Page 66 of Forgotten Sacrifice
Plop. Plop. Plop.
A five-gallon bucket I found in the dumpster catches raindrops leaking through the roof. I count the drops as I lay with my hands folded behind my head, waiting until my six-year old brother nods off.
Aldo’s breathing evens out, and I scoot off the mattress on the floor and tiptoe to the window.
“Please don’t leave me,” my brother begs.
Damn, I could have sworn he was asleep. I quietly return to bed, squatting down. “I gotta work tonight to make us some cash,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around his small body. Too small; he doesn’t eat enough. I don’t either, but now that I’m running betting slips, I’m earning some extra money. My piece of shit old man trades our food stamps for booze and pills, but he doesn’t know about my new job. And I’m going to keep it that way.
“Let me go with you.” He whines, and I smooth down his hair.
“I’m sorry, but you have to stay here. I’ve blocked our door; he shouldn’t be able to get in,” I assure him.
“That will make Pops mad,” Aldo worries.
“Let me worry about Pops.” I gladly take the brunt of my father’s fists to protect my baby brother. “Go to sleep, okay?”
“I can’t.” He starts to cry, and I hold him close, laying down with him and smoothing his hair until he cries himself to sleep.
I sneak to the window and climb out, closing it as quietly as I can before stepping out on the roof. Taking a deep breath, I jump and grab ahold of a tree branch as rain pummels me. Nearly losing mygrip, I hang on by sheer willpower as I shimmy my way to the trunk and work my way down.
That was the easy part. Now to make it to the sports bar without getting picked up by the cops, or worse, getting shaken down by a dealer or pimp. I’ve had close calls with all three, having gotten out of trouble each time by claiming to be a family man. It’s a lie, but one day it’s gonna be the truth. And when that day comes, I’ll get me and Aldo away from my old man’s fists for good.
I reach the bar, and walking around to the back, the security guard nods at me, letting me inside.
“You’re soaked to the bone, kid.” The cook tosses a kitchen towel to me, and I catch it.
“Thanks.”
I dry off as best I can before entering the bar, eager to get to work. I’m so damn lucky to have landed this gig, and I’m not going to do anything to screw it up.
Games are flashing on screens mounted to the walls, with bartenders slinging cold beer. Checking in at the bar, I begin collecting betting slips from patrons and running them across the street to a huge warehouse. Bookies are on phones taking down bets, while a clerk mans the board, changing numbers based on the various game’s progression. I sort the slips, delivering them to the correct bookies.
Slowing my pace, I examine the odds of the Boston game that’s moments from tipoff.
“Vince, my boy. Whatcha got for me?”
I hand the Parisi family’s oddsmaker the betting slips with his name on them. “Uncle Joseph, the line on the Boston game, I think it’s off. Boston’s listed as the favorite; that’s gotta be a mistake.”
He flashes a bemused smile. “No mistake. Run along now, and fetch the slips.”
“Yes, sir,” I mumble, hurrying across the street.
After running betting slips all evening, it’s final call, and I collect the last of the bets and hustle them to the warehouse. Distributing the slips to the appropriate bookie, I hang out in the cornerand watch on the big screen as the seconds tick by on the Boston game. The buzzer sounds, and the final score flashes on the screen; I have to pick my jaw up off the floor.
A line’s already formed, and I join it, waiting for my payout for tonight’s work. Reaching the front, I accept the cash and stick it in my pocket.
I turn to walk away, but curiosity gets the better of me. Sneaking to Uncle Joseph’s office, I knock on the door.
“Come in.”
I step inside his office to find him opening a letter with what looks like a solid-gold letter opener. Who the hell besides a king has a solid-gold letter opener?
“Uncle Joseph, could I ask you a question?”
“Sure. Whether I answer it remains to be seen.” He opens a brown box, pulling out a cigar.
“How did you know Boston was going to lose, sir?” I ask.
