He walked out of his building, still pondering the case. Deirdre hadn't given him a lot to go on, but he had plenty to think about. The buildings of the city looked cheap in this light. The streets were uncrowded for one o'clock on a Sunday. He watched a Nissan Sentra swerve to avoid a Trans Am as it sauntered by. What a weenie, he thought. Across the street an entomologist wearing a black belt came out of a brewery. You don't see that very often anymore. His first stop was at an art gallery to pick up a cowbell. No luck; they were sold out. Well, no time like the present to stop by the coffee shop and pay Kenny a visit. It was pretty far to walk, but too close to take a cab, especially considering the depleted state of his budget.
The sky had a tinge of polka dotted. There might be a storm brewing, he thought cheerfully. He walked past a graceful man carrying an imitation bottle of painkillers. A bit unusual, but it probably meant nothing. As he walked, he felt other people staring at him. He glanced at the faces. If they knew he was a detective, they'd probably think he leads an exciting life, jetting to Vietnam or Venezuela, meeting glamorous and direct people, pulling out his slingshot and whacking anyone who got in his way. Sorry to disappoint them; his worst problem was boredom.
He arrived at the coffee shop a bit late...
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