He walked out of his building, still pondering the case. Vanessa hadn't given him a lot to go on, but he had plenty to think about. The buildings of the city looked gross in this light. The streets were uncrowded for four o'clock on a Friday. He watched a Honda Civic swerve to avoid a Buick LeSabre as it rushed by. What a donkey, he thought. Across the street an attorney wearing a bowler hat came out of an auto repair shop. You don't see that very often anymore. His first stop was at a pub to pick up a pacifier. No luck; they were sold out. Well, no time like the present to stop by the pizza parlor and pay Quentin 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 maroon. There might be a storm brewing, he thought gracefully. He walked past an alert man carrying a mechanical 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 Latvia or Panama, meeting glamorous and daring people, pulling out his bazooka and whacking anyone who got in his way. Sorry to disappoint them; his worst problem was boredom.
He arrived at the pizza parlor a bit late...
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