wasn’t my fault.
I tried to calm myself down by thinking that maybe he’d changed his mind about the sketch and he figured he’d catch me at the shop.
That must be it. Although something was still nagging at me about him.
I stared at the last bit of my bagel. Well, he was just going to have to wait for me. “When did he say he’d come back?” I asked.
“He didn’t.” Bitsy paused. “What’s going on, Brett?”
“I have no idea. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I stuffed the last of the bagel in my mouth as I closed the phone.
While the gods had been on my side today as far as parking, it seemed that’s all they were going to be good for.
I put the bag with the bagels in it in my messenger bag. Times like this, I needed a real backpack. Instead of slinging the bag across my chest, like I usually did, I just put it over my shoulder and let it bounce against my side.
I wandered past the gaming tables in the faux Central Park on the way out to my car. There were a few early-bird diehards eager to make their fortunes. I passed a couple of blackjack tables, ignored the craps, and stopped at the roulette table. The dealer was spinning the wheel.
But I wasn’t watching the wheel. I stared at one of the players, a young guy, maybe late twenties, slight build, wearing a white, almost see-through T-shirt that clung to his frame. His arms were bare.
Except for the queen-of-hearts playing-card tattoo on his inside right forearm.
“Care to place a bet?”
The dealer’s voice shook me out of my trance. He was staring at me expectantly, as was the young man with the tattoo and an elderly gentleman wearing a straw hat.
“Um, just watching,” I said.
“Need a chip?” The young man tossed a chip toward me, and instinctively I reached out and caught it. Nice to know something stuck from those couple years playing softball in middle school.
“Thanks, I guess,” I said, moving closer to the table, noticing that he wasn’t looking at me like I could identify him in a lineup. That was a good thing. The bad thing was, I had no idea just how to play this game. I turned the chip over in my hand and saw it was worth fifty bucks. Startled, I looked at the young man and held it out toward him. “I can’t take this.”
He grinned and with a little wave of his hand indicated that the huge pile of chips on the table was his. “I’m on a streak. Have at it,” he said.
“Place your bet,” the dealer said.
I studied the table, covered with red and black squares and numbers. “Why not,” I muttered, and put the chip on 18 red. It was a shot.
The wheel spun and then slowed. It stopped. The little ball fell into a slot.
Eighteen red.
My mouth hung open as the dealer added some chips to the one I’d had. The young man still won—he had put his chips on red—but I wasn’t exactly sure how all this worked.
“Where’d you get your ink?” I asked as we both moved our chips to other spots.
“Sssh,” the older gentleman said.
But the young man obviously didn’t have any respect for his elders. “Murder Ink. Know it?”
Murder Ink was owned by Jeff Coleman. We had a complicated relationship in that while we were competitors and started out hating each other, we were growing on each other. His mother had done the Napoleon ink on my calf.
I nodded, and the wheel spun.
Go figure, but I won again. My head told me that I should quit while I was ahead, but my adrenaline was racing and I couldn’t help myself.
“Why don’t you go for a split?” the young man asked, and when he saw my confusion explained I could place chips on two adjoining numbers.
Why not?
I won again. The chips were piling up. The young man had started betting with me. I’d forgotten about the bagels in my bag, how I had to get to my shop, why Frank DeBurra was stalking me. All I could think about was the game. I kept moving my chips around the table, and each square I put them on won. Well, not all of them, but because I’d
I tried to calm myself down by thinking that maybe he’d changed his mind about the sketch and he figured he’d catch me at the shop.
That must be it. Although something was still nagging at me about him.
I stared at the last bit of my bagel. Well, he was just going to have to wait for me. “When did he say he’d come back?” I asked.
“He didn’t.” Bitsy paused. “What’s going on, Brett?”
“I have no idea. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I stuffed the last of the bagel in my mouth as I closed the phone.
While the gods had been on my side today as far as parking, it seemed that’s all they were going to be good for.
I put the bag with the bagels in it in my messenger bag. Times like this, I needed a real backpack. Instead of slinging the bag across my chest, like I usually did, I just put it over my shoulder and let it bounce against my side.
I wandered past the gaming tables in the faux Central Park on the way out to my car. There were a few early-bird diehards eager to make their fortunes. I passed a couple of blackjack tables, ignored the craps, and stopped at the roulette table. The dealer was spinning the wheel.
But I wasn’t watching the wheel. I stared at one of the players, a young guy, maybe late twenties, slight build, wearing a white, almost see-through T-shirt that clung to his frame. His arms were bare.
Except for the queen-of-hearts playing-card tattoo on his inside right forearm.
“Care to place a bet?”
The dealer’s voice shook me out of my trance. He was staring at me expectantly, as was the young man with the tattoo and an elderly gentleman wearing a straw hat.
“Um, just watching,” I said.
“Need a chip?” The young man tossed a chip toward me, and instinctively I reached out and caught it. Nice to know something stuck from those couple years playing softball in middle school.
“Thanks, I guess,” I said, moving closer to the table, noticing that he wasn’t looking at me like I could identify him in a lineup. That was a good thing. The bad thing was, I had no idea just how to play this game. I turned the chip over in my hand and saw it was worth fifty bucks. Startled, I looked at the young man and held it out toward him. “I can’t take this.”
He grinned and with a little wave of his hand indicated that the huge pile of chips on the table was his. “I’m on a streak. Have at it,” he said.
“Place your bet,” the dealer said.
I studied the table, covered with red and black squares and numbers. “Why not,” I muttered, and put the chip on 18 red. It was a shot.
The wheel spun and then slowed. It stopped. The little ball fell into a slot.
Eighteen red.
My mouth hung open as the dealer added some chips to the one I’d had. The young man still won—he had put his chips on red—but I wasn’t exactly sure how all this worked.
“Where’d you get your ink?” I asked as we both moved our chips to other spots.
“Sssh,” the older gentleman said.
But the young man obviously didn’t have any respect for his elders. “Murder Ink. Know it?”
Murder Ink was owned by Jeff Coleman. We had a complicated relationship in that while we were competitors and started out hating each other, we were growing on each other. His mother had done the Napoleon ink on my calf.
I nodded, and the wheel spun.
Go figure, but I won again. My head told me that I should quit while I was ahead, but my adrenaline was racing and I couldn’t help myself.
“Why don’t you go for a split?” the young man asked, and when he saw my confusion explained I could place chips on two adjoining numbers.
Why not?
I won again. The chips were piling up. The young man had started betting with me. I’d forgotten about the bagels in my bag, how I had to get to my shop, why Frank DeBurra was stalking me. All I could think about was the game. I kept moving my chips around the table, and each square I put them on won. Well, not all of them, but because I’d
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