Leverage (The Mistaken Series)

by Nancy S Thompson

  “Whoa!” blasted Steve, Greg’s chief bottle washer. I was but a minion to the freckled, pale-skinned ginger. “Easy does it, Maguire, or you’ll be working off repair costs.”

  I offered a sullen glare and switched the machine on then started cramming more dirty dishes into an empty rack for the next load. Glancing at the full sink, I had at least six more.

  “Dude, what’s your problem?” Steve asked when I remained silent.

  “No fucking problem, man, unless you consider working fifty hours a week with no goddamn money to show for it a problem.” I tossed a large, steel mixing bowl in the sink only to be sloshed with dirty, soapy water. It soaked straight through my apron, my jeans, and all the way to my shorts. “That’s just fucking great.”

  Steve placed his hand over his concave stomach and laughed. “Dude, lighten up, or you’re gonna stroke out.”

  “Yeah, well, that might be preferable to my current situation.”

  “Hey, if all you need is some quick dough, I can help you out.”

  I smiled, but shook my head. “Nah, man, I can’t borrow money from you.”

  “Good ‘cause I’m not offerin’ a loan.” He looked around with caution then stepped close and whispered. “You know Greg’s friend, Jan or Janek or whatever the hell his name is? That big, ugly fucker with the mangled nose?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, guy nearly ran me down in the kitchen my first night here.”

  Steve laughed. “Dude’s a freakin’ spook, I’m tellin’ ya. Totally twisted and mean as hell, but he throws the sickest poker parties ever. Got some real dumbfuck friends, too. Easy to scab off of, ya know?”

  “Scab?”

  “Yeah, ya know, easy targets. Rich but stupid. Dude, I took one for a hunnerd Bennies last month. Quick thousand bucks. Easy money. They’re just there for the blow and ass. And dude? I. Mean. Ass. Like, those chicks don’t even care.” Steve belly-laughed again and grabbed his junk. “You should so go, bro. In a few hours, you could make a sweep, dip your wick, and suck some ice.” He smacked me on the back. “It’s a playah’s trifecta, brutha.”

  I wasn’t interested in the ass, real or otherwise, or whatever form of amphetamine Fugly Janek might be serving. But the money? Yeah, my heart ticked up two hundred percent with that news. If Steve—the stupidest slacker I’d ever met—could hustle those guys, then I had no doubt I could, as well. Rent was overdue and my fridge was empty. I needed the cash yesterday.

  I smiled at Steve. “Hey, man, if you can hook me up, I’d love to play. How much to buy in, you think?” I pulled a thin roll from my front pants pocket and peeled the damp bills apart. “Shit. I only got like…forty-three bucks.” And that was supposed to last me three more days ‘til my next gig, when I could count on some tip money. I looked up at Steve.

  He grinned. “That’ll get you in, dude. And Jan’ll float you some credit, I’m sure. Not like he won’t be able to find you or nothin’, right?”

  I nodded. “Whatever works,” I said and held my breath for my next question. “So, when’s the next game? ‘Cause I’m hard up.”

  “Then you’re in luck, bro. Dude’s hostin’ tonight. Right now, as a matter of fact. I was gonna blow ‘em off, but…” He shrugged. “If you wanna drop by…”

  “Hell, yeah! I only have another hour back here then I’m free.”

  Steve’s head bobbed on his pencil-neck, and his thick, spongy hair wobbled like a loose helmet. “Awesome! Me, too. Jan’s pad’s only three or four blocks from here. On Roosevelt near 43rd. Meet me out back by the Dumpster and we’ll hoof it on over together, ‘kay?”

  With an excited nod and a grin on my face, I yanked up on the dishwasher door and let the steam float to the ceiling, whistling as I slid the clean dish rack out and the dirty one in.

  Seems quicksand was escapable after all.

  CHAPTER 20

  Conner

  Janek’s place was hardly more than a hovel with a rusted barn-style front door and chipped brick interior walls. Nearly half the multi-paned warehouse windows, which took up the entire exterior wall, were replaced with moldy, warped plywood, while half the remaining were painted various shades of red. Probably to match the three spray-like stains on the white-washed wood ceiling, stains that looked peculiarly similar to blood spatter. I cringed at the thought.

