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The Murder of a Jazz Musicain
It rained that night, but in Fort Worth’s Sundance Square people party just the same, but when the time is 3 in the morning not many wants to party. So now all the drunks go home in their vehicles. One of them will die, and four others will kill ten more, three of them children. One kid won’t make it pass five, and two won’t even make it pass ten, another drunk will hit a pole. He’ll run away like they always do, then he’ll trip and hit his head, blood will gush out, killing him in ten minutes.
It’s sad as it is inane, but it happens everyday, but not all drunks kill behind the wheel. One drunk, no older than thirty two but two years of heavy drinking makes him look forty, tries to make it home by foot, in an alley behind his favorite bar. There’s a dumpster near by, you could tell just by the scent, but he doesn’t smell it. He smells worse. His overcoat reeks like a homeless man cursed by the drink; then again so is our drunk. The man’s breathe has a hint of tobacco, funny thing is he doesn’t smoke. There’s gunpowder in his shaggy brown hair but he rarely use such a weapon. His teeth are stained; his skin feels rough as sandpaper, and dry unlike his drinking habit.
He continued to stagger, until he saw it. A light, a yellow and red light, but a light just the same. His eyes lit up with confusion. Such a sight was desolated to him, but he knew what it meant. He tried to get closer but the wet cement made him slip. He tried to get up, but some how he couldn’t. Then he notice the light was turning into shapes, no words. It said Chuck’s Jazz Lounge, written in red neon. Above it was a yellow saxophone, also neon. Yeah, he knew what it meant; it meant that this was the place. Then he noticed a door in front of him, a faded red door mounted on the brick wall. He got him self up somehow and opened it. A burst of bright light stings his eyes, eyes so use to the vague and foggy night. The light burns like scotch down his throat but then that light faded away, and his vague vision became lucid. It’s a room filled with empty tables and empty booths, but some how it’s alive, like it’s moving, no, dancing. It’s the music, yeah that’s it. It’s that sweet jazz you only hear in New Orleans, the kind of music that shakes your rhythm like a martini shaker. Where’s it coming from? Why it’s a blind man in a cheap Stanford suit, whose skin is as dark as the night’s sky, but his smile is as bright as the sun. He plays that trumpet on that little stage by himself like he was challenging the devil to a music duel. Heck if they did duel Satan would be crying all the way back to hell, because that’s how good he played. The best part is he does it not for profit, nor fame, no he just plays so that sweet radiant sound can ring in his ears. Then the musician here’s something other than his sweet music, the sound of a curious man, walking closer, with more booze in him than the lounge’s bar. He stops playing and grins at the dunk.
“How’s it going my friend?” the blind man states as if he knew him all his life.
“I’m fine sir,” the drunk’s voice is harsh and cold like most killers are. “I just would like a drink.” Even this blind man can tell he’s drunk.
“Haha! You drink anymore and you’ll end up puking for da week,”
“Yeah, you’re probably right, so I’ll take something else.”
“And what’s dat?”
“A chance to earn good money with merely a good hand of cards,” the drunk said. The blind man just laughed at his comment.
“Man, you’re crazy. I don’t run card tables anymore.”
“No need, I got dis place now, where I can just play my heart out.”
“Really, so you won’t play, not even for fun?”
“Not even, no, I just play the tunes now, besides too manay people owe me money in those days. Zey bet more dan day own, and I wuz too damn nice ‘bout it, told dem da’ pay up when-evah day can.”
“No you don’t,” he laughed, not like a bully. No, more like a couple of old farts telling stories over a pint, “you so drunk you can hardly see, hell you so drunk I smelled yo’ ass back when you were outside my door. Keep up dat drinkin’ and you’ll end up blind like me. So what else can I do ya besides talk, ‘cause I got no time fo’ dat now Mista’?”
“Money,” he grunted.
“Hmph, Well how much do ya need?”
“Three million,” he said, and then he pulled out a revolver.
“I don’t got that kinda money.” Then he heard a click, the cool steel chamber rotated, and he knew what was going on. “Listen buddy I don’t have dat kinda’ money, you’re just drunk an’ talkin’ smack. It happens I know, but you better just put dat gun away.”
“Listen you want three million, I’ll give ya three million. Just let meh go to de safe I got by da cash register, behind dat paintin’.”
“So that’s where it is?”
