Herb Flay paused at the front door of his tiny basement apartment, looking out and up at the rain and the miniature waterfall descending his small back stairwell. He didn"t pause for a rain coat (he didn"t own one) or an umbrella (he never would own one). He balled his fist around his car keys, not to lose them in the run, and launched himself out into the storm. Three seconds up the slippery stairs, eight seconds across the back lawn to the community parking lot, four seconds… make that eight… fussing with the lock on the driver"s side door of his old Maverick. He dove in and yanked the door closed again with a hollow thud. He was soaked and gasping (for a skinny guy, he wasn"t in good shape), but he was out of the rain and on his way. His clothes stuck to his skin, he was squeaking again
