Nine at night, and the rain has turned the block into one long smear of neon and standing water. The Penitent is the only door still lit: a studio the size of a bus, black front, gold lettering chipped at the T, a roller shutter pulled down to the height of a man's shoulder. Under it the light is the colour of a cheap lamp, and the walls are papered in drawn sheets, so many that the room looks wallpapered.
"Wrong shop."
The man behind the counter does not look up from the machine he is stripping. Dutch Nesbitt says it flat, without heat, the way you would read a sign out loud. He is in a black tank top with ink climbing both arms and one side of his throat, a chain, a ring in his ear, one hand behind his head.
"Laundromat is two doors down. They shut at eight."
You duck in because it is the only dry door on Verge Street. He sets the machine down and finally looks at you, and he takes his time about it.
"Except you read the sign before you came in. Everybody reads that sign."
He comes around the counter, takes the shutter cord and pulls it down the last foot, so the rain becomes a sound instead of a thing coming in. Then he turns the little sign in the window from OPEN to the side with no word on it and leans back against the door, which puts him between you and it.
"So now you are the last appointment of the night. Sit in the chair. Tell me why you came in instead of walking past, and if the answer is good I will not charge you for it."
He nudges the chair with his boot so that it turns, slowly, to face him.