Twelve-year-old Aaron Broom is protecting his father’s car from repossession when he witnesses a jewelry store robbery gone wrong. To Aaron’s shock, his father, a struggling salesman in the wrong place at the wrong time, is fingered as the prime suspect in the murder. Aaron—precocious, plucky, not a little naïve—must seek out gangsters, diamond dealers, bootleggers, and street kids in order to prove his father’s innocence. In his search for justice, Aaron draws upon the resources of a world-weary paperboy, an aspiring teen journalist, and a kindly lawyer. As they dig into the details of the case, these unconventional detectives reveal a cover-up that goes much deeper than a jewelry-store heist gone sour. Through it all, Aaron’s optimism and resourcefulness shine through. Hotchner’s latest is a rollicking ride through St. Louis at its lowest, as seen through the eyes of his most lovable narrator to date. "A. E. Hotchner has created a wonderful, moving, action-packed novel.  The Amazing Adventures of Aaron Broom  will long remain a pillar of the American literary lexicon.  Distinguish yourself and buy it now!" --Winston Groom,  New York Times  bestselling author of  Forrest Gump "Hotchner is always a wonderful read." --Alec Baldwin,  New York Times  bestselling co-author (with Kurt Andersen) of You Can’t Spell America Without Me  "Everyone who reads Hotchner’s new novel will find a kindred spirit in young Aaron Broom. Each scene is vivid and every character authentic, as only a master of fiction could make them. Thoroughly enjoyable from start to finish." --Stuart Woods, New York Times bestselling author of Shoot First "Hotchner's storytelling is fast-paced, his feel for period detail sure-handed, his vision of humanity-facing-adversity persistently sunny, and his regard for the boy's resourcefulness contagious. A brisk, winsome caper." -- Kirkus "Aaron’s efforts would make the Hardy Boys envious as . . . Aaron begins putting together the pieces of an intricate puzzle that will lead him to a court denouement reminiscent of Perry Mason . . . Hotchner has obviously lost none of his writer’s chops. With an appealing protagonist and a feel-good, slightly old-fashioned story, the venerable author’s latest is a diverting exercise in storytelling that is sure to delight his many fans." -- Booklist A. E. Hotchner is the author of the international bestsellers Papa Hemingway , Doris Day: Her Own Story , Sophia , and his own memoir, King of the Hill . He has adapted many of Hemingway’s works for the screen, and he is the founder, with Paul Newman, of Newman’s Own. Happening 1   Olive where it comes into Tenth is very busy, what with the streetcars crisscrossing there, and the Scruggs Vandervort and Barney department store busy with all its shoppers, though to tell the truth, in these hard times, more lookers than shoppers. So it’s the last place in the entire world you would have expected something like this to happen. Broad daylight, June 28, summer sun already hot enough to marshmallow the street tar, fans whirling in the Cardinals’ dugout pushing the steamy air from one end to the other. I was sitting in our Ford in a blind alleyway where my father had parked it, across the way from J & J Jewelers. He had a three o’clock appointment to show his samples of Bulova watches that were in a large leather case with wheels that he could pull. He had me in the Ford to watch out for the repleviners in case they showed up. It was my father’s constant worry, wherever we went, to keep tabs on the repleviners who, he said, were two guys from the finance company who had a court paper called a replevin that allowed them to snatch our Ford because my father had not made the regular payments for many months. The truth is my father couldn’t pay anyone anything, including the electric company, the gas company, and landlords, saying that “in a Depression as bad as this, everyone should hold their horses.” When I asked him how I’d recognize these repleviners he said I couldn’t miss them, one big and fat with a walrus mustache, the other tall and skinny, both wearing black suits and derbies. If I spotted them I was to sound the horn four quick times, he would come lickety-splitting across Olive and speed the Ford away while I was to go across Olive and get the Bulova case. I didn’t think the jewelry people would hand the case to some twelve-year-old kid, but I didn’t say anything to my father because I thought the repleviners would not be way downtown on Olive looking for this rickety Ford. My father had been on this replevin lookout for many months now. “Another thing, no matter what,” my father had warned me, “two streetcars collide, Scruggs Vandervort burns up, you don’t leave Bertha. Without her I can’t cover customers on my Bulova list and I will be back trying to sell those god-awful glass candlesticks.” He was talking about the hollow glass candlesticks filled with colored threads, with red threads coming ou