The Wizard of Oz slot machine had eaten his last October paycheck and borrowed two ten from his first November.
Kurt Ipswich drove like a cheap gin cyclone down the boulevard, away.
Tony Corey parked his Ford police cruiser in the turn lane, across from the rock show tucked deep in the warehouses, unseen.
The cops knew about the show. They always knew, somehow.
Tony Corey would pop some punk rock kid for something, anything.
ACAB my ass, Tony thought. Better use your turn signal.
He’d nail three, if he was lucky, maybe some oxy without a scrip, a little stepped on blow. Pick up some OT cleaning his nails in the overloaded 36th District docket, maybe ogle that billboard lawyer who did her makeup like a cat, take Lillian to Toronto for Christmas weekend.
Ipswich drove on instinct, headed east, doing ninety now in a forty five.
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