Leo Holland had a motherfucker of a headache, a lump on his skull and a bruise on his ribs the size of Pittsburgh. Walter Price wasn't doing much better. They'd been out cold when customers, wondering why the restaurant hadn't opened, had come around to the rear and found them. Before they could get their wits together, someone, thinking they'd been attacked, called the sheriff. It had gone downhill from there.

They'd gone from being victims to being suspects before they could turn ...