The Good Thief's Guide To Berlin - Plot & Excerpts
I barely dozed. And as I thrashed around in bed, growing grumpier and more resentful all the while, my drowsy brain fired questions at me that I couldn’t begin to answer. The questions multiplied. So did my concerns. It didn’t do a lot to improve my mood. But it was a wonderful way of becoming agitated. I gave up on sleeping before eight, hauled on my dressing gown and stomped through to my living room. I collapsed onto my writing chair, lit a cigarette, and sucked on it hard, trying to kindle some kind of mental spark. It didn’t work. It just hurt my ravaged throat. I scowled at the telephone on my wall. I scowled at my laptop. I scowled at my sorry copy of The Maltese Falcon, with its charred jacket and flaking pages. Then I groaned and twirled around in my chair and scrambled to my feet and gazed out my window at the scene below. The rain had finally stopped and the sky was beginning to lighten from wet slate to dry asphalt. Office workers were climbing inside their Volkswagens and BMWs, throwing their legs over old bicycles, or walking stiffly with briefcases clasped tight.
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