"Look, he's there," Ben pulled at Wyatt's arm. Wyatt popped and jerked to the music in his earbuds. He let his eyes wander across the mall to the newsstand. "There! In the black duster." Wyatt shrugged and did his happy dance, both hands in the air and hips shaking. He answered to whatever rhythm filled his brain.
"I saw some bums in brown... some boobs in beige and some bootylicious butt cheeks in almost-translucent pink spandex, but no man in black Dude, no sir, no man in black." Wyatt slid his ballcap up the back of his head and over his eyes. Ben huffed, made fists, made pounding movements with his hands and stomped; so ready to break into a hissy fit.
"Over there. You looked right at him." Ben watched for any sign of recognition on Wyatt's face. Nothing. He tried again. "Broad-rim hat, gray bandana, coal-black pants, dusty boots." Wyatt's eyes opened wide. His eyebrows nearly touched the top of his forehead.
"Jeez, dude, that's him!" Wyatt shouted.
The man by the news stand turned toward them and his eyes widened in startled recognition. In a flash, before they could move, Jacques DuQuene, jewel thief and murderer, disappeared into the crowd.
"Dammit!" said Ben. He looked in exasperation at Wyatt's tee-shirt. Dammit again. If they had to go undercover as mall-rat music fans, why did his partner's favorite band have to be The Police?
Opening: Dave F......Continuation: Anon