  Those occupying the decrepit space fairly glowed in contradictory glory. They reminded me of the men in those most-wanted-terrorist photographs, with almost uniformly heavy brows, thick crowns of jet-black hair, and deep-set onyx eyes with dark circles set below. Their clothes made them look like they’d just come off a 1980’s porn movie set, with their silky polyester shirts and multiple ropes of heavy gold chain. It was like stepping into a time-warp. Only thing grounding it to the present was the thumping music which alternated between dubstep and rave, the crap Leo used to listen to.

  But as alien as Janek’s guests appeared, and despite the fact I often heard a foreign language being spoken between a few of the men, most of them conversed in perfectly Americanized English. I couldn’t even detect a hint of an accent among them.

  The young women were of a different sort, though, almost all blonde-haired, blue-eyed, markedly flat-chested, and leggy like colts. And when they spoke, which wasn’t often since the men seemed irritated when they did, they did so in a strange, feverish tongue, clipped and guttural, with a swaying tempo and rolling Rs. Not a vernacular I was familiar with at all.

  The men lounged around on battered leather sofas and chairs, the women slung over their legs or stationed behind them, performing shoulder massages. They came and went from the front room to the back bedrooms, sometimes in pairs, but mostly in groups of three or four, always one man and the rest women. Those who didn’t partake in that particular entertainment instead played various games of poker—Texas Hold ‘Em, 7-Card Stud, and 5-Card Draw.

  Steve was right. These guys played big. There were thousands of dollars in chips spread among the players and amassed in the center pots. I was anxious to jump in, as much to avoid the surrounding temptations as to win enough cash to get me through the next couple months.

  Before that could happen though, I had to set up an account of sorts with our host, Fugly Janek. I was worried when we first arrived that Jan wouldn’t grant me entry. Steve hadn’t called to ask if I could tag along, even though I’d urged him to. He assured me Jan would welcome me, as long as I had money to open an account and the means to settle each term, whatever that meant. Just as Steve had predicted, Janek wasn’t the least bit surprised to see me. He seemed pleased, even happy.

  After being greeted at the door with a slap to the back, Jan walked me through the loft, introducing me to his friends, or clients, as he called them, then back to his office, where he retreated behind a large desk made of heavy wood. He pulled a ledger from his top drawer and, in surprisingly elegant script, scratched my name at the bottom of a long list, with my meager offering along the right side column. He duplicated the procedure in a spreadsheet program on his laptop. When he finished, he rose and shook my hand.

  “Welcome to Club Leva,” he said with the same accent as the girls.

  “Leva,” I repeated. “What’s that mean?”

  He smiled and laid his hand along my shoulder. “It’s Latin, something along the lines of advantage.”

  I nodded like I understood, even though I didn’t. “Cool. I could always use that.”

  Jan laughed and spun me around, and, with his hand at my back, escorted me out to his lair. “Pick whichever table you prefer,” he said. “You have $4,300 in credit. Keep in mind, outstanding balances are due at the end of every month, but, seeing as how I do Rush Hour’s books, I’ll make direct withdrawals as necessary. If that’s okay with you,” he said, more a statement than a question. He smirked and raised one brow.

  With my own drawn downward, I stared at him, unnerved by his confidence and mesmerized by the horrific architecture of his face, the hulking constru
ction of his overbearing physique, and the tattooed artwork that adorned his fingers like rings.

  I swallowed hard and nodded, anxious to get started. “Thanks,” I said and started to walk away, though I couldn’t help but glance back over my shoulder.

  Sure enough, Fugly Jan’s attention remained pinned on me, his eyes piercing and his massive arms crossed over his immense chest. How he ever found a suit and dress shirt to accommodate his frame was beyond me, especially one so nice. Must’ve been custom-made. Big bucks. And in sharp contrast to the rattrap surrounding him.

  With taste like that, you’d think he, as well as his clients, would prefer a more upscale environment. Perhaps it was more about camouflage than overhead. I didn’t know, and I didn’t care. I was there for one thing only, so I picked my table, Texas Hold ‘Em with Steve, and introduced myself around.

