It was both somewhat obnoxious, but at the same time entirely indistinguishable and unremarkable and outfit.
A beat-up denim jacket over a black hooded sweatshirt, dark fashionable denim jeans and ugly but
Lyle was 33, but people always thought he was anywhere between his early twenties and mid-thirties, again with the typical scruff of “that type” of face and “those type” of glasses. And that was the beauty of it as he shifted his hands in his pockets, keeping the fingers loose and flexing, ready to work.
The farmer’s market was in a fashionable part of Chicago, and the day was perfect for it, bright and sunny, with people everywhere, tote bags and packs and plastic bags from other stores full of bread and fruits and vegetables, cloth bags of rice and beans, all of it smelling, Lyle thought, intensely good.
Lyle found stuff, and then he got it back.