A van slowed to let him cross. Large women were in it.
He walked up a side street. There were a couple of boutiques and one bodega close enough to Commercial to attract foot traffic. Their air conditioners were blasting hot air into the already hot midday. None of them had awnings to offer shade like the places on the main street did, and sun bore down hard on what else Bill saw: empty beer kegs, a couple of bicycles, someone’s baby carriage with no baby in it.
Bill took off his shirt.
The side street’s real estate soon gave way to homes, pretty places with brightly painted trim and shutters, little curbside gardens full of well-watered flowers in bloom. One of the houses had three vintage iron pinwheels, rusted, but which might have been spinning were there a breeze. Bill kept walking, but slowed down the farther he was from the Bull Finch. There was a slight incline, and he wasn’t used to East Coast humidity anymore. He used his shirt to wipe the sweat from his underarms.