Who: Harry Lockhart What: Finding himself very extremely lost Where: A residential area When: Friday evening, June 1st 2012 Warnings: Bad language Status: Complete/Narrative
So one minute he was right behind Perry, revolver drawn, but not actually loaded, because Perry didn’t feel like dealing with the headaches and insurance bills that was likely to cause, and then Perry turned a corner, and Harry turned that same corner, and now he was somewhere else. Fuck if Harry knew where. And Perry should have been right there in front of him, but he wasn’t and there was far too much open space for him to have gone beyond Harry’s line of sight.
So what the fucking hell?
Harry took in his surroundings with a bemused frown, his fingers tightening around the comforting weight of his gun. There should have been a narrow alley running between the backs of the buildings in old school L.A., grimy, wet, maybe a hooker or two leaning out of a doorway. Instead, there was a broad empty lot with grass up to Harry’s knees, and the brick walled strip club they’d been passing by had turned to an slightly rundown-looking townhouse. Another similar house was visible on the other side of the lot, a wood fence cutting off the yard.
“Perry?” Harry called out, but there was no answer, no pissy, gay private detective popping up from the weeds or ducking his head back around the next corner to glare and hiss at Harry to shut the fuck up and fuck he was going to be pissed when he realized Harry had disappeared from right behind him.
He heard a car pass by, and it was instinctive to shrink back against the wall for what little cover it offered. He was still completely exposed to the road, of course, but you didn’t live in the criminal back streets of New York for twenty years without picking up such habits. More townhouses lined the other side of the street, looking average and peaceful and so painfully-Midwestern Harry was starting to throw back to nine-years-old again.