Page 120 of Forgotten Sacrifice
“Not when they can turn their living room into a den of vice with a sportsbook app at their fingertips,” I counter.
Romeo shrugs. “So you pivot.”
I run my hand down my face. “I’m not a fucking point guard. And speaking of point guards, you want to get in on the hoops action? I’ll let you in early on Game 3. New York -6, Boston -6.”
Romeo barks a laugh, walking to the door. “Go hustle someone else.”
“Love to, if not for this,” I grumble, waving the legislation.
Tossing the documents in the trash, I turn on the security feed to my bookkeeping center of operations. It’s a bustling scene: runners hustling in paper betting slips while my bookies frantically take bets over the phones. A fucking kingdom I’ve spent years building, and come Monday, I get to watch it crumble to dust.
My fist slams into the monitor; glass crunches, the feed glitches, before the screen goes black.
After picking glass shards out of my knuckles and wrapping the bloody mess, I aimlessly wander the club. Finding myself at the bar, I order a whiskey.
The bartender looks surprised at my request; I’m not a big drinker. And thanks to the stroke of a politician’s pen, I’m not a big anything.
He slides over the booze, and I tip back the glass, signaling for another.
There’s a loudmouth seated next to me, and I can’t help but overhear the conversation.
“My daughter’s going to go pro, bring in the big bucks. The World Championship this year’s a million dollar grand prize,” he boasts.
“World Championship of what?” I interject, the money having caught my attention.
“Chess,” he says.
Sure, and I can sell you some nice beachfront property in Kansas.
“Luna Barone. Mark my words, she’s going places.”
I turn my back to the blowhard, grabbing my phone. I’m not sure why, but I do a quick search. Finding Luna’s name listed on some chess federation website, it turns out her old man isn’t completely full of shit. Another search, and I nearly drop my phone: the grand prize for the World Championship of chess: one million dollars.
Pocketing my phone, I turn around in my stool. “Mr. Barone, is it?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m not sure if we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Vincenzo.”
“I know who you are. You handle the sports bets, right?”
“Right you are.” We shake hands, and I tell the bartender, “Get my new friend a drink.” Eyeing my mark, I ask him, “What would you like, Mr. Barone? On me.”
“Vodka. Top shelf.” He doesn’t hesitate.
Mr. Barone’s given a shot of vodka, and knocks it back like a world champion drunkard.
“Care to place a friendly wager on tonight’s New York/Boston game? I’ve closed my books, but I’ll let you in on the action, just this once.”
He pats his pockets. “I would, but don’t have the cash on me.”
“No worries. I’m happy to extend credit to a sophisticated gentleman such as yourself.”
He puffs up his chest. “What are the odds?”
Not in your favor.
I tell him, and he pretends like he understands what I’m talking about.
