South Central Noir

He tilted the bottle back toward himself and took another swig. He smiled when he held out his hand. “Okay, Wilson, so give.”

The jerk stood up from the sofa to get into his right front pocket. He pulled out a thin wad of greenbacks and held them out to Vince. “This should cover it. I’ll have the rest next week, promise.”

Vince nodded. “Count it out.”

He watched as Wilson laid the bills out, mostly fives, a couple of tens, some ones. In the end, it was a hundred short of what the guy had said he’d pay. Did he think Vince wouldn’t notice?

“Where’s the C-note on account, Wilson?”

He looked startled, like he’d expected to get away with something and was surprised that he hadn’t. He reached into a back pocket and came up with two old, filthy fifties. He held them back for a moment. “Hey, Vince, can you let me hang onto one of these for tonight? I was gonna go meet some pals on the Avenue. I could use the scratch.”

“Shoulda thought of that before you promised me the hundred, Wilson. Hand ’em over.”

Vince took the two bills, then scooped up the others, folded them all, and put them in his shirt pocket. He set his bottle down gently on the table, took a deep breath, then let it out slow as he stood up. He walked over to the radio, where the ball game was burbling low, and twisted the dial up loud. He turned, walked around the coffee table, and stopped, towering over the stupe.

Wilson had a dumb, surprised look on his face. He had to be an idiot if he wasn’t expecting something like this. Vince just hoped he’d cooperate, make it easy. He’d hurt him less if he did.

“I’m going to have to beat on you a little, Bob.”

Wilson’d been a standup guy. Once he figured there was no way out, he didn’t beg or try to fight back or do much of anything other than protect his puss and the family jewels. Vince considered leaving him be after one quick hard shot to the gut. But what the hell kind of lesson was that? By the time he’d get halfway back to his car Wilson would be nearly over it, sitting on the sofa, opening another beer.

So he followed up the gut shot with a hard jab to the chest that must’ve made Wilson feel like his heart was trying to get out through his throat, then peppered his kidneys with some pokes he’d be feeling for the next couple of days. After that, Wilson was on the floor, curled up, moaning, steeling himself for one of Vince’s pointy-toed Florsheims in the ribs.

But Vince cut him a break. He leaned down toward Wilson’s ear.

“I appreciate you not making it too tough on yourself. I’m gonna leave you alone now. You’ll be okay, might piss a little blood next day or two, but nothing’s broke. Just don’t make me come to you from now on, got it?”

Wilson’s body sagged with relief. He got it. He nodded and cleared his throat to show he did. Vince headed to the fridge, got out two Blue Ribbons, walked back to the coffee table, and popped them open. He put one down on the floor by the beaten guy,

“No hard feelings, Bob,” and walked out raising his to his lips.

George Meyer was as henpecked a slob as there was. He liked playing the ponies, liked hitting the bars, but the little lady made damn sure he was home early most nights. Vince just about had time to find him on his last drink, crying in his beer in front of some couldn’t-care-less bartender wiping down his glasses getting ready for the real drunks to show up.

George was on a budget. His wife counted every penny of his paycheck. It was mopes like that who always got into the most trouble. Get a hot tip on a horse from some jokester and the wife won’t cut loose even twenty bucks to lay down a bet. So he borrows the twenty off some friendly-seeming shylock. Hell, it’s such a good tip, why not make it fifty?

But then his horse comes up lame in the backstretch and so does George. Where’s he gonna get the fifty bucks and interest he owes? So the shark carries him for a week. But a guy like George, he can’t cough up the seventy-five it’s gonna cost him to get square the next week. So the not-really-so-friendly lender carries him another week and the seventy-five magically becomes a hundred and that might as well be ten thousand bucks to a guy like George.

So then the shark lays off the bet to the Luccas. He pays them for his territory anyhow. Then the Luccas, they send someone around, someone like Vince, to let George know it’s now a hundred twenty-five bucks and at the end of the week it’s gonna be one fifty. Week after that it’s up to two. Sure, they’ve got some convenient payment plans, convenient to themselves.

That fucking George. Should’ve just played the twenty. Should’ve gone home and taken the heat from the wife like a man when he lost it. Instead, he’d let it get out of hand and was into the Luccas for six hundred bucks. That was twice as much as he’d ever been into them before and it was a problem.