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A piece of advice: If you ever follow someone in my neighborhood, don't wear pink.

The first day Angie and I picked up the little round guy on our tail, he wore a pink shirt under a gray suit and a black topcoat. The suit was double-breasted, Italian, and too nice for my part of town by several hundred dollars. The topcoat was cashmere. People in my neighborhood could afford cashmere, I suppose, but usually they spend so much on the duct tape that keeps their tail pipes attached to their '82 Chevys, that they don't have much left over for anything but that trip to Aruba.

The second day, the little round guy replaced the pink shirt with a more subdued white, lost the cashmere and the Italian suit, but still stuck out like Michael Jackson in a day care center by wearing a hat. Nobody in my neighborhood--or any of Boston's inner-city neighborhoods that I know of--wears anything on their head but a baseball cap or the occasional tweed Scally. And our friend, the Weeble, as we'd come to call him, wore a bowler. A fine-looking bowler, don't get me wrong, but a bowler just the same.

"He could be an alien," Angie said.

I looked out the window of the Avenue Coffee

Shop. The Weeble's head jerked and then he bent to fiddle with his shoelaces.

"An alien," I said. "From where exactly? France?"

She frowned at me and lathered cream cheese over a bagel so strong with onions my eyes watered just looking at it. "No, stupid. From the future. Didn't you ever see that old Star Trek where Kirk and Spock ended up on earth in the thirties and were hopelessly out of step?"

"I hate Star Trek."

"But you're familiar with the concept."

I nodded, then yawned. The Weeble studied a telephone pole as if he'd never seen one before. Maybe Angie was right.

"How can you not like Star Trek?" Angie said.

"Easy. I watch it, it annoys me, I turn it off."

"Even Next Generation?"

"What's that?" I said.

"When you were born," she said, "I bet your father held you up to your mother and said, 'Look, hon, you just gave birth to a beautiful crabby old man.'

"What's your point?" I said.

The third day, we decided to have a little fun. When we got up in the morning and left my house, Angie went north and I went south.

And the Weeble followed her.

But Lurch followed me.

I'd never seen Lurch before, and it's possible I never would have if the Weeble hadn't given me reason to look for him.

Before we left the house, I'd dug through a box of summer stuff and found a pair of sunglasses I use when the weather's nice enough to ride my bicycle. The glasses had a small mirror attached to the left side of the frame that could be swung up and out so that you could see behind you. Not quite as cool as the equipment Q gave Bond, but it would do, and I didn't have to flirt with Ms. Moneypenny to get it.

An eye in the back of my head, and I bet I was the first kid on my block to have one, too.

I saw Lurch when I stopped abruptly at the entrance of Patty's Pantry for my morning cup of coffee. I stared at the door as if it held a menu and swung the mirror out and rotated my head until I noticed the guy who looked like a mortician on the other side of the avenue by Pat Jay's Pharmacy. He stood with his arms crossed over his sparrow's chest, watching the back of my head openly. Furrows were cut like rivers in his sunken cheeks, and a widow's peak began halfway up his forehead.

In Patty's, I swung the mirror back against the frame and ordered my coffee.

"You go blind all a sudden, Patrick?"

I looked up at Johnny Deegan as he poured cream into my coffee. "What?"

"The sunglasses," he said. "I mean, it's, what, middle of March and no one's seen the sun since Thanksgiving. You go blind, or you just trying to look hipper'n shit?"

"Just trying to look hipper'n shit, Johnny."

He slid my coffee across the counter, took my money.

"It ain't working," he said.

Out on the avenue, I stared through my sunglasses at Lurch as he brushed some lint off his knee then bent to tic his shoelaces just like the Weeble had the day before.

I took off my sunglasses, thinking of Johnny Deegan. Bond was cool, sure, but he never had to walk into Patty's Pantry. Hell, just try and order a vodka martini in this neighborhood. Shaken or stiffed, your ass was going out a window.

I crossed the avenue as Lurch concentrated on his shoelace.

"Hi," I said.

He straightened, looked around as if someone had called his name from down the block.

"Hi," I said again and offered my hand.

He looked at it, looked down the avenue again.

"Wow," I said, "you can't tail someone for shit but at least your social skills are honed to the quick."

His head turned as slowly as the earth on its axis until his dark pebble eyes met mine. He had to look down to do it, too, the shadow of his skeletal head puddling down my face and spreading across my shoulders. And I'm not a short guy.

"Are we acquainted, sir?" His voice sounded as if it were due back at the coffin any moment.

"Sure, we're acquainted," I said. "You're Lurch." I looked up and down the avenue. "Where's Cousin It, Lurch?"

"You're not nearly as amusing as you think you are, sir."