The sun was shining, big and bright and unfamiliar. I hadn't been outside before sunset in God knows how long. I never thought I'd come to miss nighttime, when the darkness wraps around you like a cold, wet towel. But there I was, yearning for it. Never saw myself as the yearning type. Not part of the job, generally.  I'm a private eye. The name's Walters. P.J. if you buy me a drink first.

I was in Detroit at the behest of some real down-and-outs, a couple of hard-luck Minnesotans with little more than a sob-story to their name. Not that they told me their names. Just call us The Twins, they said when they came calling. Let's keep this anonymous. Somebody took our wins. Bring them back to us. I had half a mind to tell them off, but the other half saw the stack of bills they seemed to be offering. They played at being hard-up,  but it turned out they were secretly living large. I wasn't sure what the game was, but the money spoke for itself. And the misery on their faces was as plain as Norwegian cooking. Whatever else, they needed those wins back, badly.

It hadn't been long before I found a good lead right there in Minneapolis, only to be roundhoused by some Canadian thugs. As beatings go, it was as polite as you would expect from our Northern friends. They gave me just enough to put me down and keep me out. They even apologized afterwards, a genial "sorry, pal, no wins here," and flicked a few loonies at me for my troubles. I've got way more troubles than a couple of coins could account for, but I appreciated the gesture. Really spoke for the goodwill of mankind.

Before I could finish nursing my bruises and a bourbon bottle or two, the Twins appeared as if from a nightmare. They looked even worse than before, like they'd gone twelve rounds with a brick wall. "Detroit," they gasped, and limped away. I was thrilled. Detroit's a great place to visit. It's got a booming art scene, with new chalk drawings appearing on sidewalks daily. The food ain't bad either, as you find out when they blend it up for you to suck through a straw in your hospital bed. I couldn't wait to meet the locals.

The town was run by a guy they called the Prince, a big title for a big man. He was stacking bodies higher than he stacked pancakes, and the man was a breakfast lover. He was backed up by a bruiser named El Cabrera, the Goatherd. He'd earned his nickname back in Venezuela. Maybe he was just fond of goats, but I had a feeling the true story was not one for polite company.

The Prince and the Goatherd set up a noontime meet. I wasn't aware that there was a noon in Detroit. I figured the sun hid inside all day just like all the other fine, upstanding Detroit citizens. But it was their town, I wasn't making the rules. I knew it would be an ambush from the get-go, but the Canadian money had paid for a flask big enough for some whiskey-soaked bravado. I showed up, ready to take my lumps. Maybe even to give out a few if I was lucky. They showed up carrying a small sack. It was big enough to hold one win, maybe two, but from what the Twins had told me they were missing a whole lot more than that. This wasn't going to be the big score I had hoped for, but if I could talk my way into that sack then it wouldn't be a total bust. You can ask any of my exes, I've always had a gift for talking my way into the sack.

I was still shielding my eyes, trying to adjust to the glare, when the Prince abruptly dropped the sack. It fell from his hands like they were coated in butter. And judging by his waistline, they might have been. The Goatherd made a move to grab them, but he somehow tripped himself up and took the Prince down in the process. As the sack hit the ground and burst open, two wins popped out and rolled around in the sun. Then the Twins were there, scooping them up, running away with a spryness that I didn't know they possessed. Where had they come from? Why had they involved me if they were just going to grab the wins themselves? I felt like I had been played, but I couldn't figure out any of the angles. The sun was distracting me, burning my retinas, shutting down my synapses, slowing my brain to a hot summer crawl. The Prince and the Goatherd were on me then, getting their licks in before I beat a hasty retreat. I was still confused, disoriented. I had to get out of Detroit. Maybe get my bearings across the lake, down Wisconsin way. Had I done good? Who could say? The Twins got some of their wins back, but I was more confused about that than ever. If the bangers in Detroit were only holding two, where were the rest of them? There was more to this story than the Twins were letting on. I had a few questions to ask the next time I saw them.

Final Score: Twins 4 - Tigers 3

New Guy's Special Friends of the Day: P.J. Walters, Justin Morneau

New Guy's Not-So-Special Friend of the Day: Joe Mauer