Цитата #1538 из книги «"Этаж смерти" with W_cat»

I turned at the convenience store and strolled up Main Street. The sidewalks had been swept. I could see crews of gardeners in the little park areas. They were setting up sprinklers and barrowing stuff out of smart green trucks marked “Kliner Foundation” in gold. A couple of guys were painting the picket fence. I waved in at the two old barbers in their shop. They were leaning up inside their doorway, like they were waiting for customers. They waved back and I strolled on.

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“So which one am I supposed to be?” I said. “The shooter, the maniac or the idiot who hid the body?”

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“I’ll give you an example,” he said. “I myself was born in Boston, was educated in Boston and subsequently worked for twenty years in Boston, so I would say, and I think you would agree, that I come from Boston.”

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We got into Roscoe’s car. Finlay opened the big envelope and pulled out the stuff on Sherman Stoller. Folded it into his pocket.

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There was a silence. He and I got the message simultaneously.

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