, I already left.”

Maybe  I should jump back a few steps and let you in on what’s going on here.  My name is Harry because I’m told an aunt promised to lay some bread on  me if my mom named me Harold. I don’t believe it one little bit because I  didn’t see a single dime, and to my knowledge, neither did my moms.

Oh  yeah, it’s Harry, or should I say Harold Mickey Shorts, which wasn’t my  given name when I was ushered into this wonderful world of ours. My  original name didn’t cut it in my eyes, and the Mick, Mister Mantle, is  my all-time favorite ballplayer. Plus, my original last name was way too  long. I believe wearing tee shirts and shorts is how God intended us to  dress, so that’s how I came up with my new and improved name, ‘Shorts’,  which just happens to be a great conversation topic for the ladies.

By  trade, I guess you would call me a private investigator. But I’m not  your ordinary run-of-the-mill, every day private dick. Kismet  Incorporated is what my card would say if I had one. I owe what I am  today to Tom, the guy who called me. He taught me the business for no  reason whatsoever, never asked for squat in return. Squared my  shoulders, showed me where my balls were, and taught me how to use them.  When I had learned enough to be dangerous, he kicked me in the ass and  sent me packing. That’s why I’m headed to Central Pennsylvania to do  whatever it takes to help Tom, my friend.

And so the story begins…