“Yeah,” The blind man gave a grin, “dat’s where it is,” but even the blind like himself can see the fear behind the smile.
“And the key?”
“It’s in da’ cash register,”
“Then you’re useless now.”
“Don’t t-talk l-like dat,” he said it in a soft, rickety, voice, like records of all the other great jazz musicians when it’s scratched over time, problem is this guy doesn’t have time.
“You were good to me blind man, but this is how it ends,” and with the pull of a trigger lead flew out of the barrel and into the musician. The killer went to the safe, and did what all other thieves do while the blind man only wept as his life began to fade away. The sad part is, tears rolled down. No, he wept in anguish and sorrow, for the thief, for the gunman, he wept and forgave the man, even though the killer didn’t ask for any. The blind man’s heart stopped beating, his eyes rolled back, and he laid there in a puddle of his own blood, while the killer just walked away with his money as if the body was merely a ghost.
The time is now closer to the present, about ten years, and that thief is still at large, but no one cares about a past event about a man that meant nothing to him on them. Instead a pudgy bartender of Italian ethnicity with a thick handlebar mustache in a crusty apron throws coldwater on a familiar stench, the reek of alcohol, stained in the clothes of a drunk with Caucasian features, who slumbered over night. As if the water was a trigger, the 6 ft drunk gets up. His burning skin is now freezing, he breathes in a hasty manner though, as if he was in the boiler. The bartender doesn’t give a damn though, to him he’s just another drunk to stink up the place, as if he smelled better.
“Hey buddy this ain’t no hotel,” he pestered, despite his size is much smaller compared to the drunk, showing as much sympathy as the hair on his bald head. The drunk ignores him; instead he checks inside his sport jacket and makes sure he still has his wallet.
“Did I pay the tab?” the drunk asks thinking about his strange dream, one about some guy robbing a musician in a lounge, ice water dripped from his thick brown hair. The peevish bartender only wondered about the drunks comment. Then he opened his mouth, a stench far worse than the drunk’s came out.
“Yeah you did but you better leave a hell of a tip.” The drunk pulls out a crusty fifty from a leather wallet. The pugnacious bartender snatches the bill. He twirls one end of his long mustache with his index finger, while the other hand held the bill high into the light, making sure he sees Grant’s ghost on it. The bartender starts to feel a bit of disappointment, he’s been dying to use his new shotgun for months now ever since that bank down the street was robbed. His gun is probably not registered, but the drunk doesn’t care, he should though. No, instead he just fastens the strap on his holster and makes sure his badge is still on him. Yes his badge, all homicide detectives have one. Detective Alfred Holmes grabs a beer bottle that was near him, doesn’t even know if it’s his, but he chugs the booze down his throat just the same. The cold liquor burned his throat, and soon his liver. He still thinks he could handle it; after all he’s only thirty-three yet the bags under his eyes make him look forty.
He walks through the door. Then the pain hits him, like a bullet, like Mike Tyson punched him in the face. Funny thing is it’s not the drink, nor is it his health. No, it’s the shrilling noises of daily life in the city. It filled his ear drums, like they were the drums of ZZ Top’s Frank Beard, and he was in the middle of a solo. Oh how he dreaded the noise, those car engines roaring, those jerks honking, and the yelling, oh the noise. Then there’s the people walking down the street, stomping their heels into the cement, reminiscing of a past they both witness to each other. Then others let their cell phones ring; they let the music blast out of their ear buds so loud even the deaf could hear. But wait, there’s another noise, something calm and soothing, yet loud and rapid. What is this music? It sounds like a piano. No, it’s a key board, didn’t know a keyboard could make such a noise. The he sees the man playing, a man of Negro descent who has aged much over time and yet he plays with such energy. He plays his keyboard like it was a drum, like Jerry Lee Lewis. No Old Jerry played rock, not him, this is Jazz, and not the smooth kind either. This is different, the man played in a cheap Stafford suit, and shades you could find at any Wal-Mart, and played music that cannot be played again without him, for he had not a single album published. Yet Holmes only gets closer to the man, as if the man was Cee Lo Green. The black man only smiled at him.
“I see you like my music mista,” he says with an immense grin.
“Who wouldn’t?” the piano player only laughs at the comment, with much agreement.
