Page 67 of Forgotten Sacrifice
He cuts the cigar, flicking a lighter and rolling the cigar in the flame before taking a puff. “You wanna know how to win at this game every single time?” He gestures to the ledger on his desk.
“How?” I ask.
“Be the oddsmaker,” he says with a little laugh.
“Teach me,” I beg.
Uncle Joseph puffs on his cigar, considering. “What’s your old man do?”
“He’s a professional drunk,” I admit.
“Booze and bookie business don’t mix. Let your bettors be the drunkards; you keep a clear head.”
I nod, hanging on his every word.
“What about your mamma?”
I shrug. “Don’t know where she is.” After her third stint in jail—this time for meth possession—I stopped keeping track of her sorry ass.
“Another golden rule: never ghost your clients. A bookie that can’t make good on his payouts is an out of business bookie. Goes hand in hand with the next rule: always balance your books. I didn’tknow Boston was going to win, but I had enough money on both sides to where I was sitting pretty either way.”
Deciding I’m going to be this man when I grow up, I blurt out, “Let me handle some bets. All your bookies are covered up; there’s more than enough action to go around.”
He takes another puff of his cigar, blowing a smoke ring. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen,” I lie.
He snorts a laugh. “Kid, we’re running an illegal operation. I don’t give a shit how old you really are.”
“Sixteen,” I admit.
“Better. You want to stay in my good graces, don’t ever lie to me.”
“Yes, sir.”
His phone rings, and he answers, listening intently. “Be there shortly.”
Hanging up, he addresses me. “It’s your lucky night.”
“You believe in luck?” I wonder.
He shakes his head. “Nah, I believe in the vig.” The vig meaning vigorish, the built-in profit bookies make on each bet. “Superstitions are for suckers; don’t ever forget it. Let’s go.”
I don’t ask where we’re going as I slide in the passenger seat of his luxury car, trying to play it cool. Uncle Joseph is my ticket into the family, and I’m going to do whatever it takes to make that happen.
We reach a Parisi Family construction site, with Uncle Joseph pulling into the back near a huge pit surrounded by heavy equipment. Our headlights flash on a hooded man on his knees, held there by two men.
“Follow me.”
My heart’s beating a mile a minute. I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans as I exit the car, and we approach the hooded man.
“You want a piece of the action?”
“Yes,” I say confidently, refusing to let my voice shake.
“Every bookie has to deal with the problem of bad debt at some point in his career.”
The soldier rips off the hood of the man, and my eyes go wide—it’s my father.
