Sam awoke to a distinct spinning sensation. Whatever made me think drinking would help? Right, Gene. In 1973 coppers celebrate with prodigious amounts of liquor.
Not celebrate; more like stuff down. Sam was tired of Gene’s swaggering tough-cop performance. He longed to see the real Gene.
Sitting up produced a remarkable pounding in his head. Ugh, nothing good can come of this. Sam willed the room to stillness, and, keeping expectations low, opened his eyes.
His dismal room swam into focus. Gene was sprawled, naked and smirking, across his bed.
Chancing a smile, Sam thought: Well, I take that back.