  I wagered conservatively the first game, to see how everyone else played. Steve won the pot—over two grand. He was whoopin’ and hollerin’ with his run of good luck. I began to wager more aggressively the second game, and, after nearly four hours and a constant flux of players as they meandered from table to bedroom and back again, I was up nearly six thousand bucks. And it was easy money, too, just like Steve had said. These guys were reckless and obviously didn’t play to win, but rather just to kill time while they recharged for their other activities. I saw a bottle of blue pills pass between the four other guys at our table, plus several vials of whatever it was that kept them alert after consuming shot after shot of Macallan’s, which, Steve explained, was the most expensive whiskey in the world. These guys were serious players, though not of the poker variety, but they were affable and didn’t seem to mind losing to a kid, even a poor one like me. I was shitting my pants with all the money that moved across the table and into my hands.

  Steve won his fourth big hand then called it a night, insisting he had to quit while he was ahead. I was relieved; made the odds better for me. I was so relaxed and sure of my luck, I allowed myself to be coaxed into taking a drink, one shot, just to see what a sixty-year, single-malt tasted like, not that I knew what any other kind tasted like, but it did go down smooth. Too smooth. So smooth, I had another. Then another. That’s when I lost my edge. I got cocky and bet way too much on an undeserving hand. Though it was only a trickle at first, it soon became the floodgate that released a ton of shit into my world.

  A crowd gathered, faces I recalled from earlier rounds, and one other I recognized.

  Greg. What the fuck is he doing here?

  Then the players changed positions, and I was suddenly up against the few hardcore opponents in attendance. They didn’t dick around with measly one or two hundred dollar raises either. They wagered big money, five hundred, a thousand, two thousand and up. After two hands, I was almost completely tapped.

  Greg, who’d been watching with interest, circled around behind me, bent down, and whispered in my ear. “Jan called. Told me you were having a good night. Said you were a wunderkind and I should drop by for the show. Imagine my disappointment.”

  I turned my head and looked up at him. “Imagine mine,” I replied.

  He chuckled. “Think you can make a comeback? I’m always looking for a good investment.”

  “Don’t see how. Down to my last four hundred bucks. Barely enough to ante up.”

  “I could front you enough for maybe four more games, if you think you can pull it off.”

  I wasn’t sure I could, not with these players, but they were like the rest, imbibing too much and growing anxious to hang with the girls. I was down all the money I had on credit and had no idea how I’d ever repay it. But I didn’t have much choice, really. I had to make at least the forty-three hundred back. I figured it was just a matter of time until these guys left and the less-skilled players returned. Then I would have another shot at reclaiming the money I’d earned then lost, so I agreed to Greg’s advance, at ten percent.

  He raised a finger at Janek to get his attention then mouthed the words “twenty-five”. Jan disappeared for a minute, reemerging with a new stack of chips which he plunked down in front of me. $25,000. I tried damn hard not to let my eyes bug out of my head, but it was difficult among the low rumble and whistles from the crowd. My heart fluttered and sent a rush of blood to my face. I glanced up to see if my adversaries had noticed. They seemed only mildly impressed, so I settled in, waiting for them to wander off, one by one.

  But they never did.

  I lost one hand, then the next. I glanced up at Greg. He nodded once, encouraging me to see it through. My hands were shaking, and sweat started to pop out above my upper lip. I shook my head at Greg, giving in to the nausea that roiled around my stomach like a swarm of bats. With his brow drawn low, he pressed his lips together and cocked his head to the side. A warning. But why would he want me to continue when I was losing?

  Without breaking eye contact with me, he leaned toward Janek on his right and whispered. Fugly wove through the crowd and tapped two of my opponents on the shoulders then muttered into their ears. Without question, they stood, scooped up their chips, and left the table. Two others swooped into the vacated seats without a moment’s hesitation, two I recognized, two I had already played and beaten.

