Page 57 of The Best Trick

The young one looked at us like we were aliens and then scurried off.

That’s right, we’re the God Pack!I thought, feeling super notorious.

“What can I get you?” the older bartender asked. “On the house.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I would love a wine spritzer.” The guys ordered tap beer, and Odin tipped him a fifty. We got our beers and then Thor tapped my shoulder and pointed at the pool tables. There had to be twenty of them. People were probably gambling on the games.

“That's a lot of pool tables,” I said.

“No, look at the walls.” Thor pulled me nearer to him, and that’s when I saw them—paintings of dogs playing pool stretching all along one wall. “Isn't that your favorite kind of art?”

My heart was just pounding. “I’ve never seen so many different ones in one place!”

“You think they’re painted on velvet?” he asked.

“They’d better be,” I said, dragging him over to get a closer look. It really was an amazing collection, with a beautiful bulldog-and-collie one that I’d never seen before. “Okay, I like this place a lot better now. Maybe this Stan the Man is okay.”

Thor slung an arm around my shoulders. “Not a chance.”

“What is it?” Odin came up, swigging his beer, with Zeus next to him.

“The dogs.” Thor pointed.

“When we have a place someday, we're going to decorate it with those kinds of pictures,” Zeus rumbled.

“Oh, we don't have to. I just think they're fun and funny, that's all.” It was painful to think in terms of someday like that. “I wouldn’t inflict this art on you guys,” I said wistfully.

“No, it's settled,” Zeus said. “When we get a place, it has to reflect all of our tastes. We all pick art we love.”

“And maybe we could have a flying toilet,” Thor said. “And a robot butler too. Because why not?”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Odin asked.

“It’s just stupid to talk about it like it’ll actually happen,” Thor said with uncharacteristic negativity.

“We could have a home someday,” Odin said.

Thor snorted.

“Maybe we'll go to Jerba,” I said.

My guys all groaned. Jerba was a vacation island I’d identified off the coast of Tunisia. My guys were not keen on living in a tropical paradise, but I’d go for it. Best of all, Jerba had no extradition treaty.

“What? Maybe Don Pedro has the right idea,” I said.

“We're not going tofucking-gJerba,” Odin muttered. Of course, like many people with PTSD, vacations were the worst times for Odin. Peace left him alone with his thoughts.

The young bartender approached and nervously waved us to follow him. We went down a dark hallway, stopping at a gray steel door that definitely looked reinforced. The young bartender knocked twice and then scurried off.

The door was opened by a wiry man with wire-rimmed glasses and a very nice suit, but most notable was his troll-style beard in which everything around the mouth was shaved clean.

“The notorious God Pack,” he said, inviting us into his surprisingly bland-looking office. I don’t know what I expected from a big-time bookie, but not a desk setup that looked like it came straight off of the showroom floor of a big-box office center.

He watched us take a seat with an air of expectancy, like we were about to do something wild.

Being on the run and never knowing anybody could feel lonely at times—always a stranger in a strange place.

However, having people recognize you when there were zillions of outrageous rumors circulating about you also had its downsides. Imagine walking into a place and everyone expects you to start dancing on the desk while your guys trash the furniture.

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