Frank Meinert __top__

"Keep it warm for me," Frank said.

He dropped the cigarette, grinding it into the wet concrete with his heel, and stepped into the street. The traffic was a blur of headlights and spray. He didn't look left or right; he just walked, and the cars seemed to part around him like water around a stone. It was a trick of timing, or maybe just the universe knowing better than to get in Frank Meinert’s way when he was working. frank meinert

The room was sparse. A single lamp, a desk, and a chair. In the chair sat an old man, his hands folded over a wooden box inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The music box. "Keep it warm for me," Frank said