“Did you hear ’bout Jimmy Farlow?”

Issac Kennedy raised his eyes from the coffee in front of him, his hand ceasing its stirring motion. His brow furrowed slightly.

“Nah, I didn’t. What happened to Jimmy?”

“Goddamn Sandmen got ‘im. Right in the sleep they probably fuckin’ sold him.”

“Dead?”

“As a fuckin’ doornail.”

Issac shook his head.

“Jesus…those people are ruthless.”

“Yeah, no shit. The things people fuckin’ do to get some sleep these days, ya know?”

“Well shit, Carl, some people don’t got a choice. I’m running out of my minutes for this month myself. And God knows I ain’t about to get some unauthorized winks. If I’d known counterfeit cards would get so lucrative I woulda’ gotten in on the trade.”

“I hear that, brother.”

Carl stood, throwing down a card as he did.

“Here, I got some spare minutes, about 10 hours. I gotta go catch Bea at the station.”

“Alright. Catch you later, Carl.”

As Carl left, Issac examined the card on the table. Something odd about the stamp.

“Fucking fake.”