PSYCHIC EYE
I read the sign and climb a stair. The office door is smoky glass. Inside, a radio plays jazz. I go in. He points to a chair. He’s shabby, but he don’t look dumb. His voice is booze and cigarettes: a weary voice, full of regrets. A gumshoe, laid back, chewing gum. I tell him: “You’re a Psychic Eye. I…
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