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Scoop found the gold wedding band in the vacated peep booth, on the ledge of the viewing window.
As the adult theatre's bouncer, Scoop had amassed a collection of relics. If the items—sunglasses, poems, crack pipes—weren’t covered in jizz, he’d house them in a Florsheim shoebox.
The likely ring owner, his yellow teeth gritted unnaturally, had been spasming his head and shoulders in time to music Scoop could not hear. Then he up and left, bursting the door open, Motley Crue’s “Too Young to Fall in Love” booming into the lobby, following him into the night.
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