He stiff-armed his way into the restaurant and raced to the back room, where the guys were chowing down on po’ boys. “We ordered for you, kid,” Ted said. “Sit!” Dennis sat and looked at a mixed shrimp and lobster po’ boy. If this kept up, he’d be eating po’ boys for the rest of the week. “Talk, kid, while we eat. We’ll fill you in with what we have when we’re done eating. By the way, how’s the weather out there?” “Snowing. Just flurries right now. Okay, here we go . . .” “Perfect timing,” Jack said ten minutes later as he wadded up his napkin. Dennis gulped, sighed heavily, and leaned back in his chair. Jack finished the beer in his bottle. He set it down with a loud thump. “Weird as this is going to sound, we also have something to report. It dovetails nicely with what you just told us, and I’m going to go out on a limb here and suggest—I say suggest—it might have something to do with Charles’s going off to Merry Old England like a bat out of hell.
