I’d left burning between my fingers. There was light coming through the windows when he busted in close to seven A.M.
“Sorry, baby. Sorry. They took me for a ride,” he was saying as I tried to open my eyes, straighten my back. I peered across the room and at first all I saw was the spray of red on the side of his face, as if he’d opened a cherry soda pop too fast.
“Mackey’s boys,” I said, rising.
“Who else,” he said, voice raspy, broken, not his usual smooth, fast jabber. I walked toward him, eyes coming into focus. It looked like he’d been sideswiped, half his face and neck crusted with drying blood, the side of his head pocked with a nettle of oozing cuts. I stood in front of him. It seemed like I should help, but I wasn’t sure how.
“They smashed me with a bottle. I guess it knocked me out. I think I was out for a long time. What time is it?”
“I don’t know,” I said, my head wavering tentatively over the side of his face. I could see small bits of green glass glittering amid the stubble. “You need stitches,Vic.”
“Fuck stitches,” he growled, backing away from my hand, shoulders drawing up. “Don’t you get this? You of all people should
get it. This is it. I’m out of turns. This was the last warning before limbs start coming off. These boys are choppers and you know it. You know it.”
I felt the color sinking from my face, but I stood my ground. We never talked about my job, about what I did. I couldn’t help what he’d heard, but I never told him anything straight out. “Listen, Vic, I don’t know Amos Mackey. Only to see him. I—”
He rolled his eyes. “Can the schoolgirl routine, angel. There’s no more time for dancing.”
“What do you mean?”
He grabbed me by the arms and looked me in the eyes, his battered face glaring sticky red. “I gotta get the big man thirty Gs by Wednesday or finito. Get it now?”
I didn’t say anything. Would they really go from a bottle smash to a dustoff? They wanted their money, after all. My mind still reeling from the size of his cuff—thirty thou, Christ, Christ—I tried to think. But I paused too long and he was in no mood to wait.
“I said, do you get it now?” And as he said it, he shoved me backwards, hard.
Without thinking I shoved him back, hard.
His eyes showed surprise and that was when he covered his face with his hands and I thought for a second he might start crying like a baby. But Vic was no milksop. He’d been this close to God’s acre before, I could tell. There were no tears, but the light did go out of him for the first time since I’d met him. No more gleam in his eyes. He tugged at me, put his arms around me, went on and on about how he was sorry how he knew I was the only one he could count on, all that.
I took him to the bathroom and we tried to clean up his wounds with the rusty old first-aid kit in the medicine cabinet. He let me put a stitch in and I pretended it was like basting a skirt hem. It wasn’t. Then I made coffee. We sat on the box spring like a couple of hoboes and drank it.
Slowly, he came back. The Vic from before. Jaunty, ready for anything, and sure, I knew it, a washout, a chump. He was going to chase losses until someone caught up with him, roll his dice into his own grave sooner or later. But as much as I knew it, I couldn’t help myself. He was finally laying it on the line for me. He started up his patter again, but this time it was right to the chase. If I didn’t help him, there was no helping him.
And he came clean that he knew what I did, he knew my job. He was mostly interested in the bets at the track.
“Listen, sweetface, didn’t you ever get tempted?” he asked, eyes flickering eagerly.
“What do you mean?”
“You know,” he said, playful. There it was.
“Come on,” he wheedled. “You got more smarts than any girl I ever met. You’re telling me you don’t think about the long green to be had if you’re willing to veer from the
“Sorry, baby. Sorry. They took me for a ride,” he was saying as I tried to open my eyes, straighten my back. I peered across the room and at first all I saw was the spray of red on the side of his face, as if he’d opened a cherry soda pop too fast.
“Mackey’s boys,” I said, rising.
“Who else,” he said, voice raspy, broken, not his usual smooth, fast jabber. I walked toward him, eyes coming into focus. It looked like he’d been sideswiped, half his face and neck crusted with drying blood, the side of his head pocked with a nettle of oozing cuts. I stood in front of him. It seemed like I should help, but I wasn’t sure how.
“They smashed me with a bottle. I guess it knocked me out. I think I was out for a long time. What time is it?”
“I don’t know,” I said, my head wavering tentatively over the side of his face. I could see small bits of green glass glittering amid the stubble. “You need stitches,Vic.”
“Fuck stitches,” he growled, backing away from my hand, shoulders drawing up. “Don’t you get this? You of all people should
get it. This is it. I’m out of turns. This was the last warning before limbs start coming off. These boys are choppers and you know it. You know it.”
I felt the color sinking from my face, but I stood my ground. We never talked about my job, about what I did. I couldn’t help what he’d heard, but I never told him anything straight out. “Listen, Vic, I don’t know Amos Mackey. Only to see him. I—”
He rolled his eyes. “Can the schoolgirl routine, angel. There’s no more time for dancing.”
“What do you mean?”
He grabbed me by the arms and looked me in the eyes, his battered face glaring sticky red. “I gotta get the big man thirty Gs by Wednesday or finito. Get it now?”
I didn’t say anything. Would they really go from a bottle smash to a dustoff? They wanted their money, after all. My mind still reeling from the size of his cuff—thirty thou, Christ, Christ—I tried to think. But I paused too long and he was in no mood to wait.
“I said, do you get it now?” And as he said it, he shoved me backwards, hard.
Without thinking I shoved him back, hard.
His eyes showed surprise and that was when he covered his face with his hands and I thought for a second he might start crying like a baby. But Vic was no milksop. He’d been this close to God’s acre before, I could tell. There were no tears, but the light did go out of him for the first time since I’d met him. No more gleam in his eyes. He tugged at me, put his arms around me, went on and on about how he was sorry how he knew I was the only one he could count on, all that.
I took him to the bathroom and we tried to clean up his wounds with the rusty old first-aid kit in the medicine cabinet. He let me put a stitch in and I pretended it was like basting a skirt hem. It wasn’t. Then I made coffee. We sat on the box spring like a couple of hoboes and drank it.
Slowly, he came back. The Vic from before. Jaunty, ready for anything, and sure, I knew it, a washout, a chump. He was going to chase losses until someone caught up with him, roll his dice into his own grave sooner or later. But as much as I knew it, I couldn’t help myself. He was finally laying it on the line for me. He started up his patter again, but this time it was right to the chase. If I didn’t help him, there was no helping him.
And he came clean that he knew what I did, he knew my job. He was mostly interested in the bets at the track.
“Listen, sweetface, didn’t you ever get tempted?” he asked, eyes flickering eagerly.
“What do you mean?”
“You know,” he said, playful. There it was.
“Come on,” he wheedled. “You got more smarts than any girl I ever met. You’re telling me you don’t think about the long green to be had if you’re willing to veer from the
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