Lee sat on the back balcony of a townhouse on Goethe Street and stared at the grayish orange Chicago skyline to north. He was tired, but had dressed after his shower in a short sleeved Bugle B with black banding around the sleeves, a pocket patches of thin black stripes. He looked like a product code on a can beans. Still, it might attract attention. I moved and heard his woven leather black belt creak.
Then he heard worse as he studied the indigo blue of his jeans.
"Not tonight, Kevin. I'm tired."
That was Nancy. the wife of the good looking black guy next-door. They were.