Lester Flint stood over the body on the floor of the art studio and studied it. Patamon's own mother wouldn't recognize him. He was asleep on the floor wearing boxer shorts and his deceased wife's bathrobe. He was emaciated. His hip length hair and matted beard went off in all directions. The smell was unbearable. The combination art studio and showroom was extremely dusty and obviously had not been in use for decades.
Harry suggested they go upstairs to the living quarters so as not to disturb Patamon.
"Shouldn't you put him to bed?" Lester couldn't accept the sight of Patamon on the cold, dirty floor.
"Leave him alone. He'll tear your head off," Edison warned.
"He speaks from experience," Harry confirmed.
"This is how you live?" Lester's head tilted to one side as if it had suddenly become too heavy.
"This is how it's been since his daughter died," Edison whispered, pulling Flint back.
"When did she die?" Flint asked.
"Three months ago. Look, don't wake him up. Let's just go upstairs," Harry was defensive and annoyed.
"It took more than three months to grow all that hair," Lester huffed and puffed as they climbed the spiral staircase.
"Patamon stopped cutting his hair when his wife died. He used to wear it in a man bun and was going to cut it off on his daughter's wedding day," Harry explained as he put three beers on the dusty kitchen table.
"Is that a millennial thing?" Lester wet his pencil in his mouth and plopped his writing pad on the table. A cloud of dust shot up in his face. He tried not to breathe.
"You have pica? You could get lead poisoning," Harry had only seen old people lick pencils in the movies.
"Birdie isn't dead," Lester leaned in, hissing. Then he bolted for the sink to wash his face.
"You don't know what you're talking about," Edison declared.
"I know things you don't know. You tell me what Patamon was running from. I'll tell you about Birdie," Lester bargained with his head in the sink.
"So you're saying you've been looking for Patamon for 20 years!?" Harry's jaw dropped.
"I've been looking for Patamon for forty two years!" Lester growled after splashing water on his face and finding nothing clean to dry with. From the window above the sink he could see the FBI van in front of Caffe Pinguini. He wondered how Agent Curtis could be listening to him and chasing a man down Montreal Street at the same time.
~ to be continued ~
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