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"Okay. Thanks anyway." He started to walk out the door. The way he dropped his head and let his shoulders sag, I felt bad for him.

"Hey kid. He used to hang at the pub across the street. You might try there." I saw his face light up a little, and then he turned back around and headed outside.

The second time I saw him was the next morning. I happened to glance out over the tables and through the window while I was opening up shop. It was hard to make out over the glare of the sun on the large panes, but it looked like someone, probably the pub's owner Joe, was carrying little James out the front door of the place. Baffled, I dropped the rag I was using to clean the counters and went to the window to get a closer look. Yep, definitely Joe. At six foot seven, he was pretty easy to recognize. What the hell is he doing? After re-locking the front door behind me, I crossed the street to the pub.

"What's goin' on, Joe?" When I arrived, he had James slung headfirst over his shoulder. James was beating Joe's back, flailing his legs, and trying with all his might to get free. His behavior that morning did not jive at all with the impression he'd given the day before. 

"You know this kid, Sonny?" Hearing a British accent from such a large black man always threw me off. This morning, with the addition of a struggling teenager on his back, it seemed even more out of place. Joe sounded understandably out of breath.

"Not exactly. Came into the shop yesterday looking for Sleazy Rick. Says they're related."

"He's my father!" came a muffled cry.

"Shut up, you." Joe called behind him. Looking back at me, he started to explain. "Well, it seems James here doesn't understand that when a door is locked, it means you're not allowed inside."

"James," I said, addressing the boy's legs. "Did you break into this nice man's pub? When I said Rick might hang out here, I meant when the place was open." James started kicking and flailing again.

"Put me down!" he screamed at Joe. "Put me down or you'll be sorry!" He stopped moving for a second, and I could hear him trying to catch his breath after the outburst.

"Hear that Joe? You better put him down, or you'll be sorry."

"This little twerp? Threatening me?" Joe put the boy down, not so gently. "Now what big guy? You going to beat me up?" Joe's accent may make him sound a bit prissy, but his size should have given James the hint to back off. Joe was by no means unable to defend himself.

James put on his best fighting face, and was about to launch himself at Joe, but then something changed. His arms, which had been poised to land a punch, fell to his sides. He started to convulse, collapsing to the ground.

"Shit, Joe, is he having a seizure?"

"Hell if I know. I'm calling 911." While Joe ran inside to call an ambulance, I stayed on the sidewalk with the boy.

The ambulance showed up less than two minutes later. During that time, James had alternated between seizing and mumbling incoherently. Then he just lay there. The paramedics had him on a stretcher and in the back of the ambulance in no time. Apparently, it didn't matter. They said he was dead by the time they got there.

The third