Carlos looked at the paper with the address. The numbers matched. This was it, a white, walled casa, narrow cobblestone entryway, bright blue trim. He clutched the brown paper bag, inside a full kilo of pure white product. He just wanted to make the exchange, get the money and get out of there. Inside his boot, the switch blade ready in case they tried to rip him off. Hearing clicks on the stones behind him, he whirled around. A stray dog, skinny, hungry. His heart beating faster, he stalked to the door, knocked, and it swung open. “Ice cream man!”
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