I stood up and opened the doors in one swift move. Today, despite my cryptogram concerns, I was smoother than a snooker ball. I placed my brown penny loafers on the sidewalk and began my journey to the other side of the block.
My office was located in a neighborhood described by newspapers, and even residents themselves, as, “Shady, Dirty, and downright horrible.” We had members from three different gangs living on the same block We had guns that seemed to be saved for midnight, guns whose only use seemed to be to wake you up on the nights you most needed sleep. Most of all, we had a desperate need for some renovation of some sort.
I walked past the groups of smoking teenagers, warring gangs, and wandering druggies to a brown door, more inconspicuous than a needle in a needle stack. The brown door has a window which reads: Brad Dawson, P.I.
Spray painted underneath that is: DICK!!! , which I found out, is actually what they call private eyes like myself, unprofessionally, of course.