Mean Business On North Ganson Street - Plot & Excerpts
Reluctantly, he opened his eyes. The motel room in which the detective lay was black, excepting an isosceles triangle of sodium light and the digital clock that told him with bright green numbers that it was half past two in the morning. He had deposited coffee in his stomach throughout the long day, and minutes ago, the surfeit of caffeine had finally overpowered his physical exhaustion and pulled him from the land of dreams. “Junk.” Bettinger knew his fifty-year-old body very well, and he was certain that he would not be able to fall back asleep until he had eaten a meal and flushed the remaining coffee from his system with water. The detective yawned, and suddenly, the bright green numbers disappeared. Something had moved between him and the clock. Bettinger seized his pistol. The luminous display reappeared, accompanied by the sound of something flapping. Embarrassed, the detective lowered his gun, cursing the newspaper that lay on the nightstand and the ceiling fan that had given it life.
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