The failed hipsters Alice “Sniffy” Smith and Landon “Rooster” Crow sit across from each other at a small corner table in the Automat just across the alley from the revered Hotel St Crispian, each with a cup of coffee and a lit cigarette...
“Okay,” said Rooster, “now let’s see those C-notes, Sniffy. But be discreet.”
“I’ll be discreet,” said Sniffy.
“Take them out under the table.”
“I’m not an idiot, Rooster. You think I’m gonna flash twenty C-notes in this joint?”
Putting her purse on her lap, Sniffy opened it, reached in and pulled out a sheath of hundred-dollar bills.
“How do they look?” said Rooster.
“They look good to me.”
“The ink doesn’t rub off on your fingers?”
“Nope.”
“Oh, dear God!” said Rooster. “Pass them to me under the table, I want to see.”
Sniffy, after only a slight hesitation, and not before taking a quick glance around the Automat, went ahead and passed the money to Rooster under the table.
“Oh, dear God,” said Rooster.
“What?” said Sniffy.
“No,” said Rooster. “That’s just it. They’re really real. Two thousand bucks. That’s more money than I make in a year.”
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