A Well Respected Man (S&M Iron Works, New Orleans)

The car windows were down out of necessity; the wind and sound kept his nodding chin above the steering wheel. On Elysian Fields Ave he'd almost hit a woman on a bicycle, so his finger stabbed at the stereo, cranking up the dial. Sitting back, Owen blinked to clear his eyes to The Kinks.

'Cause he gets up in the morning,
And he goes to work at nine,
And he comes back home at five-thirty,
Gets the same train every time.
'Cause his world is built 'round punctuality,
It never fails.

The Volvo door slammed across the street from Katherine, who was leaning against the windowless Sophie. With a glance down the avenue, Owen closed the distance between them, slipping an arm into his gray sport jacket. Fixing the collar, his eyes widened slightly at the Dart in the daylight. It looked even worse than it sounded in the night.

"So this is the place," he said.

He looked like shit, staring at the green wall before them. Sure his slacks and boots were clean and brushed, but the bags under his squinting eyes were indicative of a zero sum night. It was hope that brought him here. Hope that Katherine had found a lead where he had failed in all those books and scraps of Jaiden's notes. In the back of his mind he was wary of her, this radio-punk benefactor. There was something there--something deeper for why she was coming through like she had. And it wasn't her thesis on La Llorona.

"I'm starving," the ex-marine stated, flicking open his sunglasses.