The ’48 Studebaker was the color of canned peas. It was parked illegally, in front of a fire hydrant. Nobody seemed to care.
I’d been sitting in the diner across the street, sipping coffee, smoking Camels, for over an hour now, waiting for a human being to emerge from somewhere and attach him or herself to the car. I was the only customer. Occasionally the counter man would try to make conversation by mumbling something about the weather or the Dodgers or the Kefauver hearings. I’d just grunt and let it drop. My job was to watch the Studebaker.
One minute, it’s sunny. Five minutes later, all cloudly, like it was going to rain. It couldn’t make up it’s mind what kind of a day it was going to be.
And I can’t make up my mind what kind of story this is going to be.