He walked out of his building, still pondering the case. Monica hadn't given him a lot to go on, but he had plenty to think about. The buildings of the city looked porcelain in this light. The streets were crowded for ten o'clock on an alternate blue moon. He watched a Ford Falcon swerve to avoid a Cadillac as it climbed by. What a lamebrain, he thought. Across the street a bricklayer wearing a moustache came out of an electronics store. You don't see that very often anymore. His first stop was at an ad agency to pick up a stick. No luck; they were sold out. Well, no time like the present to stop by the haberdashery and pay Damon 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 burgundy. There might be a storm brewing, he thought haughtily. He walked past an elderly man carrying a dusty magazine. 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 Turkey or Rwanda, meeting glamorous and statuesque people, pulling out his spear and whacking anyone who got in his way. Sorry to disappoint them; his worst problem was boredom.
He arrived at the haberdashery a bit late...
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