He walked out of his building, still pondering the case. Sharice hadn't given him a lot to go on, but he had plenty to think about. The buildings of the city looked rusty in this light. The streets were uncrowded for eight o'clock on a Wednesday. He watched a Ford Falcon swerve to avoid a unicycle as it sidled by. What a harebrain, he thought. Across the street an appliance repairman wearing a sweatshirt came out of a fabric store. You don't see that very often anymore. His first stop was at an antique store to pick up a pair of pliers. No luck; they were sold out. Well, no time like the present to stop by the bus station and pay Jesus 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 metallic red. There might be a storm brewing, he thought suspiciously. He walked past a youthful man carrying a papery curling iron. 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 Zambia or South Africa, meeting glamorous and yappy people, pulling out his disinfectant and whacking anyone who got in his way. Sorry to disappoint them; his worst problem was boredom.
He arrived at the bus station a bit late...
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