“Zat’s sir, zat’s true. Even those kids inta’ that pop crap like my work,” he says it without breaking a sweat, and yet he still plays loud, and rapid in this style that’s all his own. All it does is make Holmes more fascinated by him. Then Holmes sees the cheap bucket under the keyboard with a cardboard sign that says tips. Holmes pulled out his wallet, only a crisp twenty laid folded inside, and Holmes regrets giving the fifty away. He placed the twenty into the bucket and walked off.
“Thank you Mr. Holmes!” the old man said in such delight because of this generous sight.
“My pleasure, wait how did…” Holmes turned around to see him, but he was gone, not even his keyboard and stand was there, even his tip bucket was gone. Only a crisp twenty lay on the cemented floor. It blew over toward Al’s feet. I need to quick drinking, he thought; Holmes picked the money up, and then ruminated for a moment. I couldn’t have imagined it all; I can’t just imagine music in my head, especially music I never heard of, could I? Hell, Beethoven did it. What if I did hear it but I didn’t remember it? He scratched his head, pondering more about this unusual event. Then the previous thought I need to quit drinking, came to mind and he left it as that.
The twenty was still in his hand. It was all he had, and this wasn’t enough for him, even if he did decide to quit drinking. There was an ATM across the street. Luckily it was a Worthington Bank ATM, where it’s cheaper. He walked over there and placed his debit card into the machine. He saw their logo nailed above the blue screen, with the phrase “Old Fashion Bank Means Old Fashion Values” engraved underneath. Sixty bucks came out in tens. He grabbed them and placed it in his wallet. The money would last him a good three weeks, if his car still had plenty of gas in it, and if it doesn’t he has plenty in his account, yet he felt uneasy.
Despite of all the noise on the streets, he heard another, moaning and groaning, a quite faint voice, but one none the less. He took two steps to see the alley entrance and the sound grew louder, not by much but louder. He saw blood on the cement, in the form of a trail, continuing beyond his sight. He takes a step into the alley, slowly pulling out his .44 magnum. The moaning is dying off, yet he gets closer to it, following the blood trail. The cold steel of the gun gets warm; his heart begins to pound, as if it was going to burst like a melon target. He stops and places his back against the dull white brick wall, near the intersection of a back alley. He only hears heavy breathing, like a sleeping drunk who had ice cold water poured on his face, but the idea of who is on the other side stresses him. Sweat began to form on his face; then a drop hit the cement, such a small splatter wouldn’t but to him it felt like ZZ Top is playing on his eardrums again. The hammer of a revolver went down; Holmes rolled into the new alley and cocked his gun in one fluid motion. He was ready to pull the trigger, but his opponent wasn’t. Heck he couldn’t. The opponent just continued to bleed from the chest, with his hand pushing on the wound. He slowly turned his head towards him, as if it was a struggle. His round nose seemed broken, and his right eye was black and swollen, with a red dust under it, while his other eye stared at Holmes with relief.
“Sir, are you alright?” That’s a stupid question, yet Holmes still said it while he placed his piece on the ground and took off his jacket. The victim opened his mouth but the only the low pitch sound of half a toad’s croak came out. He coughed up blood and then looked back at Holmes.
“You really need an answer?” his voice was one of a heavy smoker. Blood continued to leak from his mouth. He lifted his other hand, showing his .38 revolver. “I got this baby to defend myself and I didn’t even get to use it.” Holmes tried to put his jacket on the man’s wounds.
“No,” the man said, in a voice calmer than Holmes. “I got no reason to live, you would too if your best friend died.”
“I’m sorry to hear it but we need to-”
“Don’t give me that shit, Chuck Luis, my friend-” he pointed to the alley wall behind Holmes. There was a red sign on the brick wall with the words “Chuck’s Jazz Lounge.” “-died and his killer smacked me in the face as if his fist was a brick and then he shot me.”
“He did hit you hard, who is he though?”
“I don’t know; it was dark, that’s all I can say, but take this,” the man lifted his bloody hand and placed a roll of film on Al’s hand.
“Is there a problem sir?” a patrol officer, towering at seven feet, and muscles bigger than Rosanne, said in a manner most unpleasant, “any drinking trouble perhaps?” Holmes stood up, picking his gun off the floor as he does so. “Yeah I’m talking to ya tough guy, you put that piece back down where it belongs.” Then Holmes just faced him. That pugnacious attitude disappeared. “I’m sorry Holmes I-I just-”
“Save it Rick, you stuck your big chin too deep this time. This man just got shot and is bleeding everywhere so could you-”
“What man,” Rick interrupted. Holmes only looked at him, bewildered to a state almost as big as Rick’s.
