Page 56 of Mine

“You little fuck, get out of here,” I heard as I got closer.

“Mr. Beale,” the guy began, “you just don’t—you owe me the juice.”

“It was a tie, you dumb fuck.” He laughed, and his table laughed with him. “Get out of here before me and my friends throw you out.”

“I—”

“Run, rabbit,” the guy barked at him, and there was laughter again.

All heads lifted to me as I stepped up beside the guy, my hand sliding gently over his shoulder.

“You the gambler?” I asked the guy sitting dead center of the booth, even though I knew he was Mr. Beale already.

“Yeah, who the fuck are you?”

“I’m his collector,” I said flatly. “And a tie, as we told you when you started, is different at each house. At ours, it’s a push, but you still have to pay the juice. So pay up or you lose your line and your winnings. Your fuckin’ choice.”

“You think you can—”

“Yeah, I can,” I assured him.

“Listen, asshole,” he barked at me. “My friends and I will fuck you up if you don’t—”

“Oh, shit,” I cut him off with a chuckle, “did you think it was just us? Him and me?”

He looked confused.

“’Cause it ain’t. It ain’t just us. You don’t owe Rabbit,” I said, using the name he’d given the runner, “you owe the house. We ain’t shit, but them? The house?”

The first flicker of concern crossed his face.

“We’re talking about guys who know what your car looks like, where you work, and who you know. It’s them knowing that you wouldn’t want everyone to know your business. I mean, what would your boss think if he knew? What would your family think? Maybe nothing, maybe they don’t give a shit about gambling—unless they do.”

His eyes were locked on my face.

“Do whatever you want, we’ll go, but just so you don’t think it’s just us—’cause we ain’t shit, right?”

I had no idea who he was, but looking at his clothes, the girl sitting on his left, and his friends and what they were wearing, I got the frat boy vibe off them. They were young; they smelled like trust fund assholes to me, so I tailored my conversation to meet the needs of the moment. And then I waited. And stared.

The way he was looking at me, right into my eyes, I got the idea that the gaze was supposed to be intimidating. I wanted to tell him that I was from Detroit. I knew third graders scarier than him.

After another minute, he went into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out cash. He passed ten hundred-dollar bills to my nervous friend and then looked up at me.

“I’ve never seen you before.”

I shrugged. “You’ve never given Rabbit trouble before.”

There was a quick nod of agreement.

“Thanks,” I said, and I left and would have made it back to my booth, but the hand on my arm stopped me.

“Hey.” Rabbit was smiling at me, hand raking through his thick black hair, a wicked smile that showed dimples on full display. “Thank you. You saved my ass, here and back at the house.”

I crossed my arms. “You need muscle to go with you. I mean, yeah, you get the whole ten to twenty percent of whatever you collect if you don’t, but you’re—what?— five ten, one forty, one fifty. Man, you need somebody backing your play.”

His eyes got huge and excited.

“No, I’m a runner too, and even I have backup, so really, think about it.”