Like Gold in Fire:; Trip + Don
The building rotted in the ugliest corner of town. A two-story mess of decrepit and crumbling brickwork, it appeared like a bent spine between two newer installments. In the last six months, the building inspectors had come to condemn it twice.
The front stoop was the worst off, steps worn away after decades of use. Seventy-three years ago, when the building was newer but not quite new, young men gathered there to discuss politics and history and all they saw wrong in the world. The Big, Red House they called it, a term of endearment, a compliment to the home's vivid color. Now that shade had gone, leaving a dusty brown-grey that came off on your fingers if you touched it.
Above the door hung the only smudge of attractiveness left. The words "Anderson Detective Agency" stood out in plain black against a field of white, lettering bold in the same way it was commanding. It was ill-fitting, this noble sign, like a blue ribbon pressed to the neck of a dead swine.
Inside, a young man listened to the low whine of ancient pipes. He held a massive mound of wrinkles to his chest, uncaring that the dog spilled off his lap. His fingertips played at frayed edges of an arm chair, eyes closed in an unusual moment of stillness. Some might have taken it for peace, but for Trip, it was torture.
