Page 112 of Fire and Bones

We’d been there a good ten minutes when I took a stab at conversation.

“The Stolls live in the yellow building three up from the alley, right?”

Deery’s absorption must have been total. Or he’d forgotten I was there. The sound of my voice seemed to startle him.

“What?” Ray-Bans whipping toward me. Fingers momentarily tightening, then relaxing their grip.

“Their building is the yellow one at midblock?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know if they’re home?”

“I do not.” With a brusqueness suggesting that I should zip it?

Five more minutes dragged by.

“Are we in Dupont Circle or Adams Morgan?” I asked, my limited knowledge of DC geography based on a quick perusal of one of Doyle’s maps.

“AdMo.”

An elderly man walked an elderly poodle past the Durango. The man was stooped, the poodle obese.

A woman exited a building near the 18th Street end of the block, crossed to a red Mini Cooper, and drove off.

A kid on a bike wove lazy figure eights up the center of the pavement, blue-and-yellow jersey proclaiming his loyalty to Golden State and his appreciation of number thirty.

Bored, I googled for a player ID. Stephen Curry.

Beside me, Deery breathed with painstaking precision.

I checked the time. Seven-ten.

A moment later I was the one startled by an unsolicited comment.

“AdMo was once the place to go.”

When Deery didn’t elaborate, I asked, “Not anymore?”

“Same venues there. Just less lively these days.”

Two complete sentences. Stunned by Deery’s loquaciousness, I ventured another question. Not really caring, but trying to avoid death by boredom.

“Where’s the action now?”

“The Wharf, the Navy Yard.”

I was surprised Deery knew that, but not by his answer. I’d dined there with Doyle and Zanetti, ergo the area had to be hip.

Did anyone say “hip” anymore?

Another long pause, then I tried again.

“Is property expensive in this part of the district?”

“Yes.”

“That odd combination of downmarket feeling and upmarket price.”