I started cursing myself as I noticed the sirens getting closer. Typical. When you needed a cop, they're chowing donuts somewhere. Here I am with a freshly dead scumbag hood killed by a scrap-iron wannbe peice 'o-shit .38 in my hand, and the cops are out set a new response time record. I started moving toward the back of the alley, away from the sirens. I couldn't be sure if the cops that showed up would be the ones I wanted to see. At least half the flatfeet in the part of town made more money off Zebo's payroll than the city's. For your information, Zebo is the gang boss who wanted me dead.
My cursing became audible as I started climbing the fence at back of the alley. Not only did what ever I landed in smell real bad, but it didn't do my back any good. At least I got over the fence before the cops got to the alley entrance. I figured I could get a good head start before they worked up the nerve to actually enter it. I started moving as fast as the dim light and my back would let me. Not wanting to make enough noise to attract the flatfeet I left behind me wasn't much of a problem. Before I hit the street, I emptied out my trenchcoat pockets and stuffed it in a dumpster. The damn thing reeked of whatever I landed in. Just on more reason you can't have nice things in my line of work. In case you haven't figured out yet, I'm a Private Detective. My latest case, a nice safe divorce job, had gotten real ugly.