“You look like somebody just gave you six tickets to the first game of the World Series,” I said. “What's the buzz, Peoria?”

“My mom hit the lottery down in Tijuana!” he said. “Forty thousand bucks! We're rich, brother! Rich!”

I gave him a grin he couldn't see and ruffled his hair. It popped his cowlick up, but what the hell. “Whoa, hold the phone. How old are you, Peoria?”

“Twelve in May. You know that, Mr. Umney, you gave me a polo-shirt. But I don't see what that has to do with…”

“Twelve's old enough to know that sometimes people get what they want to happen mixed up with what actually does happen. That's all I meant.”

“If you're talkin about daydreams, you're right – I do know all about em,” Peoria said, running his hands over the back of his head in an effort to make his cowlick lie down again, “but this ain't no daydream, Mr. Umney. It's real! My Uncle Fred went down and picked up the cash yest'y afternoon. He brought it back in the saddlebag of his Vinnie! I smelled it! Hell, I rolled in it! It was spread all over my mom's bed! Richest feeling I ever had, let me tell you – forty-froggin-thousand smackers!”

“Twelve may be old enough to know the difference between daydreams and what's real, but it's not old enough for that kind of talk,” I said. It sounded good – I'm sure the Legion of Decency would have approved two thousand per cent – but my mouth was running on automatic pilot, and I barely heard what was coming out of it. I was too busy trying to get my brain wrapped around what he'd just told me. Of one thing I was absolutely positive: he'd made a mistake. He must have made a mistake, because if it was true, then Peoria wouldn't be standing here anymore when I came by on my way to my office in the Fulwider Building. And that just couldn't be.

I found my mind returning to the Demmicks, who for the first time in recorded history hadn't played any of their big-band records at full volume before retiring, and to Buster, who for the first time in recorded history hadn't greeted the sound of George's latchkey turning in the lock with a fusillade of barks. The thought that something was off-kilter returned, and it was stronger this time.