Chapter 17
Chapter
Seventeen
Vince
I arrive at the social club and enter through the back. “Morning, Vince,” the elderly janitor greets me as he pauses his mopping.
“Morning. How’s your wife doing?”
“She’s still in the hospital, but the doc thinks she might get to come home this week.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Thanks, Vince. Hey, I need a few more days. With my wife’s bills and all.” He rubs the back of his neck.
Sometimes, I really hate what I do. And now is one of those times. “Say no more. Take a few weeks to regroup.”
“Thank you.”
I nod, walking to my office and closing the door. Taking a seat, I rest my head in my hands, thinking of anything I’d rather be doing than calculating odds and shaking down husbands paying for their wives’ cancer treatment.
Vince, Eighteen-years old
I knock on the boss’s door. “Enter,” Uncle Joseph calls.
Stepping into his office, I report, “My book’s are closed. I’m surprised there was so much interest in Philly right before tipoff, but it worked out to my advantage. I needed to shift some action, anyway.”
“As did I, my boy. That’s why I paid off a few bettors to place Philly bets on an insider tip. Word travels fast.”
The odds are already built-in for the bookie’s advantage; playing bettors more than that feels wrong.
“You got a problem with the way I operate my business?”
“No, boss,” I’m quick to say. “You’re the best for a reason.”
“Right you are.” He takes a puff of his cigar. “Vince, you want to make it in this game, don’t you?”
“Yes.” I nod eagerly.
“Then ditch the conscience.” His desk phone rings, and he answers. “Uncle Joseph.”
There’s silence as he listens to whoever’s on the other line. “Thanks for the update.”
Hanging up, he turns his attention back to me. “I’ve got a job for you.” He reaches beneath his desk, producing a baseball bat handle-side out, and I accept it, resting it on my shoulder. “I need you to pay one of my bettors a visit. If he claims he can’t pay, then take it out on his kneecaps.” He rattles off the amount owed and the man’s address, and I commit both to memory.
“On it.”
I exit the warehouse and walk across the street to the bar, only to run into Aldo holding a stack of betting slips. “What are you doing out here? You know you’re supposed to be in the kitchen.” I scold him. “Let’s go.”
I grab his arm, but Aldo tries to shrug out of my hold. “One of the runners didn’t show. I’m filling in.” He proudly holds up the betting slips. “These are last call, so I gotta run fast.”
“Go. We’ll talk about this later.”
I exit the bar and hop in my vehicle, not liking one little bit that my baby brother’s been recruited into this illegal operation.
I’m all worked up, ready to relieve some of this frustration as I drive through the run-down neighborhood. I park across the street from the debtor’s house and wait.
It’s not long before an old sedan pulls into the driveway. I hop out of the car, reaching for the bat, when I realize my target’s not alone.
The man unloads and helps to the door a stick-thin, bald woman hooked up to a rolling oxygen machine, and all my bravado leaks out of me like a punctured tank.
They disappear inside the house, but soon he returns to the vehicle, grabbing his wife’s plastic hospital bag.
“Hey, just a second,” I call.
“Yeah?” He turns around, his eyes wide at the sight of me and the bat.
“I work for Uncle Joseph. I’m here to collect.” I feel bad even saying it.
He clutches his wife’s hospital bag, like the flimsy plastic will offer protection. “Please, tell Uncle Joseph I need more time. My wife, she’s got cancer. Hospital bills got me to where I’m barely treading water. Give me another week to payday. Please,” he begs with tears in his eyes.
Ditch the conscience. Uncle Joseph is on my left shoulder, while what’s left of my conscience is on my right, begging me to not be that guy.
“Seven days,” I tell him .
“Thank you,” he says in a rush.
“Don’t be thanking me just yet.” I tap the palm of my hand with the bat barrel to emphasize my point.
“I’ll have the money, I swear it.”
“Then I’ll see you next week.”
He nods, scurrying inside the house.
I return to the warehouse, reporting back to Uncle Joseph. “Well?”
“Took it out on his kneecaps; told him I’d be back next week, and he’d better have your money if he wants to keep breathing.”
“Good.”
His phone rings, and I’m dismissed with the wave of his hand.
I make my way to the restaurant in search of Aldo. Ready to give my brother a good scolding, I find him asleep in the storage closet. He’s getting too big for me to hold, but I still scoop him up and carry him to the car.
Aldo wakes up. “Hey, put me down! I’m not a baby.”
“Sorry to mess with your street cred,” I joke, but I refuse to put him down until he’s in the car. Sliding behind the wheel, I tell him firmly, “I don’t want you running slips again.”
“But look how much money I made!” He grabs cash from his pocket, proudly holding it up.
“And that’s good, but I mean it. I’m making enough now to where I don’t want you to worry about money. Your job is to be a kid.” I reach over and ruffle his hair.
We ride in silence for a beat before Aldo asks,“Did you get to be a kid?”
“I also don’t want you worrying about me. What’s your job?”
“Be a kid.”
“That’s it.”
I flip on the radio, and it’s not long before he nods off.
Did I get to be a kid? No. And that’s why I’m going to make damn sure things are different for Aldo.
“Why can’t I go with you?” Aldo whines as I walk him down the hall of our new apartment.
“Mrs. Polaski is going to watch you tonight.” I can afford a babysitter now, and so there’s no reason for Aldo to hang out at a sports bar. “I want you to finish your homework ? —"
“Awww.”
“And then you can watch a movie.”
He huffs. “Okay.”
She answers the door, escorting us inside. We chat, and I get Aldo set up at the kitchen table with his notebook and pencils.
I kiss the top Aldo’s head, ignoring his disgruntled pout as I make my way to the bar.
Checking in with Uncle Joseph, he says, “Vince, follow me.”
“Sure thing,” I reply, even though I need to meet with my clerk about tonight’s upcoming wagers.
I follow him through the warehouse and out to the back, stopping in my tracks. I’m surrounded by men holding baseball bats.
“What’s going on?”
I’m answered by a bat connecting with my stomach, sending me flying to the pavement. I cradle my head to shield it from the onslaught; my stomach and ribs taking the brunt of the beating.
“You had one job to do,” Uncle Joseph says.
Whack.
“I warned you about lying to me.”
Whack
“You’re out.”
Whack
“Please, sir ? —”
“You had your chance, and you blew it. Don’t show your face around here again.”
The men back off, and I struggle to my feet, clutching my stomach as I turn to walk away.
“Vince?”
I’ve no sooner turned around when I watch in slow motion as Uncle Joseph takes a swing—the barrel of the bat connecting with my left eye socket, sending me flying across the alley.