  My luck was changing. At the very least, Greg had leveled the field. Freshly confident, I couldn’t keep the grin from my face, though I tried to hide it behind a yawn. With the two biggest spenders gone, half the crowd floated away, no longer interested. But Greg remained, an odd expression on his face. Anticipation, perhaps. But while his interference might have altered the odds in my favor, the wagers stood on high ground, still near a grand each. My confidence wavered, but I pushed on.

  I won the next hand, but it was a relatively small pot compared to the last three. It was, however, more than enough to cover my line of credit with Janek. I only needed another ten grand to cover what I’d spent of Greg’s advance. If I was careful, I could raise the stakes enough without going so high as to risk more than necessary for one more round. I could take this hand and bow out with enough to pay everyone and still have a bit of extra cash to get Katy and me through another month, maybe even two. That’s all I wanted by that point.

  But that’s not what happened.

  What did, occurred so fast, I hardly knew the game was over. Each time someone raised, I glanced up at Greg, who nodded his approval. Each time I called, my stomach coiled into an additional knot. I didn’t have enough to make it around the table if the remaining players raised. But I had a good hand, a winning hand, and I knew at least two of the three consistently bluffed. So I faked my tell—a tiny, lopsided grin I sometimes forget to hide when I’m dealt a great hand—and the next two guys folded.

  The last one did not. He studied me over his fan of cards, his finger tapping the dip in his top lip. He glanced one more time at his hand then at my last few chips, knowing full well I could easily ask for more, enough to cover whatever he raised. So, as he sat back in his seat, he picked up the matching chips, threw them in the center of the table, and called.

  I let out an audible sigh and released the tension in my shoulders as the small crowd groaned and glanced around at each other. The two who’d called before me tossed their hands on the table. The first guy had three-of-a-kind and knocked out the second’s single pair.

  I stared at the higher hand, feeling the sweat trickle down the center of my back. I twisted in my seat, gulped down one last hard swallow, then, with a slow blink, laid my cards down on the table. A flush of diamonds. A gasp sounded all around.

  The final player just sat there and stared at me, no emotion, no acknowledgement that his still-hidden hand had won or lost. He just stared as we all stared back. Then his face cracked into a huge smile and he settled his cards next to mine. A full house.

  Motherfucker!

  The room erupted into a chorus of cheers, all hands patting the winner along his back and shoulders. He stood and turned away from me to accept their congratula
tions. I remained glued to my chair, my breath caught in my throat, and my fuzzy brain spinning at a million miles an hour. All that money. Gone. Owed. How the fuck was I supposed to pay that shit back? I couldn’t earn that much in ten lifetimes. Oh my God—Greg. And Janek. Shit.

  I jerked myself back into the moment, my eyes searching the sea of bodies as they moved in waves around the winner. I stood and took a step back as I scanned for the two faces I was most nervous to see. And there they were, at the far end of the celebration, their expressions blank, fathomless. I took a shaky breath and held it as I waited for them to approach me, to give me some small sign of what they were thinking, what they were feeling.

  Though the money Janek had credited me was substantial, it was nothing compared to what I now owed Greg. My chest felt ready to collapse under the weight of my debt. Greg had always been friendly enough with me, but there was something about him. I saw it the first night I performed at Rush Hour, the confrontation he’d had with Katy and Nova. His brand of anger scared me. He wasn’t the type to lash out. He kept it all inside, controlled and simmering. I didn’t want to be around when it boiled over.

  The room cleared out slowly, and I was left alone with my benefactors. Greg dismissed Janek with a curt nod then walked over and stood before me. He grinned slightly, his lips tight and his eyes strangely apologetic. He raised his hand, like I should shake it, but all I could do was stand there, frozen, staring, unsure of his intention.

  “Please, Mr. Maguire, take it,” he ordered softly, and I did, afraid not to. “I know you’re nervous, perhaps even afraid, but we’ll work this out, you and I. You’ll see. Now go home and see to that pretty girl of yours. I understand she’s expecting.” He smiled again, like he was truly happy for me. “Congratulations.” That said, he started to walk away.

  “Greg…” I began but couldn’t find the words to finish. How did he know about the baby? I’d only told my mom and Ty. How the fuck did he know?