Appropriately, it was a false front.
A neutral-colored gray surface, too smooth for concrete, stretched away
into some shadows. The area was littered with trash.
Cartons, bottles, what looked like the skin of a dehydrated human
being--obviously, on second thought, only the discarded skin of one of
the things like the one I had deflated.
And a moldering pile of letters and papers.
Something caught my eye and I kicked through them. Yes, the letter I
had written to my brother in Sioux Falls, unopened. _And which he had
answered._
My work.
The work I had done at the agency, important, creative work. There
was my layout, the rough of the people with short, slim glasses, the
parents, children, grandparents, the caption: Vodka is a Part of the
American Tradition.
All of it lying here to rot.
Something made me look away from that terrible trash.
Sergeant stood in the entrance of Milady's, something bright in his
hand.
Something happened.