She had responsibilities, dammit. So she better get to them.
Going around to the trunk of her car, which she’d purposely parked facing away from the cameras, she popped it open and carefully transferred the bottles into the cardboard carton she kept there to stash her stolen goods. After Hurricane Katrina, she and her father had left New Orleans. It hadn’t been easy, surviving in a backwater city like Poughkeepsie as a jazz musician. Keeping up with mortgage payments became her father’s reason for existing, outside of music, and just when it was finally paid off, her father fell ill.
Closing the door of her little hatchback, Jazz bundled herself into the driver’s seat, blasted the heat, and tore out of the back alley in the direction of her old neighborhood to hawk off her illicit gains.
