#Writever 4 — Crime

I stood under the cover of the glass bus kiosk roof, watching on a cloudy, drizzly day. Traffic splashed through puddles in the street. My breath condensed and warmed my cheek. Yes! I saw a man in a black macintosh without a hat rushing toward the new stand. I walked out behind him, my footsteps slapping wetly. He caught the attention of the grizzle guy running the place.

"The short one's sell the best. You can drop it in a pocket..."

Keeping my back to the pair, I passed by the long stand on my left, lifted a copy of /The Inquisitor/ off the top of the stack, and stuffed it under my right arm. I raised my left hand in a lackadaisical wave that wouldn't be seen by the proprietor, but would make me seem a regular with a tab to anybody watching.

I hummed a tune, wondering if someone might leave a to-go cup of coffee or tea unattended. Three cafés in this block alone...

A large form stepped in front of me from the doorway of a tailor. I dodged left to go around him, but the living wall sidled in front. Blinking, trying to look like any businessman rushing to the office, I looked up into the constable's face. He wore a blue cap. I could not miss the brass buttons or the copper badge. Only the dampness of the day hid that I suddenly sweat. My hands, especially. My heart raced.

I asked, "Um. Yes, officer?" Innocently. At least my voice didn't betray me.

He held out a beefy hand. His eyes were dark, maybe brown? They were shadowed. His breath looked like smoke as it curled from his open mouth.

I handed over the paper.

"Thank you," he said, grinning. His 6 o'clock shadow blackened his jaw even though it wasn't 9 AM, yet. He stepped around me and I turned to follow his path.

I saw him immediately pull out the sports section. He tossed the remainder into the wire-mesh rubbish bin he passed. He asked the newsstand proprietor, "Business good today?"

The man behind the 'zines nodded grimly.

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