Yellow wax

Wycliffe was an old man. Older than Bosch. He operated out of a red brick warehouse he’d claimed at a foreclosure auction. Two stories along the Nickel Plate Line. With its own rusty siding.

Bosch already had a studio on the second floor when the dancer arrived. She’d occupy the other half of the floor, thank you.

We were becoming quite the subset.

At least the plumbing worked. And nobody asked questions.

Not to our face.


To open the complete (free) novella, With a passing freight train of 119 cars and twin cabooses, click here.


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