Jules steps in and catches sight of what he’s in for - tosses still-too-hot coffee onto bald screamer’s face and makes him scream more, sees two more goons up by the offices: one beating on a cowering Zeke, the other going toe-to-toe with a Winston matching his blows, calling for help once he sees you’ve arrived. He starts shutting the door but not fast enough - Julius knows the play, flatfoot kicks the steel and sends it reeling into baldy’s head: badly grabs at it and flies flat onto his back trilling his Rs: Is very dangerous and toxical, come back tomorrow, we finished then. Like to get inside, get my day going if you don’t mind.” Jules mutters, sips from the cup and looks around streetwise - gets his gaze cut short by the door opening a crack, half a moon face peeking out. He moves to the side, looks around, up at the sun just come up - makes his way to the red metal door and pounds it with a closed fist and waits and drinks almost-white coffee. He walks and sips but slows on sight - a cream Dundreary Brigand parked by the side entrance. Cart coffee means no sugar, milk galore J tosses some extra change to the old git hanging his livelihood on the caffeine urges of early morning industrial workers and keeps on: under the roaring overpass and into the Intrepid courtyard, vans chuffing through potholes behind him. Last remnants of the city’s famous fog dissipating with the humidity, make your way to the coffee cart under the I-75 viaduct - Julius soaking in the just-risen sun, pink sky, jean-jacketed, pep in his step: a welcome change when he’s left to his own devices.
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