He stumbled to the toilet and heaved, then heaved again, his insides swirling like water down the drain as he sank to his knees in front of the bowl and prayed for the room to stop spinning.
Then it came to him, the only way out.
He pushed himself off the tiles and shuffled to his wife’s dressing bureau. Undergarments slipped through his fingers until he worked his hands to the far corner of her lingerie drawer where she’d hidden the last valuable thing in the apartment: a costly diamond bracelet recently inherited from her grandma’s estate.
As he inspected the glistening band that his wife had cherished, his forehead felt damp and hot. His heart throbbed in his chest, and his palms felt clammy, but he took a deep breath and swiped the bracelet anyway.
Even if Becky could forgive him for losing their nest egg on last night’s basketball game, she’d definitely kill him for this.
He crammed the heirloom into the pocket of his jeans, slinked across the hall and slipped down the stairs of the walkup where they lived.
Scanning the street for any sign of his wife, he clutched the bracelet in his jacket and headed toward the river. There was always a chance that he could plead for mercy and beg his way out, but that would be up to Tony the Ear.
Every basketball season, which in New York meant whenever there wasn’t actually snow on the ground, the Ear sat courtside at Riverside Park, watching the talented local kids play hoops with such concentrated energy you’d think their lives depended on it. With a notebook and pen at the ready, he liked that spot on his favorite bench, and everyone knew where to find him. His tiny feet were planted on the ground, sun warming the back of his neck.
“Tony.” Manny caught his breath. “I have to get my money back from last night’s bet.”
Tony didn’t say a word. His eyes were fixed on the kids shooting, running, passing and banging bodies.
He was dressed, as usual, in an old satin New York Knicks jacket that probably predated the Walt Frazier, Willis Reed glory years, when the Knicks still played in the old Madison Square Garden at Fiftieth Street and Eighth Avenue. His jeans last saw soap and water a decade before he got the jacket, and his sneakers belonged in the Smithsonian.
“Tony,” Manny said again, a little more urgently, but the bookie never moved, never took his eyes off the game. He knew Tony could hear perfectly well with his one good ear, but he didn’t turn around and didn’t answer.
Manny tried not to stare at Tony’s strange left ear, but he could never get used to the pea-sized lobe that popped out from that indentation where his ear should have been. The story was that an overeager doctor had torn off his ear with the forceps as he wrenched Tony out of the birth canal. Then the doctor smoothed it all over with skin from the right side of his face, and that’s why his nose was slanted and his mouth was scrunched to the right, so that he always looked as if he were speaking in asides.
Finally, he stepped directly in front of the Ear. “Tony, I need my money back.”
“What are you talking about? You bet, you lost, game over. Get outta my way. I’m watching a game here.”
“Listen,” Manny pleaded. “Can’t you just forget it? I mean, pretend I never made the bet? Give me my money back?”
“Sorry, kid.” Suddenly, he jumped up to get a better view of the court as a cornrowed kid in a lime-green T-shirt stole the ball and led a fast break. “Run,” he screamed, “move your damn ass.” Probably since his lips were permanently sphinctered on his right cheek, Tony spoke with a lisp. He turned to look Manny in the eye. “I really am sorry for you.” He nodded and looked at the ground. “Maybe you should borrow some money. You got friends.”
“Whose friends have that kind of cash? Besides, they only laugh when I ask.” Manny watched one of the players score from the charity line. “My own wife pushes for Gamblers Anonymous.”
“I know.” He smirked out of the side of his mouth. “I used to get that line myself.” Tony peered around Manny’s torso, and Manny turned to see the same kid take two huge steps from the foul line and dunk over two taller kids without shirts.
Manny stumbled, still a little tipsy from his self-pity binge. “Why don’t you give me back the money I bet? I’ll never ask again.”
Tony sat down. “I don’t have it, pal.” He ran a hand over his filthy jeans. “You wanna play? You gotta pay. Ain’t that our deal?” Tony raised a finger. “Have you hit up your mother?”
“She won’t give me a dime. I already owe her forty grand.” He put a hand on Tony’s shoulder. “You gotta help me. I’m desperate here.”
Tony brushed away Manny’s hand. “What you need is a shower and a shave… and brush your stinking teeth because you smell like a goddamn dump.”
“Give me a break.” Manny shrugged, palms in the air. “I’m dying.”
“Did you see that shot?” Tony shouted and pointed at the court. “Unbelievable.”
Manny snorted and clenched his fists. “You don’t give a fuck about anyone but yourself.”
“What do you mean?” He pointed at the home team. “I bought their uniforms.”
“What? A dozen T-shirts?” Manny shoved a finger in his face and poked out the words. “Give me back my cash.”
“Take it easy, pal,” Tony yelled. Palms up, he motioned him back. “Relax.”
Manny wiped Tony’s spittle off his cheek. “I don’t want to relax.” He pushed Tony back down to the bench. “You think I’m gonna go easy because you’re some kind of cripple? I oughta do you a favor and kick that mouth back to the other side of your head where it belongs.” He fisted Tony in the chest. “You, pal, are gonna give me back my money. Now.”
Tony reached into his jacket and pulled out a pocketknife.
“What the fuck is that?” Manny’s eyes skittered from the blade to the basketball decal on the handle, then back to Tony’s face.
“What we’re gonna do”-Tony waved the knife like a nun waving a ruler-“is sit the fuck down and take a minute to sort things out.” He patted the seat with the blade. “You want to turn your luck around or you want to stand there whining like some kinda pussy?”
One of the players missed a bounce pass, and the ball popped off the court and hit Manny in the back of his head.
“Sorry, Tony!” A sinewy Puerto Rican kid scooped up the ball and dribbled back to the game.
“Hopeless.” Tony took an apple from the brown paper bag on the bench.
“I can’t believe my rotten luck.” Manny crumbled to his seat and leaned his forehead on his hands. “When did you get a knife?” He rubbed his neck and asked, “And when did you start pulling it on your pals?”
“You take yourself too serious.” Tony shrugged and cut into the apple. “I can’t stand the sight of blood.” He stuck his chin out and took a deep breath. “I was only making a point.”
“What point?”
“Listen up, ’cause I’m the smartest guy you know. I everything goes in one ear and stays there.”
Manny chuckled. “You’re nuts.”
Tony offered him a slice of fruit. “You want your money back. Well, it’s all a zero-sum game. Somebody has to lose for somebody else to win. So what are the odds for you, my friend?” Tony chewed a slice and swallowed. His Adam’s apple rose like a ball in his throat. “The odds are nil if you’re out of the game. Am I right or am I right?”
Manny nodded, pretending to understand.
“You got no hope if you’re out of the game.” He swallowed again. “If you’re out, it’s your own fault. Luck has nothing to do with it. So you gonna die by the odds here? You gonna let them slaughter you or will you jump up swinging?” He paused for effect. “And here’s the most important piece of advice you will ever get in life. Never ever let the odds get you down. You’re gonna die by the odds or you’re gonna live by the odds.”