Blackjack Dead or Alive (The Blackjack Series Book 3) by Ben Bequer, Joshua Hoade Page B

to figure out what to do with me. “You have money?”
    I shook my head. “I have money,” I said. “I just don’t have any on me. Is there a bank nearby?”
    He smiled, flashing teeth yellowed from years of smoking.
    “Eighty kilometers,” he motioned up the hill. “Porto Classico is the closest.”
    I splashed some water on my face and stood. “I’ll give you a thousand dollars,” I said. “If you can give me some clothes and food, and drive me up there.”
    The man shook his head.
    “No cars in town, friend.”
    I looked at the Citroen and shrugged.
    “Hasn’t worked since your Clinton was president.”
    I laughed.
    “Give me some food, water,” I stopped, breathing heavily. “And some tools…I’ll fix it.”
     
    *              *              *              *
     
    He introduced himself as Giuseppe, and gave me his coat. It too small to wear so I draped it over my shoulders as best I could. He walked me over to the café, introducing me as a cast away from a sunken sailboat. The owner of the shop served me a large baguette and a block of cheese that I devoured, and a wooden mug with some liquor that made me recall grappa, which my father liked to drink after a long day at work.
    I thought of him, watching the mangled bread, dirty from my hands, and found myself crying as I dug more and more of the food into my mouth, barely bothering to chew it.
    “You’re okay, friend,” Giuseppe said, putting his hand on my back, but I coughed, half chewed bits of bread exploding around the insides of my mouth, and wept, thinking back to my old man. I imagined how different my life would have been if he hadn’t passed when he did, leaving me in the clutches of his brutal wife, my step-mother, and her violent brother, who came to live with us soon after he died.
    As I wiped my eyes and went back to eating, a dozen or so people watched me, chatting with each other, amazed at my plight and at the sight of me gorging on the little food they offered me. The café owner gave me a small metal jug filled with coffee along with a cup of steamed milk. I was supposed to pour the coffee into the cup, but instead I drank all the milk, and then poured all the coffee down my throat. The scalding liquid felt good, waking me up from the inside.
    The crowd stared on, their expressions ranging from amused to disgusted, as I consumed a second baguette and finished a good pound of cheese.
    “Water,” I said, and Giuseppe repeated my request in Italian to the shopkeeper. He brought over a carafe of iced-water that I downed in one gulp.
    “My friend, you eat like you’ve never eaten before.”
    I let out a belch and smiled.
    “Feels like it,” I said, reaching into the carafe and grabbing a handful of ice that I pressed against my face. I leaned back from the table, refreshed and almost full, tossing the dirty ice back into the carafe and looked around. I clasped my hands and rubbed them.
    “Okay,” I said. “Now show me some tools and I’ll fix your car.”
     
    *              *              *              *
     
    The problem with car was an oil issue that I resolved using my screw driver and a couple of strips of twine. It wouldn’t hold forever, but the Citroen would run.
    It belonged to a friend of Giuseppe’s, a Frenchman called Alain. I offered him a thousand euros to let me fix the car, and to drive us all to the nearest town with a bank. While I repaired the Citroen, I had Giuseppe offer the café owner more money and he let me leave town with a bagful of baguettes. They were long gone by the time we made the first of the winding turns that rose up the mountain.
    “What was the name of that town,” I asked as Alain drove us.
    “Il Porto,” the Frenchman said. He might’ve been from a different country, but he spoke English with the same Italian-tinged accent as Giuseppe.
    The engine was a loud but constant thrum, and I felt my lids sag.