<p>The Brits in the Liverpool Daily call "laid back private eye" V. (for Victor) Daniel "two parts Steve Martin to one part Groucho Marx." The Washington Post calls him "something special - even beyond his Hawaiian shirts and six-foot-seven-inch frame ... a great companion - clever, funny, and resourceful." And the growing legions of David M Pierce fans know there's no one else even remotely like Vic Daniel in mystery writing on either side of the Atlantic. From his penchant for taking on any case (no problem too petty) to a West Coast wacko staff that includes a larcenous backup named Benny the Boy and a rock/poetry-penning Girl Friday, Vic is that rarity in the 'tec-trade: fun. Now he's back in his San Fernando Valley rattrap office, stuck between a weed-and-wino-filled vacant lot and a Vietnamese takeout. The ambiance is early gumshoe, but his client, the gorgeous dame with the baby-blues telling him a sob story, is strictly class. She says she's a friend of a friend, and she has a simple task for Vic: pick up her Uncle Theo at the airport and "baby-sit" him for a while. Of course, Vic knows she's as full of baloney as she is beautiful even as he scoops up her retainer. She's not who she says she is and he intends to unmask her little white lies just as soon as he traces a skip - a misguided soul who's run away without paying - for a loan shark named Fats. Two small-fry cases? Uh-uh. Big time trouble. Vic will soon be on his way to a Montreal hockey game, the world's best pastrami sandwich, a California town populated entirely by Chinese, a contretemps with the Israeli secret police ... and the morgue. Who is Uncle Theo? What is the real deal behind the skip-trace? Can Vic handle this latest dust-up with the dark side of human nature? Is the pastrami on rye?</p>

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