T minus 24 and counting

He finished his beans, now cold, and cast a final glance at his greasy spoon companions. The napkin was slowly sinking into the yolk of Millie's leftover egg, which made the beetle look as though it had been prematurely squished.
"Oh well" he said out loud. He paid for the meals. "Thanks Tiger. Plenty more where she come from anyway." He mumbled something in assent and pushed through the swing-door back onto the street. The city noise hugged and squeezed him, riding up his spine, lodging itself securely in his shoulderblades. Hunched-double he paced along the road, eyes down, scanning the ground - newspaper, cigarette packet, newspaper. Grey grey grey.
And then the bus stop.
A crowd had gathered: something was up. The bus that had come to a halt and had clearly been stationary for some time, judging by the miffed expressions of the upper deck inhabitants.
Out of the bus, two women tumbled - one to the floor, the other bent over the first, screaming at the top of her lungs in a broad jamaican accent. "She took my phone. I need to call my mother in Africa and she took my phone. Give me it back - give it!"
The culprit, upright in a light grey silvery raincoat, had lank brown hair and a thin line of red for lips. She said nothing. The Jamaican woman was now pulling at the coat, "Look, see, it's ringing! It is my phone!" The neutral, absolutely entranced crowd stared at the scene. Sirens could be heard in the background. The Jamaican woman was tugging at the silver coat pocket. The phone continued to buzz and flash through the light grey lining. Then she pulled the coat to her mouth and tore the lining open with her teeth. The sirens were very loud, and blue lights flashed in conversation with the telephone she now waved triumphantly above her head. Briskly in came two bobbies and hauled the two away. The crowd dispersed. The bus doors beeped, and Frank hopped on, bashed slightly by the rubber-edged door that swung mercilessly toward him.