No Cash
Phillip growled, more in frustration than anything else. "I should've known that guy didn't actually have anything on him. He was in Wal-Mart, for god's sakes."
"Probably there with a pocketful of food stamps," Tommy agreed, voice dripping with amusement. "You sure know how to pick 'em."
"Yeah? Well, what have you accomplished today, huh?"
Tommy held up another wallet, this one an obviously expensive leather affair. "Two hundred and twenty-eight bucks. Cash. And a debit card with his PIN written on a Post-It. Though I gave that to Sarah. I ain't gettin' caught on camera at the ATM, but if she wants ice that bad, she can go right on ahead."
"Dammit, you always have the luck," Phillip groused. He leaned on the railing, legs dangling over the edge of the balcony; were anyone to look up, they might wonder what someone was doing sitting around in an abandoned building, but nobody did. "Whoever said crime doesn't pay obviously never met you."
"Heh, yeah." Tommy flashed a grin, then carefully tucked the wallet back into his pocket. "You meetin' your parole officer tomorrow?"
"Yep. Ten-thirty AM, sharp." Phillip stood up and dusted off the seat of his pants. "Gonna tell him I've been a good, law-abidin' citizen, and that I sure have learned not to steal no more." He uttered a short laugh. "Might as well be true, for all I'm pullin' in lately."
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