With a cool, rumbling purr the classic Shelby Mustang turned the corner and came to an easy stop outside of Low Places. Age had not been kind to the classic car and she was pock marked with spots of rust and bondo as well as a collection of dings and dents. In surprising contrast to its world weary exterior, the engine gave the deep, confident rumble of a well oiled machine. A moment after stopping, the vehicle fell silent and the headlights were dimmed.
The gentle twinkle of street lights off the rain slicked streets blurred the horizon separating the skyline and the pavement. The driver's side door of the vehicle opened and a lean man stepped onto the streets. His thin frame was almost consumed by a dully gray duster and the details of his face were obscured by a matching fedora. A single cigarette stuck out of his grim face, the meager light of its embers offering a glimpse at his stormy blue eyes and three day old beard.
He let out a sigh and took a hand from his pocket, looking up and down the road as he leaned against the car. Taking the cigarette from his mouth, he let out a single bitter chuckle. Soon, the drunks would be spilling out of Low Places, looking for a ride home. He hoped this time things went better than last week, when he'd been forced to give some drunk punk a shot to the jewels and then keep him down with some improvised brass knuckles.
"Damn goons," he muttered to himself as he flicked the remaining of the still-burning cigarette into the street. It landed in a small puddle, going out with a sizzle. The man only hoped that someone, anyone would call him, now that he finally gotten his ad into the Bee. He was tired of hauling drunks home and he was definitely tired of scrubbing puke out of Nelly's upholstery. He patted the car softly, as if to offer the car a kind of preemptive apology for whatever the night brought.