"How much?"
"Fifty thousand."
For a moment, I can't breathe. "Dollars?"
He nods.
"You cannot be serious." My voice comes out strangled. "Gabe, I don't have that kind of money."
"You have savings?—"
"I have thirty-four hundred dollars in savings." The number tastes like failure. I'm twenty-six years old and my entire safety net wouldn't cover a medical emergency. "My checking account has two hundred until Friday. I've been putting off buying new boots for three months because a hundred and twenty dollars feels like too much."
"Your apartment?—"
"Is rent controlled, and I get a reduced rate because it's above the bookstore." I'm trying to stay calm, but I can hear my voice rising. A woman at the next table glances over. "I'm barely scraping by, Gabe. I eat ramen four nights a week. I haven't bought new clothes in two years. Where exactly do you think I'm hiding fifty thousand dollars?"
"What about one of those books you're always going on about?" His voice has taken on a desperate, wheedling quality I hate. "Couldn't we just sell one? You said some of them are worth?—"
"You mean steal." The word comes out flat and hard.
"No, I'd get it back, I just need?—"
"No." I stand up, grabbing my bag. I can't do this. I can't sit here and watch him try to manipulate me into committing a felony. "I'm not stealing from Mr. Bolinger. I'm not risking my job, my reputation, my entire future because you can't stop gambling."
"Please, Sera." He lunges forward, grabbing my wrist. His grip is tight enough to hurt. "You don't understand."
I could pull away. I should pull away. But something in his voice stops me. There's a crack, a break, something raw and real underneath all the bravado.
"Then explain it to me," I say, sitting back down slowly.
He releases my wrist and runs both hands through his hair. That's when I see more scrapes across his knuckles, and what might be a burn mark on the inside of his forearm. Cigarette burn, maybe.
"Who did this to you?" My voice is barely a whisper.
"I got into a bad spot a few months ago." He's not looking at me, staring at the shredded croissant like it holds answers. "Started playing poker at this club in Brooklyn. High stakes. I won at first, won big. Thought I was good at it."
"You're not good at it." It's not mean, just true. Gabe's been gambling since high school—sports betting, scratchers, that disastrous trip to Atlantic City. He always thinks the next hand will be the one that changes everything.
"I know that now," he says bitterly. "But by the time I figured it out, I was down fifteen grand."
"Jesus, Gabe." I close my eyes. Deep breath in. And out.
"I thought I could win it back." His voice cracks. "I took out a loan from these guys, played more, lost more. Took out another loan. It kept spiraling and I kept thinking the next game would be different, and now—" He touches his swollen eye, wincing. "Now I owe fifty thousand to people who don't make empty threats."
My stomach drops. "What kind of people?"
"The kind who did this." He gestures to his face. "And told me it was a warning. The kind who knows where you live, Sera. Where you work. The kind who?—"
He stops, but I can fill in the blanks. The kind who hurt people. The kind who makes people disappear.
"We'll go to the police," I say, but even as the words come out, I know how naive they sound.
Gabe laughs, sharp and bitter. "And tell them what? That Itook out illegal loans from loan sharks? They'll arrest me for gambling. And these guys—" He leans forward, voice dropping. "These guys own half the cops in Brooklyn. You don't go to the police about people like this. You pay them, or you disappear."
"Then we'll set up a payment plan?—"
"They don't do payment plans!" His voice rises and people are definitely staring now. "Why are you being so fucking naive? These people broke two of my ribs and burned me with cigarettes because I asked for more time. Next time they'll put me in the East River. Do you understand? I'm going to die, Sera."
