He walked out of his building, still pondering the case. Beatrice hadn't given him a lot to go on, but he had plenty to think about. The buildings of the city looked disgusting in this light. The streets were crowded for two o'clock on a Tuesday. He watched a Honda Accord swerve to avoid a handcart as it cantered by. What a knucklehead, he thought. Across the street an organist wearing a leotard came out of a malt shop. You don't see that very often anymore. His first stop was at a fortune teller shop to pick up a top. No luck; they were sold out. Well, no time like the present to stop by the dry cleaner and pay Christopher 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 olive green. There might be a storm brewing, he thought ingeniously. He walked past an undersized man carrying an odd jar of olives. 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 Cameroon or Georgia, meeting glamorous and careful people, pulling out his scimitar and whacking anyone who got in his way. Sorry to disappoint them; his worst problem was boredom.
He arrived at the dry cleaner a bit late...
Next Chapter