Page 41 of Forgotten Sacrifice
“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 torun 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?”
