I repeatpasswordover and over silently. It doesn’t catch on to any specific memory.
“I, uh…” don’t have a fucking password.
Goddamn it.
See, I knew I shouldn’t have done this.
“I’m fuckin’ with ya, kid.”
I lift my chin, register his handlebar mustache and the short, near-bald haircut he’s rocking. He’skidding?
He grabs me by the shoulder and drags me into the building. The door slams shut behind me. There’s a dark, narrow hall ahead. I’m not bullshitting when I say it’s brighter outside. “Don’t consider yourself lucky. I do it to everyone.” He secures the metal door behind us.
“Right.”
Cheers work their way up the hall.
“They’re getting started. Follow the yellow brick road. It picks back up at the bottom of the steps.” He points to the floor, and I find that it is, in fact, the same golden hue fromThe Wizard of Oz. “Watch your step.” He gives me a friendly pat. It’s more like a shove. “Hope you win big.”
I follow the yellow markings, turning down the hall when it bends and descend the stairs. Only then do I see light at the end of the tunnel. My ears ring as I close in on the noise. A soft glow streams through a thin sliver between two thick, black curtains. They part when I reach them, and holy shit.
There are more people than I expected and they’re packed together in groups, bordering a makeshift ring that barely seems visible unless you’re in front of the crowd.
Someone clasps my shoulder, and I turn to see a middle-aged man to my left. He stands on an old milk crate and jostles a plastic teddy bear tub where you’d normally find cookies. This one holds money. Cash filled to the brim with rubber bands holding the bills together.
His eyes, wide with enthusiasm, glance toward the ring. “What’re you wagering, brotha? Betting is off once their feet hit the floor.”
Still overwhelmed by my surroundings and the big guy who let me in, I quickly grab my wallet from my back pocket. I don’t have much, but I’m hoping it’ll be enough to win me something back. I pull out fifteen twenties, praying I’ll get more back at the end of the night. It’s enough to get my car out of the garage. Enough to get me back on the road without needing to use Sebastian’s car.
I have a death grip on the bills as I extend them toward the man on the milk crate. He grins and plucks a rubber band from a tin can on a wooden podium that looks as if it came from a church, the particle board on the side cracked and painted over.
Worry hits me quickly, tightening its fists around my neck. Music booms overhead. I’ve seen enough fighting movies to know it’s intro music. My opportunity to bet dwindles. I can’t wait another week for this.
“Gonna have to gimme the cabbage,” he says when I don’t immediately let go.
He winds a band around the bills when I finally release them and drops it in the container with the rest.
“Name’s Johnny. I’m the bookie,” he tells me after handing me a short pencil like the type they give you during mini golf and a piece of paper. There are two names scribbled on it:McPearsonandWyatt.
I blink and reread the names.
McPearson was at Gulliver’s when I stopped by to talk to Llewellyn.
The dude who’d show up to history class with black and blue eyes and get called into the principal’s office. I’ve seen him spar at Gulliver’s, and he’s always had one hell of a right hook and knows how to draw out his jabs to tire out his opponent. Llewellyn told me I might see some familiar faces, but I didn’t think he meanthim.
“Haven’t seen you around before, so I’ll do you a solid,” Johnny says. “McPearson is the crowd favorite. Wyatt’s the underdog. We dumb it down here. You gave me three stacks on McPearson. You see the number by his name?”
I look next to his name, seeing +225.
“That’s what you win when you wager a hundred.”
I watched UFC growing up, but I’ve never gone as far as betting, so this is new and anxiety inducing. I can either win a shit ton of money or lose it all.
“Your winnings would be tripled since you gave me three. The negative number next to Wyatt is what you’d have to wager to win a benji. Understand?”
“Got it. Thanks.”
I can walk away with close to seven hundred bucks if Eli knows what he’s doing. I don’t recognize the other name on the scrap of paper, and I’d rather not risk losing less by spending more. I circleMcPearson, scribble my name at the top of the paper, and hand it back over.
