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Microsoft Word - 2014_Great_American_Fiction_Contest-Auld_Lang_Syne-by_Stephen_G_Eoannou.docx

smacked the dash with the side of his fist hoping that would kick-start the heater; it only made Andy Williams sing louder, and he couldn’t adjust the volume. He turned off the radio and took a long drag on the cigarette. He was keeping the money. He knew that even as he buttoned his coat, looked Val in the eye, and promised he’d turn it into the cab company that night like she wanted. If no one claimed it, the manager, Eddie, was supposed to turn the money over to the police after so many days, but he told Val the money would disappear long before that. Eddie would lose it all at the Seneca Casino and the Indians would get it all, Griff had predicted. Val had only handed him his keys. He wouldn’t tell her about keeping it; he’d hang on to the money until the Chrysler’s engine blew or the bills piled too high. Then he’d pay the mechanic in cash or the medical bills with money orders. Val would never know. The lights were on at Martinelli’s, a small Italian restaurant where Griff and Val sometimes went to celebrate birthdays and anniversaries. He decided to pull in and have a drink, nursing it for the same amount of time it would take to drive to the cab company and back. There were only two cars in the parking lot: one mounded with snow that obviously had been there awhile and a BMW barely dusted white. Griff was certain the heaters


Microsoft Word - 2014_Great_American_Fiction_Contest-Auld_Lang_Syne-by_Stephen_G_Eoannou.docx
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