“This guy right-” There was no man. He looked back at the floor, no blood. What the hell is happening? He thought.
“Have you been drinking?”
“It’s seven in the morning! Who the HELL drinks at this hour?!”
“Sir, I gonna’ need you to calm down.”
“Don’t get formal with me!”
“Holmes, I’ll get rough if I have to.
“Alright, alright, sorry I yelled. It’s been a weird day for me.”
“But it’s only seven?”
“Then it’s going to be a long day.”
“FREEZE!” A rookie cop, one of short stature, about five feet, and hair red as that big dog Clifford; ran, no, loped forward, with an itchy trigger finger on his nine millimeter.
“Bobby put that pea shooter aw-”
“No Rick, I wanna’ make the arrest this time.” Damn TV dramas, I swear cops these days join for all the wrong reasons. Holmes thought as if he was a hard ass veteran.
“Listen to your friend,”
“NO! You drop your weapon or I’ll fire.” Forgot I still had it. He thought. Holmes reluctantly let go of his weapon. Rick only sighed, but Holmes got an idea.
“Now place your hands behind your head!” Bobby yelled.
“How about I give you something shiny?” Holmes said. Bobby tilted his head in confusion.
“You’re bribing me?”
“Bobby put the gun away, this guy’s a-”
“Don’t worry Rick, I got this,” Holmes reached for his badge. “I got it right, HERE.” His badge flew out of hand and smacked the rookie right above his left eye. Bobby checked for blood but there was none. Holmes just walked over to him, twirling his handcuffs with his right index finger.
“You wanted to make the arrest big shot. So go ahead, arrest me.” It’s going to be a long day.
Holmes sat in a dreaded cell inside the police station. Damn, that smell, He thought to himself. It was the smell of blood and piss, the smell of death. Traces of marijuana were on the bench. The cemented floor was stained and sticky from Kool-Aid or something, and yet it could be worse. Instead Holmes only stared at the roll of film the vanishing victim gave him. He didn’t even bother telling any of the other officers about this. The metal chamber door opened, by a guard with the body of a weight lifter.
“Chief wants to talk to you,” he grunted.
“Is he mad?”
“Hell yeah,” a man of short stature and a thick southern accent, who is pugnacious as he is pudgy, stepped in front of Holmes.
“What do you need Chief?”
“Give me your badge son,” Holmes pulled out his badge and placed it inside Chief’s hand.
“Do you need my gun?”
“No, keep that, you own it anyways. Besides you’re going to be off the force for only a little bit.”
“How longs a little bit?”
“Until she says so,”
“You mean I’m going to see a shrink?”
“Yeah Detective, her name’s Dr. Arcane,” Chief gave Holmes a business card. “Heard she’s real good with this sort of thing, we even scheduled your first appointment, tomorrow at ten. When she signs off for your release, mentally, you’ll get your badge back. ”
“Will I still get paid?”
“Yeah but the psychiatrist is coming out of your salary so it’s not much but don’t be complainin’. Plus you’re off that murder case you’ve been workin’ on,”
“Thank you Chief, will I have to work on it again when I’m back, even if she considers the case part of the problem?”
“Nah, I let the others work on it. You just go get better.”
“Thanks again,” Holmes smiled and waved good bye. When his face was away from Chief’s eye sight his smile faded. In a way he was both frustrated and yet relieved. He knows he’s not crazy but he’s glad he doesn’t have to work on the Susie Johnson murder case. He pulls out the roll of film again, questioning how he got it.
“Hey Holmes,” Rick said.
“What do you need?” barked Holmes.
“Can’t a guy apologize?”
“You already did, now tell me, what do you need?”
“Nothing, but I got something for you,” two thick files were placed on Holmes hand.
“You still think you’re crazy?”
“The guy you saw said he was friends Chuck Luis, right?”
“That’s right; he said he was shot in the old jazz lounge near us.”
“Well Chuck really was murdered in his jazz lounge, and he had a friend named Jimmy Carabi who was found in the alley, shot and bruised the same way as the guy you saw in your report.” Holmes opened the file and pulled out a news paper article with the victim he saw.
