“the hotel clerk spread his fingers across the pages of the book and pointed, the freckles dotting the backs of his hands looking like splashes of orange paint, “he’s listed as having an address on Jones Street, sir.” Daniel squinted at the entry, upside-down from his vantage point across the waist-high desk. There he was. After all the months Daniel had searched, he’d finally located the man. In a San Francisco directory, owned by every hotel in the city, plain as could be. “This directory’s ov...er a year old, though. We haven’t received the latest, so I can’t guarantee the address is still current,” the clerk added, apologetic for any shortcomings exhibited by the Occidental Hotel. “Might have moved on by now. Folks around here come and go like ants on a hill.” “It’ll do for a start.” Slowly, Daniel spun the directory on the smooth walnut surface until the entry was right-side up. He traced the print with his thumb as if the contact of his skin on paper would verify the reality of what his eyes saw.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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