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Message: <blockquote data-quote="apocalypstick" data-source="post: 1053856" data-attributes="member: 12356">Heh, thinks Chris as he pulls into the chain-link parking lot behind his apartment building, back in Boston and everyone thinks I'm still out of town.Sweet.He walks up the four flights of stairs to his apartment, pours himself two fingers of whisky, looks at it, then sets it down on the table and drinks from the bottle. Kicking dirty clothes and porno mags across the floor, he settles down into his chair and flips on the television, looking for the Sox game.An inning and a half later, he can't concentrate... he keeps thinking abut the money. Paintings, paintings, paintings... who was that chick at the bar the other night... the one said she worked at that gallery? Lucy? Linda? Something that began with an 'L,' at least...Muting the sound on the television, Chris takes another slug of rotgut and staggers over to his phone. He flips open his address book, searching for something.{OOC: Chris is going to make some calls to his friends (Streetwise) and see if he can't find anyone who knows about artists' studios in the North End, particularly any ones owned by Sicilians)</blockquote>