“So, you sure you didn’t see nothing?” Bud’s mouth was tucked in tight at the corners, but Herman stared straight into his own reflection doubled back in Bud’s sunglasses.
“I’m a big fan of this Community Watch program, but even neighbors can’t keep track of every little thing that goes on. Crosses the line into nosiness.”
“Reckon so.”
“It’s just as well,” Herman said. “That fellow didn’t have any sense of pride nor place. Just look at that fence post up yonder, leaning like a Thursday drunk.”
Bud looked at the fence at 107 Oakdale, then at the construction site. “Going to get real crowded around here soon.”
“They call it ‘progress,’ I reckon.”
“Well, let me know if you remember anything. I got to get on to the real cases, not make garbage runs for Tennessee.” Bud started to the sidewalk, back to the white picket gate and his patrol car.
“Don’t lose no sleep over him,” Herman called after Bud, over the rumble of the earth machines. “To run out on a mortgage like that, and to leave the place in such a mess, it goes to show he had no respect.”
Bud stopped at the gate. “You said ‘had,’ Herman. Past tense.”
“He’s past tense to me. We don’t need people like that around, them who think their way is the only way.”
Bud nodded and lifted his hand in a half-wave, then climbed into his cruiser and eased up the street.
The red-headed girl passed in the other lane on her bicycle, the shaggy mutt running down the street after her, barking and snapping at the bike’s rear tire. That dog wasn’t as bad as its former master. At least the dog had a sense of territory. And it kept its bones buried.
Herman looked once more at the construction site, the men in their hard hats milling around the loud machines. The cement would be hard by sundown. New neighbors on the way. More barbarians at the gate. But, for now, the fences were mended and order restored.
He went into his garage to clean his tools.
THE AGREEMENT
By J.A. Konrath
Hutson closed his eyes and swallowed hard, trying to stop sweating. On the table, in the pot, thirty thousand dollars worth of chips formed a haphazard pyramid. Half of those chips were his. The other half belonged to the quirky little mobster in the pink suit that sat across from him.
“I’ll see it.”
The mobster pushed more chips into the pile. He went by the street nick Little Louie. Hutson didn’t know his last name, and had no real desire to learn it. The only thing he cared about was winning this hand. He cared about it a great deal, because Bernard Hutson did not have the money to cover the bet. Seven hours ago he was up eighteen grand, but since then he’d been steadily losing and extending his credit and losing and extending his credit. If he won this pot, he’d break even.
If he didn’t, he owed thirty thousand dollars that he didn’t have to a man who had zero tolerance for welchers.
Little Louie always brought two large bodyguards with him when he gambled. These bodyguards worked according to a unique payment plan. They would hurt a welcher in relation to what he owed. An unpaid debt of one hundred dollars would break a finger. A thousand would break a leg.
Thirty thousand defied the imagination.
Hutson wiped his forehead on his sleeve and stared at his hand, praying it would be good enough.
Little Louie dealt them each one more card. When the game began, all six chairs had been full. Now, at almost five in the morning, the only two combatants left were Hutson and the mobster. Both stank of sweat and cigarettes. They sat at a greasy wooden card table in somebody’s kitchen, cramped and red-eyed and exhausted.
One of Louie’s thugs sat on a chair in the corner, snoring with a deep bumble-bee buzz. The other was looking out of the grimy eighth story window, the fire escape blocking his view of the city. Each men had more scars on their knuckles than Hutson had on his entire body.
Scary guys.
Hutson picked up the card and said a silent prayer before looking at it.
A five.
That gave him a full house, fives over threes. A good hand. A very good hand.
“Your bet,” Little Louie barked. The man in the pink suit boasted tiny, cherubic features and black rat eyes. He didn’t stand over five four, and a pathetic little blonde moustache sat on his upper lip like a bug. Hutson had joined the game on suggestion of his friend Ray. Ray had left hours ago, when Hutson was still ahead. Hutson should have left with him. He hadn’t. And now, he found himself throwing his last two hundred dollars worth of chips into the pile, hoping Little Louie wouldn’t raise him.
Little Louie raised him.
“I’m out of chips,” Hutson said.
“But you’re good for it, right? You are good for it?”
The question was moot. The mobster had made crystal clear, when he extended the first loan, that if Hutson couldn’t pay it back, he would hurt him.
“I’m very particular when it comes to debts. When the game ends, I want all debts paid within an hour. In cash. If not, my boys will have to damage you according to what you owe. That’s the agreement, and you’re obliged to follow it, to the letter.”
“I’m good for it.”
Hutson borrowed another five hundred and asked for the cards to be shown.
Little Louie had four sevens. That beat a full house.
Hutson threw up on the table.
“I take it I won,” grinned Little Louie, his cheeks brightening like a maniacal elf.
Hutson wiped his mouth and stared off to the left of the room, avoiding Little Louie’s gaze.
“I’ll get the money,” Hutson mumbled, knowing full well that he couldn’t.
“Go ahead and make your call.” Little Louie stood up, stretched. “Rocko, bring this man a phone.”
Rocko lifted his snoring head in a moment of confusion. “What boss?”
“Bring this guy a phone, so he can get the money he owes me.”
Rocko heaved himself out of his chair and went to the kitchen counter, grabbing Little Louie’s cellular and bringing it to Hutson.
Hutson looked over at Little Louie, then at Rocko, then at Little Louie again.
“What do you mean?” he finally asked.
“What do you mean?” mimicked Little Louie in a high, whiny voice. Both Rocko and the other thug broke up at this, giggling like school girls. “You don’t think I’m going to let you walk out of here, do you?”
“You said…”
“I said you have an hour to get the money. I didn’t say you could leave to get it. I’m still following the agreement to the letter. So call somebody up and get them to bring it here.”
Hutson felt sick again.
“You don’t look so good.” Little Louie furrowed his brow in mock-concern. “Want an antacid?”
The thugs giggled again.
“I…I don’t have anyone I can call,” Hutson stammered.
“Call your buddy, Ray. Or maybe your mommy can bring the money.”
“Mommy.” Rocko snickered. “You ought to be a comedian, boss. You’d kill ‘em.”
Little Louie puffed out his fat little chest and belched.
“Better get to it, Mr. Hutson. You only have fifty-five minutes left.”
Hutson took the phone in a trembling hand, and called Ray. It rang fifteen times, twenty, twenty-five.
Little Louie walked over, patted Hutson’s shoulder. “I don’t think they’re home. Maybe you should try someone else.”
Hutson fought nausea, wiped the sweat off of his neck, and dialled another number. His ex-girlfriend, Dolores. They broke up last month. Badly.
A man answered.
“Can I speak to Dolores?”
“Who the hell is this?”
“It’s Hutson.”
“What the hell do you want?”
“Please let me speak to Dolores, it’s real important.”