Gina was having an awful day.
Firstly, the demon typewriter had decided to act up again, right at the very moment police reports were due in. Secondly, she had to waste her lunch hour trying to fix the bloody thing. And last, but certainly not least, some idiot who was sprinting through the station had taken it upon himself to spill coffee all down the front of her dress.
For some reason she found herself wandering down the street toward Alvinâs dry cleaning store. Before she even knew what she was doing she heard the tinkle of the bell as she made her way through the door.
She hoped heâd be there; he usually knew how to make her smile after a hard day at work, as shocking as it may have seemed. When Gina was in a bad mood, all sense of humour (and rationality, truth be told) flew out the window. He could get the ugly stain out of her dress, at the very least.
She usually found Robbie there; a scrawny kid who manned the desk. This time, though, was a little different. The usual grunt of acknowledgement was nowhere to be heard, and in its place came a sharp, judgemental glare.
There was a woman at the desk, and not the kind youâd see traipsing up and down Hollywood. She had a different kind of aura about her, and Gina sure as hell knew her type. She seemed tough, condescending almost, and for a split second Gina wondered what in the name of God she was doing in Alvinâs place.
She suddenly remembered she wasnât exactly in Beverly Hills, and her suspicion died down a bit. After all, she was never one to judge a book by its cover.
"UmâŠhi. You wouldnât know where Alvin Cramer is at the moment, would you?" she said slowly, a hint of an Irish lilt adorning her accent. She may have rectified her suspicions; but that didnât mean she wasnât still intimidated by the way this woman carried herself.
