The Encore (Part 1)

My police cruiser hurtles down the I-93. I get off every few exits to make sure I’m not being followed. After our argument, Stevie took off in a huff. Thankfully, I haven’t spotted her behind me, following me like the FBI to pull me over and ask more questions.

I look up at the sky. The FBI and their helicopters, that’s only in movies.

Regardless, the 45-minute drive to Boston takes more than an hour, and probably at least a full day of mental stress. After I park in an underground lot, I pull down my Red Sox visor and get out. I’m an average looking guy, I can blend in anyplace, an advantage in my line of work.

Having been inducted into the police, I learned there are some things we see and some things we don’t see. The high school principal taking the new teacher to La Quinta, we don’t see that. Teens in this rich suburb smoking weed down at Cochichewick Brook, we don’t see that. Anyone from Dorchester or Roxbury in a Pontiac, we are behind them at every red light. 

I nod at the doorman as I enter the Encore casino. Security here, they don’t see drugs, or drug dealers. It’s oxygen for their clientele, an accelerant for the profits the vast casino rakes in. Security shovels out the ashes after the fire.

Looking interested in the slots, I wander across the casino floor before taking the back elevator up to #507 to meet Tony.