Police Chief Hadley cut a new halfway notch in his belt and it seemed to be working okay--the idea being the belt would hold up his stomach without crimping him so tight as to make it spill over and get in the way of business.

Sitting outside the Bell Sisters' Bakery in his patrol car, munching a Danish, Hadley had that uneasy feeling that years of law enforcement had taught him to respect: something was about to happen.

Sure enough, he wasn't halfway through his coffee when his ears detected a loud putt-putt-putt (illegal) and his nose smelt a cloud of bluish oil smoke (also illegal). He stopped chewing and listened hard.

A piece of rasberry jam dropped on his crotch. Damn.

Then, here came a van, painted with flames or tiger stripes in every color of the rainbow. Over the flames, in wavy, spooky looking letters, it said, "KICKIN' MACHINE,"and there were plexiglass bubbles on the side and a dome on the roof. Faces in the windows all had mustaches and such, or, if they were female, long hair parted down the middle. There was a lot of flesh showing. They were laughing at something in there.

You might know the plates on the van said it was from California.


(from "Hadley on the Case," pg. 108)