Like a wooden doll whose body parts were slowly lifted by the strings, that's how my body was awakened. Weak and lethargic with drained energy, like a glass full of water and then consumed in an instant. My hands brushed away the dirt on my favorite pink jacket lightly. I removed the hairband, and shook my head four times, wiping the dust that remained in my black hair. Now I sit opposite Mr. Chad, provoked by the newspaper and what he just said.
“Some kind of consortium?” Ask Mr. Cake then sat down on the adjacent chair.
“Yeah, big black trade syndicates. Not only are they unlicensed, they have the potential to be criminals. I'm talking about kidnappings, assassins, drugs and contraband. They're a bunch of troublesome morons!" Mr. Chad bit his cigarette furiously.
Well, when I read The Times Newspaper that Mr. Chad brought does make sense. The title of the writing scattered like gravel on the road, the harvest season for kidnapping cases.
"Losing his only child, 7 days Gill Rocher, the jewelry store owner cried non-stop." My eyes blinked for a moment, then pulled downwards. "Andrey Hopman, a high school student at The Netherhall School in Queen Edith's way, no news, a week of tough teachers and parents!"
Mr. Cake turned to me. "That much?" He said facing Mr. Chad. "Isn't it time the police immediately tightened their belts?"
"Fuh..." said Mr. Chad after exhaling nicotine fumes upwards. “If solving a case is as easy as lighting a firecracker fuse, it's a different story. The problem is where should we start?”
“You have had a complete interrogation with the relevant parties, Mr. Chad?" I asked him.
“Well, of course, we follow procedures, Feline. But we believe that the information is sufficient as needed,” he added with a quick nod. “The result? nothing. Most of them are typical of blaming the police for bad work.”
Hearing that I just smiled a little. But it can't be said that it's wrong for those who suffer the impact of losses, after all they pay taxes too.
“They, the gang, are not as stupid as you say, Mr. Chad. They are just like the hedgehog you want to eat. Just holding it is already bleeding, let alone skin it? Besides, don't look for enemies you don't know the background of, Mr. Chad?"
.
"Heh, those words often flicker in my ears." He blinked and smiled faintly.
.
Then, no more conversation after five minutes. Mr. Chad just wanted to relax. Sipping a cup of coffee while smoking two cigarettes, Mr. Cake knocked half of his body face down on the table, his feet on the floor. I leaned back, greeted the sky and imagined.
.
What's that dangerous? I thought lightly.
Meanwhile…
The two cigarettes are now ashes, Mr. Chad was about to pack his newspaper.
"I don't want to interfere," said Mr. Cake suddenly when Mr. Chad was about to get up from his chair.
"We can consider expensive money-" he replied unfinished before being interrupted.
"It's not about money. A simple man like me deserves to live in peace,” interrupted by Mr. Cake is still on the table.
I felt an awkward air. It was as if a gust of wind had cut through a ventilation tunnel, rolling in for a moment before the place filled with silence. Mr. Cake serious and calmly tone, that doesn't feel like it's made for fun. It has answered the question in my floating mind earlier.
Without replying, he left the coin for a cup of coffee on the table. Then greeted me with a slightly forced smile, before walking away.
"If I find a related case, I will let you know."
"That's fine too, Cake." He replied and left.
After that, i intend to go to bed early so that i can watch the news on TV in the morning. Reflecting on the serious matter earlier, my instincts felt that a case would be carried out by Mr. Cakes. While Mr. Cake is not motivated, I should fill in as much information as possible.
***
Sunday is everyone's favorite day.
Precisely that day is a holiday, when humans are themselves. Shopping, playing games, or lying on the bed like a full cow. A pure complaint that they really want to convey. Not in the form of words, but practical activities far from the daily routine like being boring.
And again, wanted to say so…
The day I had been waiting for was actually gone by bad luck. Mr. Cake was silent and opened a sheet of newspaper. I'm guessing, whether it's related to Mr. Chad talk. Or it could be my stupidity.
"Mr. Cakes? Want me to make a tisane?” I asked, knocking on the door of his small office. Since it's already the third call, my hands don't care if it's called presumptuous. Only the sound of a newspaper page turning back in my ears.
"Mr. Cakes?" I directly open the door, with no worries.
The man seemed unmoved, even the reading light was still on all day long. His position was frozen like frozen ice, his hands folded into a chin rest. The newspaper that early in the morning precedes my waking hours on Sundays, six twenty-one.
I crossed the edge of the table and turned my back to him, then opened the window blinds that shone with Vitamin D heaven. I turned my body, I stole his gaze.
"Geh ... I thought what, it turns out you're just lazy," I said disappointed when The Guardian newspaper opened the property section.
"Eh? Can't i?" His lazy eyes focused on the paper instead on me as he turned the next page. "Oh, you said you wanted to make me tisane? That's really helpful, please."
His sluggish voice to his unenthusiastic expression made me quite angry. Yesterday's words seemed to be reflected today. Not boiling his soul at all.
“You should be more prepared!” I protest.
Slowly his head dropped to the table, then faced me, “Why? It's week right? After all, we'll make jam later, right?"
"Putting aside things that have become our routine, didn't we hear a lot of kidnapping cases yesterday?"
"Hm..." He moved his index finger at the end of the newspaper. "then?"
He did not serve me at all, his eye bags had eye bags again, while his eyeballs were a little reddened and glazed.
“Stop joking, Mr. Cake!” My hands lightly pounded the table. "Isn't it time we snooped around, watched from afar, or interviewed someone?"
“Snooping and watching from afar is the same.” He yawned in reply and then used the newspaper as a cover for his head. "You seem to be mistaken. Maybe you're watching the news on purpose to have more information supply, right? Too bad I'm not interested right now."
His right hand stood up and then moved as if he was pushing me away.
"Eh? How do you know?” My face approaches hers as if my general ailment is relapsing, a disease of curiosity.
Without even looking at me, now Mr. Cake was made to resemble a gun, squeezing my cheek.
"Come on, you ask a lot of questions! Hurry up and make a tisane, maybe you'll get a few broken ones later?" His voice was like a spoiled child who was lazy to go to school, the pressing was getting faster and more painful.
“Ouch! Alright, alright!” I moaned then immediately dodged and granted his wish.
“Charmomile, right?” I asked.
"What else? I have nothing but that."
My heart was irritated, I even quickly turned my face away while deliberately stomping my feet hard. Mr. Cake is like a child.
"Oh that's right. It feels full. Please get the contents of the mailbox in the back,” he said to me as he was about to step out of his small office.
"Huh? Didn't you take the newspaper this mor-" I stopped when his hand was moved with the intention of kicking me out again.
One of my eyes twitched slightly, my blood rippled as if it was about to spill. Dozens of cursing and insulting words settled in my brain. The problem is that if he takes the newspaper, he should take all the letters.
Uh, wait a minute? So that means he feels full? Mr. Cake turned out to be a test of my patience. From the start he was annoying me. My anger is not extinguished. But I decided to let he be.
I opened the back door, the mailbox was right on the left side.
"Huh! What's a detective? Lazy in the guise of a baker!” I babbled to myself as I turned the lock on the mailbox.
When opened, it turns out that there is a lot of content. Again - again my curiosity flared up.
“It's not like I'm a stalker, but because t-those don't want to share!” I said almost opening the letter.
There were about eight letters with several different addresses. But I feel there is still one that has not been picked up. Immediately I looked up into the mailbox.
"Eh, black gift?" I thought.
ns 18.68.41.137da2
