He cursed when people took too long getting out of his way. By the time he shoved, apologized, and dodged his way out the front door, all he saw of Lizbeth were the taillights of her car. “Spare some change?” Ro glanced down. Sitting against the wall—the same wall his patrons lined up against to wait to get inside the club—was a group of poorly dressed, foul-smelling transients. Newspapers surrounded them, and stinking trash. He even saw a discarded syringe. One degraded individual slumped sideways, swigged from a bottle of Glenlivet whisky. “You look like you could spare a dollar, mister.” He went to swig again, but something in Ro’s eyes froze his arm halfway up. “What?” the man finally asked. “See somethin’ green?” His arm continued its upward movement. Liquor sprayed from his mouth when Ro lifted him off his feet and slammed him against the wall. “I do see something green. How much did he pay you?” “I dunno what you’re talking about.” Smug and surly.
