Red wine first, lots of it, then half a can of coke and a few dashes of Frank’s Red Hot, in his unbreakable water bottle, not the fancy kind.
He could stay home, but it was making him claustrophobic, worse than any airplane.
Donna’s sister said he would text when the contractions got quicker.
Rick Venlin walked toward downtown, toward the defunct gas station at Elmer and Michigan Avenue.
A hand painted sign promised Champs Chickin & Waffles Coming Soon, hanging there so long the corners of the paper were starting to curl and pull at the tape that held it.
The job that he had come to Detroit for turned out to be a sophisticated boiler room, Feds kicking in the door, Arnie Wells turning out to be a Fed.
Rick was glad he never offered to share his crappy Detroit cocaine with the guy.
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