“Yes, this is Mr. Stockton.” He answers the voice on the other end, his own voice gruff, curt, precise. He listens intently, pulling a steno pad. His handwriting is terse, rough around the edges. He had some schooling, but he never really did well with penmanship, preferring printed lettering over the cursive that they had started to teach around third grade. As a result, his own lettering was a mix of both, standard printing with flowing pen strokes reminiscent of the flowing font that so many ingratiate themselves with at a young age, either quickly and easily, or by repeated strikes on their knuckles with the ruler.<br/><br/>As he finishes notation of what little detail this mystery woman would give him over the phone, he takes a breath, stating, “I’m just off of 2nd Avenue near the Bowery Mission. Come by today, I think it would be better to discuss this in more detail in my office.” Something in her voice had betrayed that she had lived in luxury, and would be reluctant to be seen in such a poor neighborhood, even one in the greatest city in the world. Of course, it was the most affordable office front in town, even if he had to deal with the smells of shit, blood, and rotten garbage. At least he could survive here, grabbing a meal at the Bowery whenever possible, standing in line with people who couldn’t even afford shoes for their children.<br/><br/>He leans back in his chair, stubbing put what would be only the first of many cigarettes that day, as it were every day. He had picked up the habit in the Army, as they would put cartons upon cartons with the rations that were dropped over the trenches every so often. He would reflect upon the way himself and others of his platoon would run through No Man’s Land just for the cigarettes, risking being mustard gassed just to make sure they could smoke. The way the sky would look at night, empty and starless, the only lights coming from the small sparks of flame at the end of their addiction, as they would patrol the holes and tunnels dug in the Earth.<br/><br/>Noon comes and goes, two or three people would come into the office, asking for his service over simple things, stolen jewelry, husbands and wives missing, and the predictability of the outcomes from each case. Two o’clock in the afternoon comes, passing with little fanfare as he empties the ashtray on his desk once again, and at fifteen minutes past the hour, a knock came at the door.