He walked out of his building, still pondering the case. Tiffany hadn't given him a lot to go on, but he had plenty to think about. The buildings of the city looked ornate in this light. The streets were crowded for ten o'clock on a Monday. He watched a Maserati swerve to avoid a Dodge Charger as it padded by. What a barbarian, he thought. Across the street an auctioneer wearing a sweatshirt came out of a music store. You don't see that very often anymore. His first stop was at a jewelry store to pick up a wastebasket. No luck; they were sold out. Well, no time like the present to stop by the barbershop and pay Anthony 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 salmon. There might be a storm brewing, he thought primly. He walked past a muscular man carrying a shiny grease gun. 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 South Africa or Jamaica, meeting glamorous and high-strung people, pulling out his bottle of Tabasco Sauce and whacking anyone who got in his way. Sorry to disappoint them; his worst problem was boredom.
He arrived at the barbershop a bit late...
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