Nearly Departed, Max Schlienger [the gingerbread man read aloud txt] 📗

search of his room. The entire establishment had a feeling of having seen better days as a nursing home, or perhaps a mental asylum. Doors stood ajar as he walked past, admitting brief glimpses of boiler rooms, run-down laundry facilities, and at least one example of what looked suspiciously like a disused and water-damaged kitchen. At least, Dennis hoped that it had been water. His own room was clean, at least as far as he could tell, but the dim lighting and yellowish wallpaper gave the space a sickly feel. He certainly wouldn’t trust the tiny refrigerator with any item he later hoped to eat. Resigned, he slumped onto the bed – creaky springs, he noted – and pulled his laptop from his bag.

Luke hadn’t been answering his phone, and Dennis didn’t feel like he knew Bobo well enough to impose on him, which had left Harding’s hotel suggestion as the most viable alternative to sleeping at home. There were other people whom Dennis could have asked for help, of course, but he hadn’t liked the idea of involving his more casual acquaintances in the details of his quickly-sinking personal life. He was also worried enough about the state of his relationship without having to hear the well-meaning condolences of uninformed friends. True, Alena had been nice enough to let him gather some clothes together, and had even gone so far as to give him a guarded hug before he left, but the situation was still far from pleasant.

As it had turned out, Dennis’ choice of hotels was also far from pleasant, but he possessed neither the energy nor the inclination to find a better one. The sun had set, and the evening’s traffic had congested the city streets beyond his ability to comfortably navigate. For that reason, and because his knowledge of San Francisco’s inns was limited at best, he opted to stay where he was and get an early start towards Elspeth’s house the next morning.

For the time being, though, he hoped that he’d be able to distract himself by working on his book. He had been neglecting it somewhat as of late, but the details of his encounter with Evy would undoubtedly provide him with all the inspiration he had once hoped for. The computer’s screen sprang to life, and a few presses of a button brought a digital manuscript into view. Dennis scanned the pages, recalling as he did the experiences that had prompted their writing. He chuckled at the memory of one particularly nervous individual who had wound up discovering a family of skunks living in the basement. The affair had been a close call in more than one respect, since it was the light cast from Dennis’ so-called magic candle that had revealed the furry interlopers.

Dennis closed the laptop several minutes later, realizing that he hadn’t added a single word to the stories he had been reading through. He certainly wasn’t lacking in material, but for some reason, every attempt to write something new was met with a mental brick wall. He sighed and tried calling Luke again, idly wondering at the same time if he could get his deposit for the hotel room refunded. Once again, the call went unanswered, and Dennis resisted the urge to fling his phone away in disgust. He was in a dark mood, to be sure, but he didn’t see that as an excuse to stay unproductive. Plus, he hadn’t eaten recently, and his stomach had taken to loudly reminding him of it. Rather than continue in his futile efforts at creativity, he decided to surrender to his hunger and go out in search of some sustenance.

A restaurant was out of the question, since Dennis was trying to keep a low profile, and he wasn’t too inclined to trust the dubious food services that the hotel allegedly provided. Fortunately, a brief exploration turned up a pair of vending machines, which he decided would be an adequate if not entirely palatable source of nourishment. As he rummaged for his wallet, a piece of hard paper unexpectedly dug under one of his nails.

“What the hell was that?” Dennis muttered aloud. He yanked his wallet from the confines of his pocket, bringing the paper aggressor out with it. Spinner’s business card stared up at him, a sneering reminder of Dennis’ unfavorable situation. The damned thing just kept turning up, didn't it? Well, that was one thing he could deal with, then. He crushed the card in his fist and flung it at a nearby trashcan. For once, his aim was accurate, and the crumpled paper bounced into the plastic bin.

Dennis turned back to the vending machines, feeling perhaps more smug than he should have about having defeated the business card. It was a symbolic victory: Spinner had decided to invade his life, and had no doubt found Dennis’ address and phone number by this point. Disposing of the man's own contact information seemed like a fitting response, if not an entirely rational one. Who did he think he was, throwing threats around like that? It hardly seemed in keeping with the character of a private detective.

A sudden thought popped into Dennis’ mind. With a fervor that probably would have made him seem downright insane to anyone watching, he lunged towards the trashcan and rifled through it, looking for the business card he had tossed away a few moments earlier. The receptacle was largely empty, and devoid of any disgusting foreign substances, but it still took a tense few seconds for Dennis to locate the discarded paper. As soon as his fingers closed around the stiff material, he quickly flattened out the wrinkles and stared down at the information it displayed. Spinner’s name was emblazoned across the top, with the words “Private Investigator” directly beneath it. Further down, there was a telephone number and an email address listed.

“Gotcha!” Dennis exclaimed triumphantly. He glanced around the deserted hallway. “Hopefully, anyway,” he amended. The vending machines forgotten, Dennis made the quick walk back to