eighteen grand, but since then he’d been steadily losing and extending his credit and losing and extending his credit. If he won this pot, he’d break even.
If he didn’t, he owed thirty thousand dollars that he didn’t have to a man who had zero tolerance for welchers.
Little Louie always brought two large bodyguards with him when he gambled. These bodyguards worked according to a unique payment plan. They would hurt a welcher in relation to what he owed. An unpaid debt of one hundred dollars would break a finger. A thousand would break a leg.
Thirty thousand defied the imagination.
Hutson wiped his forehead on his sleeve and stared at his hand, praying it would be good enough.
Little Louie dealt them each one more card. When the game began, all six chairs had been full. Now, at almost five in the morning, the only two combatants left were Hutson and the mobster. Both stank of sweat and cigarettes. They sat at a greasy wooden card table in somebody’s kitchen, cramped and red-eyed and exhausted.
One of Louie’s thugs sat on a chair in the corner, snoring with a deep bumble-bee buzz. The other was looking out of the grimy eighth story window, the fire escape blocking his view of the city. Each men had more scars on their knuckles than Hutson had on his entire body.
Scary guys.
Hutson picked up the card and said a silent prayer before looking at it.
A five.
That gave him a full house, fives over threes. A good hand. A very good hand.
“Your bet,” Little Louie barked. The man in the pink suit boasted tiny, cherubic features and black rat eyes. He didn’t stand over five four, and a pathetic little blonde mustache sat on his upper lip like a bug. Hutson had joined the game on suggestion of his friend Ray. Ray had left hours ago, when Hutson was still ahead. Hutson should have left with him. He hadn’t. And now, he found himself throwing his last two hundred dollars worth of chips into the pile, hoping Little Louie wouldn’t raise him.
Little Louie raised him.
“I’m out of chips,” Hutson said.
“But you’re good for it, right? You are good for it?”
The question was moot. The mobster had made crystal clear, when he extended the first loan, that if Hutson couldn’t pay it back, he would hurt him.
“I’m very particular when it comes to debts. When the game ends, I want all debts paid within an hour. In cash. If not, my boys will have to damage you according to what you owe. That’s the agreement, and you’re obliged to follow it, to the letter.”
“I’m good for it.”
Hutson borrowed another five hundred and asked for the cards to be shown.
Little Louie had four sevens. That beat a full house.
Hutson threw up on the table.
“I take it I won,” grinned Little Louie, his cheeks brightening like a maniacal elf.
Hutson wiped his mouth and stared off to the left of the room, avoiding Little Louie’s gaze.
“I’ll get the money,” Hutson mumbled, knowing full well that he couldn’t.
“Go ahead and make your call.” Little Louie stood up, stretched. “Rocko, bring this man a phone.”
Rocko lifted his snoring head in a moment of confusion. “What boss?”
“Bring this guy a phone, so he can get the money he owes me.”
Rocko heaved himself out of his chair and went to the kitchen counter, grabbing Little Louie’s cellular and bringing it to Hutson.
Hutson looked over at Little Louie, then at Rocko, then at Little Louie again.
“What do you mean?” he finally asked.
“What do you mean?” mimicked Little Louie in a high, whiny voice. Both Rocko and the other thug broke up at this, giggling like school girls. “You don’t think I’m going to let you walk out of here, do you?”
“You said...”
“I said you have an hour to get the money. I didn’t say you could leave to get it. I’m still following the agreement to the letter. So call somebody up and get them to bring it here.”
Hutson felt sick again.
“You don’t look so good.” Little Louie furrowed his brow in mock-concern. “Want an antacid?”
The thugs giggled again.
“I...I don’t have anyone I can call,” Hutson stammered.
“Call your buddy, Ray. Or maybe your mommy can bring the money.”
“Mommy.” Rocko snickered. “You ought to be a comedian, boss. You’d kill ‘em.”
Little Louie puffed out his fat little chest and belched.
“Better get to it, Mr. Hutson. You only have fifty-five minutes left.”
Hutson took the phone in a trembling hand, and called Ray. It rang fifteen times, twenty, twenty-five.
Little Louie walked over, patted Hutson’s shoulder. “I don’t think they’re home. Maybe you should try someone else.”
Hutson fought nausea, wiped the sweat off of his neck, and dialed another number. His ex-girlfriend, Dolores. They broke up last month. Badly.
A man answered.
“Can I speak to Dolores?”
“Who the hell is this?”
“It’s Hutson.”
“What the hell do you want?”
“Please let me speak to Dolores, it’s real important.”
Little Louie watched, apparently drinking in the scene. Hutson had a feeling the mobster didn’t care about the money, that he’d rather watch his men inflict some major pain.
“Dolores, this is Hutson.”
“What do you want?”
“I need some money. I owe a gambling debt and...”
She hung up on him before he got any farther.
Hutson squeezed his eyes shut. Thirty thousand dollars worth of pain. What would they start with? His knees? His teeth? Jesus, his eyes?
Hutson tried his parents. They picked up on the sixth ring.
“Mom?” This brought uncontrollable laughter from the trio. “I need some money, fast. A gambling debt. They’re going to hurt me.”
“How much money?”
“Thirty grand. And it need it in forty-five minutes.”
There was a lengthy pause.
“When are you going to grow up, Bernard?”
“Mom...”
“You can’t keep expecting me and your father to pick up after you all the time. You’re a grown man Bernard.”
Hutson mopped his forehead with his sleeve.
“Mom, I’ll pay you back, I swear to God. I’ll never gamble again.”
An eternity of silence passed.
“Maybe you’ll learn a lesson from this, son. A lesson your father and I obviously never taught you.”
“Mom, for God’s sake! They’re going to hurt me!”
“I’m sorry. You got yourself into this, you’ll have to get yourself out.”
“Mom! Please!”
The phone went dead.
“Yeah, parents can be tough.” Little Louie rolled his head around on his chubby neck, making a sound like a crackling cellophane bag. “That’s why I killed mine.”
