by the bodega

He was small, with narrow sloped shoulders and ratty hair. He wore a dirty black t-shirt, dusty jeans. He could have been anybody around here, working construction on one of the new monoliths or helping out in some unzoned light manufacturing outfit by the canal. The thing about him was how he clutched a thick roll of cash in one fist, and walked toward the bodega like a zombie: lurching, slow, staring without comprehension.

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