(Here we go again, a few more pieces to the puzzle of this crime novel; coming off my keyboard and onto your screen…thanks for stopping by.  If new, please go to the July 16th post, They Had the Right to Remain Silent (1), in the Archives section, where the tale takes off.  Let’s get into another chapter, shall we?)
They Had the Right to Remain Silent
Richard S. Jachimecki
Chapter ( xxxiii )
     BECKER ENJOYED SUNDAY MORNINGS IN THE CITY, especially in the Fall; the sweltering heat of summer forgotten, the air crisper and cleaner with the weekend’s reduced traffic, and, albeit not without a search, street parking. He wanted to pick up something for T and Lana as a ‘thank you’ for the dinner invitation. How long had it been, he thought, an actual sit- down meal?
     The job dictated his actions. He ate on the run. Coffee occupied the top group triangle on his food pyramid. At his apartment, dinner preparation fell under the ‘ten- minute rule’ and required a fork, knife, plate, and microwave; at times the plate was optional. The local Chinese take- out was on speed dial.
     He followed his Sunday early- morning ritual. He stopped at the bagel shoppe on 91st, just as their business commenced. The temperature outside was still chilled enough from the night to see his breath. Becker found it difficult to remember it being this cold so early in the season from years past. He got out of the Mustang and shuffled across the sidewalk, the sky turning from black to grayish- blue, as the new dawn approached. The toasty ambiance – warm, water- simmered, baked dough, terra cotta tiles and hustling, flour- dusted bakers in their white T- shirts and aprons – caressed him the moment he opened the door of this hole- in- the- wall storefront, its windows veiled with condensation. He made his way to the counter, using the narrow path which led to it from the entrance, since ninety percent of the customer area was lined with paper grocery bags. Addresses were written in magic marker on their sides; the contents were ready for deliveries to apartment houses filled with The New York Times readers, anxious to apply a schmear of cream cheese.
     Becker’s was the first face they saw come through the door, on the day most of the city chose to sleep in late.
     “Morning, gentlemen,” he said.
     “Heads up, Detective,” was the only forewarning to a ‘holey roll’ lobbed his way over the counter, fresh from the stone- lined oven. The dough still hot and pliable, the employees got a kick out of Becker’s habit – he squeezed the handful down to the size of a golf ball, then ate it in two bites.
     He ordered his variety of twelve and Sid, the owner, dropped two more into the bag; a ‘Becker’s dozen’, Sid called it, chuckling at his own pun. Becker paid, then turned to navigate his way through the bags toward the door.
     “Hey, Detective, ya gonna do it?” a voice from the ovens yelled.
     Becker checked his watch and turned, “OK, Sid?”
     “We got a lotta work heeya, make it quick,” Sid replied.

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