It was like a movie: I walk up the nondescript staircase, clean, but ingrained with decades of grime and cigarette smoke, down the hall to the apparently-empty office.
"Hello?"
"Come in," the clipped disembodied voice calls from behind the half-open door with the frosted-glass window. I enter. He sits behind his untidy desk, shuffling papers before a wall covered in laser-printed certificates and diplomas, his beret clashing jauntily with his yellow bowtie. "Kevin LastName," he says, gesturing to a chair for me to sit. "Private Eye."
I was merely getting fingerprinted in order to work as a volunteer with youth at my church, so it wasn't quite as exciting as it could have been, I suppose. But it's good to know there's a bonafied PI down the street from me, just in case.
Sounds exciting!
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