“Excuse me,” I said. “Is there anywhere we can get a cab? There’s like a million people waiting in line.” The cop shined his light on me and said, “How old are you?” “Twenty-one.” We didn’t miss a beat. He folded his arms. “Show me your ID.” “I don’t have it on me,” I said. “I lost it.” “What’s your name?” “Jennifer Pearlstein,” I said. “This is my friend Leslie.” “How old are you, Jennifer?” “I told you! Twenty-one!” “No, you’re not.” “Eighteen?” “You are not eighteen,” he said, “and it’s illegal for you be out on the Strip after nine. There’s a curfew. You want to get arrested? I should
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