The Rip
Passenger door creaked: Wally, soft around the middle, gentle to a fault, peeling back the wrapper on a Snickers like it was a rosary.
“Really, Wally?” Andrew sneered.
Wally dropped his service pistol in the glove box, shut the lid with a palm. “Remember when I got suspended for leaving my gun in the interrogation room?”
“That was when you left a suspect alone with it,” Andrew said.
Wally’s smile thinned. “What’s your problem tonight?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Fine,” Wally sighed. “Let’s get a drink.”
They crossed into amber light and cigarette ghosts. Wally spotted Gabe and lit up, nudging Andrew. “Hey—look. Gabe.”
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