Page 20

It was grey and dreary in Wilmington — the kind of day even Ansel Adams would have chosen to stay in bed.

It also fit Harry’s mood. He saw things in black and white today, without the noise of colour. And he was angry.

Harry sat at the coffee bar at DD’s, nursing a stale coffee. Tee Tee let him have the stale coffee for free — though she still charged him for the creamers. Today, he drank it black.

A few weeks back, a new client had come into his office with the promise of riches — if Harry would only find his missing, prized cockatiel. Harry had followed the trail of feathers, questioned many a bird-brained witness, and made his way to the Wilmington docks. He knew where the bird was: aboard the freighter Zeebediah.

He’d bribed one of the sailors to tell him the bird’s whereabouts, and further bribed him — with the promise of a USDA Prime hot dog — to fetch the bird for him. With his prize in hand, Harry had made his way back to the office.

It was during that trip home that Harry realised his client was not who he claimed to be.

“Zee! Zee!” the cockatiel had chirped the entire way. “Zed sucks! Zed sucks!”

That was enough to clue Harry in. His client was none other than Agent Zee.

Harry had been played. Played like a chump. Like a fool. Like a moron. Whatever purpose Agent Zee had for that bird, it was undoubtedly rotten. The instructions — scrawled on a note — had read: “When you find the bird, take it to the Greyhound station and put it on Bus 26.”

Harry would do no such thing. Not until he was paid — in actual currency.

He looked down into his cup, swirled the oil-thick liquid with a spoon, and watched the spirals fade away.

The coffee sucked. But not as much as Harry felt he did today.