It always helps—looking up. There’s only possibility. The view is never worse.
I turn to head to the parking lot, but someone appears.
I halt, seeing a male and female police officer approach, an amused look in their eyes like they found exactly what they were looking for.
Fuck.
“You have weapons on you?” the male asks.
Slowly I raise my hands, showing they’re empty as the baton still lays on the ground somewhere behind me.
“No, sir,” I tell him.
“Empty your pockets.”
I drop my eyes to the weapons on his holster, the female closing in behind him. I soften my voice, even though my pulse is racing. “I don’t feel comfortable with that, sir.”
He just laughs. Leaning in, he whispers, “I can detain you without a charge for up to forty-eight hours. I can also frisk you.”
I know. But still, I try. “I don’t feel comfortable and I do not consent, sir.” The money on me feels like a soccer ball in my pocket, and it won’t go u
“No.”
Of course not. It was worth a try.
But I can’t spend forty-eight hours in lockup. I clear my throat. “I consent to a search, sir.”
The woman steps forward and pushes me around, my hands slamming into the brick wall. She pats me down, my torso, my legs, my arms, emptying everything out of my pockets. I close my eyes, a sick feeling rolling through my stomach as the weight of the cash on me disappears, and I hold my breath.
Don’t come back empty-handed.
They toss everything on top of the dumpster and back away. “No weapons,” she a
“Aw, sorry about that, kid.” The male cop leans in. “Have a good night, okay?”
My chin trembles. Motherfucker.
I wait for them to leave, but I don’t have to turn around and look to know all the money is gone.
My white and black polka dot wallet, my house key, and my cell phone all sit on top of the lid. No cash.
I kick the dumpster, the hollow clang echoing in the silence. “Son of a bitch!”
I scream, my hands shooting to my head, and I look up at the sky again, finding Mars.
But I can’t see straight. Goddammit.
Don’t come back empty-handed. I can’t go back with nothing. Not again. Hugo won’t give me work.
Or he’ll make me pay it off another way.
It’s always like this. It can go either way, and it always goes wrong.
Grabbing my baton off the ground, I storm off toward the parking lot, the taillights of the cop car leaving the lot. I find Tommy standing outside the Cherokee, sipping something from a flask she must’ve had on her.
I take it, downing a gulp of tequila.
My hands ache, I’m squeezing my fists so hard, and I don’t care if I go back with ten thousand bucks or a black eye, but I’m going back with something.
“Where would the Pirates be hanging out tonight?” I ask her. “Rivertown?”
She nods. “Yeah. Probably.”
I hand her back the flask and walk around the car. “Get in.”
“But I’m not allowed there, Aro,” she argues.