His callused, scarred thumb folded the edge of the Keno ticket. It was a neat little triangle fold, but the girls hated it because they had to unfold it to scan George’s winning tickets.
Eddie Dooley’s face appeared on all three TV screens.
Adam’s face scrunched in disgust.
“There’s baseball on, I think, preseason or something,” Adam said out loud, directed at any bartender who would listen.
“Dooley’s fucked,” George said.
“Of course he is, George, he’s just-”
“No, I mean he’s fucked. He’s not getting
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