"They call him 'The Weasel'," she began, "and he's the only you'd be able to get to." I would have to trust her word. So very few of the people connected to these "objects" tell the truth, and this one seems as shady as the rest. If she's not right, then I've blown my whole savings on thin air. Maybe I could get a favor from the mob if I needed to come back…big men in black suits tend to deserve refunds.
"Nice talking to you!" I faked a smile. She wasn't impressed.
"Just leave!"
I thought it best to comply. I'd never be able to get mobsters…
I left the dry cleaning place and headed west. The Newspaper, she'd said. That's what I was after. I'd walked in, set my money down and asked her for something easy to get my hands on. What's easier than a trip to the local library? Sure, the librarians would need some convincing, but after all, I'm Marshall Huddersfield, the best liar this side of the Mississippi. Or at least I'd like to think so. Some people see right through me, like that girl at the dry cleaners, or my ex-wife…
"Look out!" somebody yelled. Well now why would somebody…? I glanced to my left and was starring down a bus, speeding towards me. I didn't think—I just ran. It stopped in time, and I was never in any danger. I'm an idiot.
The man that had yelled at me ran to me, and asked if I was all right. He was tall, with unkempt hair and broken glasses. His tie was wrinkled, his shirt was missing a button and he was covered in mud up to his knees. But his coat, an old fashioned brown overcoat, was perfectly clean and pressed. I told him I was fine, and he continued down ahead of me. Such an odd man.