“Sure.” Edison seemed ambivalent, too. “Your place. Why not?”
“Why not?”
With such a lack of enthusiasm, Stone was expecting Edison to back out. Twenty minutes later, however, they were at Stone’s apartment.
“This is my living room.” The top floor of three in a two-hundred-year-old converted house, the place had started off as plain as the Dirty Motel, all carpenter’s beige. Now, every vertical surface featured a framed work of art, from the childish to the sophisticated, and the lightwood floors were scattered with colorful rag rugs. “The place isn’t much. I have a friend who handmakes all the rugs.”
“Uh-huh. Show me the bedroom.”
“Right this way.”
It took about four steps.
“Walls and a bed.”