Morning.
Periodically, the groan from a distant cargo ship floundered over the Bay and landed on the spacious interval of his throbbing headache. His eyelids lifted with the pace of the fog. Apparently, the two empty bottles on the floor were no match for his will to live.
It was San Francisco, 1958. There were probably worse places to be, but under the circumstances, none were coming to Adan Kane's mind.
And then, she showed up.
Her approach had been audible from the point of a half a block away, and when she finally reached the brick stairway that led to his un-shuttered door, her shoes clicking fragilely on each tread, it was all he could do to lurch out of bed, kick the bottles aside, and rub some of the lumps out of his hair.
She had windswept auburn hair, a lower body that vied equally for attention with her torso, and distressed green eyes - the color of a faded dollar bill - that betrayed the years her body would not.
He cracked the door, and she spoke. "You're Mr. Kane? The detective?"
Of course. But in a disturbingly current trend, it seemed that for every question that was answered, there were two more written...
No comments:
Post a Comment