The Devil’s Walk. I stared up at the sign overhead. No matter how many times I saw it, it never ceased to thrill me. The Words were embossed into the surface as flames shot into the air. Slowly, I approached the entrance.
When the sign hung over my head, I let hand seductively and luxuriously graze across the metal poles that supported the red and orange neon sign.
This street, unlike the one before hand, was fairly empty though I could see several larger clusters of people, most in only groups of three, were scattered on the road.
Then there was me, a homely, impish girl. To them I was a street rat living a life of solitude though out the night. But they shouldn’t have second guessed me. I had my family and my friends. They were like me. Wandering souls.
A cluster of punks stood under the warmth of the sign stared at me with cold eyes. I kept my head held high but let my hips sway.
The way I walked must have made me look even stranger still, dressed in clothes two sizes too big, my red hair in knots, and my feet bare. Still, I knew I caught everyone’s attention as I sauntered off down Devil’s Walk.
Grey brick warehouses, each apparently empty, lined the street. Yet I knew better and after walking past Wilkes & Witter’s, a building that had once been filled with furniture, I turned into the alley. It was quite a sad though to think about, knowing that something so large in size could be forgotten so easily.
I walked carelessly down the unlit passage. The other side had been barricaded off after the warehouses had been deemed unsafe. Reports of “accidental” deaths had been at an all time high and the citizens, most on the opposing streets, had jostled the city into the act. However, they had refused to block off the main road.
Then like that, a guy showed up, a runner for the underground most say, and the place was dubbed Devil’s Walk.
I found the small service entrance into Beckworth law firm where thousands of files had been stored before the firm had been closed and the files destroyed.
My hand reached up and I rapped against the door. A narrow window opened and two eyes peered out at me, each a deep brown.
“Password,” he demanded in his falsetto, not even remotely threatening voice.
I shuffled through my mental list before answering, “Minister.”
“Oh, it’s you Amelia. I almost didn’t recognize you,” the man replied as he opened the door and let me into the small unlit room.
I looked him over as I always did. He was a tall man though he had nothing for a neck. Like his eyes, his eyes, his hair was a dark brown and he wore a tattered maroon fedora over the mess.
“How’s Marcella,” I asked.
“She’s doing well, thank you. Just got over a bout with the flu. Anyhow, Boss told me to send you to his office if you showed up. He knows you too well.”
“That he does.”
(this is just part 1. I need to finish typing the other half.)
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