Re: Log, Gotham: Holly R/Jim G
Jim chose to believe that—maybe—the man was going to pass out sandwiches to the unnumbered homeless who huddled in drab rags under Sprang Bridge every night. The sky was getting winter-dark, afternoon falling like evening, and the cold was coming down. He knew he was probably wrong, because the girl here—she was right about one thing, good Samaritans weren't exactly common fodder in Gotham—but, really, that wasn't the point, and the detective was satisfied with the groceries being returned. The man hadn't noticed his paper bag wasn't the only thing lighter anyway.—So, he took the things she handed over, and he let her sidle down the feeder-thin alley.
He apologized to the man, giving him some offhand comment about sticky fingers, but he was a cop, and he'd see she got her due. Untrue, but it seemed to calm whatever anger had struck flint against the man's pupils. Jim shook his hand—the one not clutching groceries like a bag of precious jewels, once filched, now forever in danger—and bade him a good evening and happy holidays.
It didn't take long for him to return to where the girl was.
"My name's Jim," he said. "What do you like to eat?"