McDowell looked up at the second-story offices that bordered Massachusetts Avenue between Huntington and Boylston and shook his head. "A million doctors, dentists, and what-nots. And what is a follicologist?"
"A hair specialist."
"A what?" exploded McDowell. He jammed on the brakes with a hundred and seventy pounds of man aided with some muscle-effort against the back of the seat. The police car put its nose down and stopped. But quick. Traffic piled up and horns blasted notice of impatience until McDowell jumped out, signaled to a traffic cop to unsnarl the mess. Then McDowell raced into the office.
He paused at the door marked: Clarence O'Toole, Follicologist. McDowell paused, listening, for two voices were coming through the door. One was rumbling, low. The other was in a familiar brogue.
"But this hurts," complained the rumble.
"Naturally. Any scalping hurts. But money will ease any hurt."
"But where's this money?"
"You are to get ten percent of my profit for a year. That plus a good head of hair. Isn't that enough?"
"Ordinarily, yes. But I'm in a jam, now. The police are looking for me with blood in their eyes."