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FBI. Night shift.
May. 2nd, 2009 08:58 pmThe Italian restaurant is liberally surrounded with "Police Scene. Do Not Cross" tape. The tall man in the Eisenhower jacket walks right past it and opens the door. Apparently the police have accounted for this possibility as there is an overweight man in a patrolman's uniform with a donut in one hand and an almost empty donut box in the other. He looks up, hand frozen halfway to his mouth.
"Can I help you?"
The Middleman flashes an easy grin. "FBI," he explains, flashing a badge. "Night shift."
The cop nods in acceptance, then holds out the donut box. "Donut?"
The Middleman shakes his head in disapproval. "That would ruin my appetite, officer."
This draws a blink, a shrug, and a thoughtful donut munch or two. The Middleman has already dismissed the officer and is walking slowly around the restaurant examining things through an odd black device of some sort.
"Can I help you?"
The Middleman flashes an easy grin. "FBI," he explains, flashing a badge. "Night shift."
The cop nods in acceptance, then holds out the donut box. "Donut?"
The Middleman shakes his head in disapproval. "That would ruin my appetite, officer."
This draws a blink, a shrug, and a thoughtful donut munch or two. The Middleman has already dismissed the officer and is walking slowly around the restaurant examining things through an odd black device of some sort.