“Is this Carabi?” Holmes asked.
“Yeah, is he the guy?’
“Yeah he’s the guy I saw. Did we ever find the killer?”
“Yes and no,”
“What do you mean?”
“Jimmy took the wrap,” Holmes reacted astonished, as if he found a skeleton in his closet, from the statement. How the hell can that be? The mere thought of Carabi ever killing such an innocent man bewildered him, yet he never met Chuck Luis, have I?
“How?” Holmes asked.
“Jimmy had the same type of gun used to kill Chuck, plus gun residue was found on his hands.” Holmes looked around; making sure no one was watching, and whispered.
“Don’t tell anyone but I found this at the scene.” He showed him the role of film.
“Why didn’t you tell anyone about this?” Rick whispered.
“Because what if I’m wrong?”
“Don’t give me that Holmes. Even if you did imagined it all this case is too strange to ignore, but you still get that film developed. Now is there anything else you need to tell me?”
“No, that’s about it.” Except that blind man I saw, I wonder if I imagined him too.
“Alright, tell me if you find anything else.”
“Alright Rick.” Alfred looked down, deep inside he knows there’s more to tell. That dream I had earlier, back in the bar, was about a jazz man getting shot, Chuck Luis no doubt. Now I have this role of film, from the kinda’ camera you’d expect to see ten years ago, but it looks too good of a shape to be found in an alleyway.
From the looks of the sun it was almost noon, Holmes parked his car between two yellow lines, painted about a month ago yet they fade on the rough pavement. He didn’t care. Instead he just stepped out and saw the apartment complex. It stands over him by three stories, built by brick. There’s a metal stair rail, painted black, that leads to his room. He walked up the stairs. Then he placed one of his keys inside that rusted lock mounted above his door knob. It was a struggle to turn the key but Holmes managed to do it. With a sigh of relief he pushed the door. His home was small, only the basics, with every wall painted white. He pulled out the last cold one from the fridge. The bottle was already opened. He took a sip from it, but it was all that was left. This is a good day to quit the drinking. He thought. Holmes sat on his only chair on his kitchen table with only one light bulb above his head, hanging down by a long wire. He placed the case files on the desk and held the photos Jimmy gave him in his hand.
He pulled one out. Chuck and Jimmy were both in it, both in black tuxedos sitting at a card table with poker chips in front of them, with Chuck wearing his shades. His head was tilted slightly up and his mouth was open with laughter. Jimmy only slightly smiled, as if he told a joke and was slightly amused with it himself. Holmes grabbed another photo, this time it was a tall man with brown hair in a Kiton suit. Judging from his skin he was probably of Italian decent, and from the looks of the amount of grey in his brown hair he was probably fifty at the most. Holmes flipped through the other photos, all of them about the same thing. This man in the Kiton suit with another broad, if they’re not shopping at fancy stores then they’re at the front door of a cheap motel. The photos were probably intended for blackmail. Holmes thought, but why? Holmes looked through the case file. He found copies of the estate forms for the jazz lounge. The lounge was once a strip club that belonged to the wealthy Ben Gregario, just the lot was worth one million but he sold it to Chuck for just $325,750, this Ben was the same man in the pictures with the Kiton suit. Holmes looked deeper and found a list of people who owed Chuck money, Gregario here owed Chuck $325,750. So that’s what the photos have in common, but that doesn’t explain why he got iced. This case exhausted his brain. I need some sleep; he thought, that will help me out.
Rain fell in an alley. A pudgy man of short stature walked, wearing only his rain coat to keep him dry. He doesn’t wear a hat, mainly because he hardly has hair to get wet. The alley entrance to the lounge slammed opened. The lounge’s light burst out like hell’s fire, being blocked only by a brute who can barely fit in the doorway. The short man began to tremble, but the brute only laughed. He jammed his fist into the short man’s gut, then another onto his face. A tooth flew as a stream of blood followed it. The short man fell to the floor and puked more blood, yet the brute still laughed. He pulled out a gun, six chambered, .357 revolver. He pulled down the hammer and the bullet flew like light-
The blast of the phone woke him off his old bed. He lifted the black phone on the dresser, trying to say something but only a grunt came out.
“Mr. Holmes?” a woman’s voice, a voice that’s full of youth yet full of maturity.
“This is Dr. Arcane; you were supposed to see me about an hour ago around three.”
