Harry Mars was
pacing his dark, crowded Mission district apartment in quite an agitated state. Always
short on cash, Mars seldom turned on the lights unless he was performing some particularly
detailed task that required being able to actually see what he was doing -and he
NEVER opened the curtains. He didn't need light. It gave too much away and it was
better to be heard and not seen in this line of work.
Harry's work was all in his head, and he had the dense obstacle course of a floor
plan memorized like a blind rat in a maze. If the travel agency downstairs had stayed
open all night, the syncopated clomping of his worn heels on the bare hardwood floors
above their ceiling would have driven them nuts. But Harry was a nighthawk, seldom
stirring before the girls downstairs at El Deora Travel were calling it a day.
Tonight Mars was hard at work on a job that he didn't even want, but he was always
a sucker for a desperate woman with blood on her hands. . .
77 El Deora
Oblique Americana: a verbis ad verbera