and Burn’s absences, made Susan suspicious. After a particularly heavy confrontation when she accused him of being unfaithful, he told her about the gambling. She was shocked and angry. Was he going to do what her father did: fade away from his family, leaving a trail of bad debt, lies, and heartache?
Burn swore to her that he’d stop. He’d pay Vargas off, and that would be that.
He kept his word until his biggest contract went south.
Burn had installed a security system in a new mall out on the fringes of the Valley. It was state-of-the-art stuff—security cameras, motion-triggered as, smoke detectors—all wired into an operations room that looked like something out of mission control at Houston. He had to hire more staff and front for expensive gear to deliver on the contract. The developers of the mall had given him only a first payment, a quarter of the billable total—long spent—when they ran out of money. The mall, agonizingly close to completion, was mothballed while bloody legal battles were fought.
Burn’s name was just one on a long list of contractors looking at getting ten cents on the dollar at best.
Meanwhile Burn’s employees needed to be paid, and his suppliers were screaming for money. Money he didn’t have. He was in danger of losing the house, mortgaged to cash-flow his business.
Which was when he did the thing that totally fucked up his life.
And the lives of his family.
Burn called Pepe Vargas and asked him to take a phone bet, eighty large on a tough middleweight out of Jersey City named Leroy Coombs, an ex-champion who was making a comeback against a no-hoper as part of the undercard of a Vegas title fight.
He heard the bookie go quiet on the other end of the line, probably thinking about the money Burn still owed him. But Vargas took the bet.
Burn was running a crazy risk, betting money he didn’t have. But it was a sure thing. The opponent was a glorified sparring partner; there was no way Coombs could lose.
Burn sat at home and watched the fight on HBO. It went according to plan for ten of the scheduled twelve rounds. Coombs toyed with his opponent, and though he couldn’t knock him out, he left him looking like hamburger by the end of the tenth. Burn was starting to feel good, convinced his recent run of bad luck was over.
Then in the eleventh Coombs got complacent, started clowning, and took a blow that should never have landed. A looping right that caught him on the chin and sent him to the canvas. He didn’t get up before the ref waved his arms over his prone body.
The fight was over.
Burn watched, stunned, as Coombs was helped to his stool, his legs like cooked spaghetti. He knew that if he tried to stand, he’d feel the same.
His cell phone rang. It was Vargas, wanting to know when he was coming down to Gardena to make good the damage. Burn muttered a promise and killed the call.
After this loss, with the unpaid bets still on his tab, Burn owed Pepe Vargas nearly a hundred thousand dollars. An amount of money that he had absolutely no way of getting his hands on.
The bookie called again the next day, and his easy manner was gone. He told Burn to meet him down in the casino parking lot that afternoon.
Vargas cruised up next to Burn in his Eldorado and asked him to step into his office. A man sat beside Vargas, a man Burn had never seen before. Burn slid into the backseat and Pepe pulled away. Vargas stopped the Cadillac near a diner, and with a brief, almost apologetic glance in the rearview mirror, he left the car.
The man in the front seat turned to Burn. He was quiet, self-contained, carrying with him an air of understated menace. “You can call me Nolan.”
“Why would I call you anything?” Burn was reaching for the door handle.
“Don’t get out, Jack.” The way the man used his name grated on Burn’s nerves.
“Why not?”
“Because you don’t want me coming to your house. Believe me.”
Burn stared at Nolan. “What do you
Burn swore to her that he’d stop. He’d pay Vargas off, and that would be that.
He kept his word until his biggest contract went south.
Burn had installed a security system in a new mall out on the fringes of the Valley. It was state-of-the-art stuff—security cameras, motion-triggered as, smoke detectors—all wired into an operations room that looked like something out of mission control at Houston. He had to hire more staff and front for expensive gear to deliver on the contract. The developers of the mall had given him only a first payment, a quarter of the billable total—long spent—when they ran out of money. The mall, agonizingly close to completion, was mothballed while bloody legal battles were fought.
Burn’s name was just one on a long list of contractors looking at getting ten cents on the dollar at best.
Meanwhile Burn’s employees needed to be paid, and his suppliers were screaming for money. Money he didn’t have. He was in danger of losing the house, mortgaged to cash-flow his business.
Which was when he did the thing that totally fucked up his life.
And the lives of his family.
Burn called Pepe Vargas and asked him to take a phone bet, eighty large on a tough middleweight out of Jersey City named Leroy Coombs, an ex-champion who was making a comeback against a no-hoper as part of the undercard of a Vegas title fight.
He heard the bookie go quiet on the other end of the line, probably thinking about the money Burn still owed him. But Vargas took the bet.
Burn was running a crazy risk, betting money he didn’t have. But it was a sure thing. The opponent was a glorified sparring partner; there was no way Coombs could lose.
Burn sat at home and watched the fight on HBO. It went according to plan for ten of the scheduled twelve rounds. Coombs toyed with his opponent, and though he couldn’t knock him out, he left him looking like hamburger by the end of the tenth. Burn was starting to feel good, convinced his recent run of bad luck was over.
Then in the eleventh Coombs got complacent, started clowning, and took a blow that should never have landed. A looping right that caught him on the chin and sent him to the canvas. He didn’t get up before the ref waved his arms over his prone body.
The fight was over.
Burn watched, stunned, as Coombs was helped to his stool, his legs like cooked spaghetti. He knew that if he tried to stand, he’d feel the same.
His cell phone rang. It was Vargas, wanting to know when he was coming down to Gardena to make good the damage. Burn muttered a promise and killed the call.
After this loss, with the unpaid bets still on his tab, Burn owed Pepe Vargas nearly a hundred thousand dollars. An amount of money that he had absolutely no way of getting his hands on.
The bookie called again the next day, and his easy manner was gone. He told Burn to meet him down in the casino parking lot that afternoon.
Vargas cruised up next to Burn in his Eldorado and asked him to step into his office. A man sat beside Vargas, a man Burn had never seen before. Burn slid into the backseat and Pepe pulled away. Vargas stopped the Cadillac near a diner, and with a brief, almost apologetic glance in the rearview mirror, he left the car.
The man in the front seat turned to Burn. He was quiet, self-contained, carrying with him an air of understated menace. “You can call me Nolan.”
“Why would I call you anything?” Burn was reaching for the door handle.
“Don’t get out, Jack.” The way the man used his name grated on Burn’s nerves.
“Why not?”
“Because you don’t want me coming to your house. Believe me.”
Burn stared at Nolan. “What do you
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