“Really?” he says as he looks at his cheap white digital alarm clock with the numbers 4:15 in red.
“Yes Detective but you wont get any chance to be one if you don’t show up, how ‘bout seven o’ clock?”
“That’ll be fine,” he grunts and hangs up the phone, not caring if his tone would be considered rude. The phone rings again.
“Oh hey Rick, what do you got for me?”
“I was going to ask the same.”
“Well, Chuck was black mailing Ben Gregario just so Ben would pay his gambling debts to Chuck. So Ben gave his strip club to Chuck, since then it’s been a Jazz Lounge ever since.”
“I see, so the photos were black mailing Ben Gregario, anything else?”
“So far that’s about it, now what do you have?”
“Carlo Cervello, ‘member him?”
“Yeah, he used to run the drug routes and the number rackets here until he died five years ago, what about him?”
“Well rumor has it that Carlo Cervello hired someone, someone on the force, at the time at least, to murder Chuck.”
“It would make sense Carlo owed Chuck $440,000, and where did you here this rumor?”
“Detective Jack Napper, he worked the case back then, some say he still is.”
“Funny, I don’t remember him on the force.”
“That’s because he retired about seven years ago, you’re still patrolling at that time Al.”
“I see, well call me if you find anything else alright?”
“Yeah, and you better do the same.” Rick hanged up, and that was that.
Holmes walked inside the office of Dr. Arcane and Dr. Huntsville several hours later for his daily psychosis. The floor was that of a soft carpet. A leather couch was by him against the yellow wall. Across from him was a blonde woman, a woman who wears her long dirty blonde hair down near her tanned skin, the kind of tan one only gets naturally. Her attire was a light brown suit, button down, with a brown skirt that ended slightly above her knees. Her green eyes glowed.
“Do you know why you are here Detective?” Her voice was calm and smooth.
“Yeah, I’m here because I imagined a man in an alley.”
“Describe this man,”
“Fat, short, round nose, bruised face, claimed to be Jimmy Carabi, problem is Jimmy was found dead in that alley ten years ago.”
“Right, and this man was considered the murderer of Chuck Luis correct?”
“Yeah, he took the wrap.”
“Were you the one assigned to this case?”
“No, I was still in the academy at the time. I never even heard of Jimmy or Chuck until yesterday.”
“Alright, have there been any other hallucinations besides this one?”
“No, but I have had dreams about it.”
“Yeah, two I think, the first seemed like Chuck getting iced, and the other was Jimmy getting beaten’ with a brick.”
“I see, and when did you first have your first dream?”
“The night before the um’ hallucination,”
“I thought you never heard of Chuck until yesterday?”
“Yeah that’s true but the way it happened was just the same as his homicide.”
“And how would you know?” Holmes stared down and scratched his head, calming him.
“I did some research afterwards.”
“I see, and does the Chief know about your little investigation?”
“You don’t think Jimmy killed Chuck do you?”
“Yet you say you never heard of either of them until yesterday.”
“I know, now tell me Holmes,” her voice came down to a whisper. “I need to know, have you been drinking or smoking anything lately, regardless if it’s illegal?”
“No, I haven’t taken any street drugs, nor have I been on any medication, but I used to be a heavy drinker.”
“I know; that’s why you have that flask inside your jacket.” She smiles when she said that, not as a gesture of friendship but as an act of victory, as if this whole thing was a game and she just scored a point. Part of this intrigued the detective, and he smiled back.
“What else do you know about me?”
“You wanna’ get your badge back, that I know for sure, and if you want it you better help me out some more.”
“What’s your next question?”
“According to your police report you had a hallucination of Jimmy Carabi, correct?”
“And in this hallucination Jimmy was talking to you about some guy shooting his friend and beating him.”
“And you had a dream of Chuck getting murdered and another of Jimmy?”
“That’s what I said,”
“And you claim to have no other hallucinations prior or before this incident?”
“And I haven’t. So what’s my psychosis?”
“Hard to say, so I can’t suggest any medications, why don’t you come back next week at this time?”
“I can do that,”
“See you then.” Holmes walked out while another man walked in.
“Afternoon Dr. Huntsville.”
“After noon Dr. Arcane, are you doing anything?”
“Well I’m just finishing this report I need to turn in to the FWPD by seven.”
“I’ll turn it in for you.”