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Hey man, I told you everything I know. What more do you want from me? Yeah, maybe I saw the young boy. Was he dressed in orange, or blue or pink? Hard to say. Look, I’m not a t-shirt inspector, I’ve got better things to do.
A whistle? There could’ve been. But if I had to note down every whistle I saw in the street, I’d need to take it up as a full-time gig. So what can I say? Might’ve been a whistle, might’ve been kazoo or a lollipop, or just a punk sucking his thumb. Ask the kid, why don’t you.
His arm? Wrapped around him? Hey, it’s possible — among friends especially. But don’t expect me to confirm anything, I’m not the frigging hug police. That’s your job. Was he eyeing the crowd in the distance? Well, what the hell do I care if he was? If it floats his boat, let him eye donkeys dancing disco. None of my business.
What? Was the grandmother nervous? Hey, take a good look. Do I look like a geriatric psychologist to you? Yeah, you know what, she probably was nervous, because she could drop dead any minute. If I was that old I’d be nervous too. What can I tell you?
A secret object, hidden beneath her head shawl? I’m sorry — does my shirt say Fashion Week Panel Judge? Do I strike you as a man concerned with the rags old ladies employ to keep their heads together? Anyway, what’s it matter? She wouldn’t be the first. What the hell else is a head shawl good for?
And the man? I might’ve seen him. Then again, there were a lot of guys out there. Did I notice the serious look? Come on. Half the guys out there look like suicidal funeral home directors. Even celebrities got 99 problems, never mind the rest of us. So why not look serious? What reason, exactly, would he have not to look serious?