14
Fake Id
I’m dressed much smarter now. Though tragically so in a baggy blue shirt and white—yes, white—chinos. I order a pair of cocktails at a beach bar. It’s packed with people dancing to samba. Locals and tourists alike.
The sand is fine and the sea calm. The air warm and the moon full. Palm trees line the seafront streets and Christ the Redeemer is lit up high on a mountain.
Guess we’re in Rio.
The barman is a cool-looking dude with afro hair. “Come on, man,” he says with a wry smile. “IDs.”
Jesus, even in my dreams, I’m getting ID’d. I whip out a driver’s licence. So does Inge. She’s young and fresh, yet to shed the puppy fat. But there’s no mistaking her. I reckon we’re talking fifteen, sixteen tops. We hand them over.
The barman shakes his head. “Either you’re all looking y
