Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 28617 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 143(@200wpm)___ 114(@250wpm)___ 95(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 28617 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 143(@200wpm)___ 114(@250wpm)___ 95(@300wpm)
“Nowhere for a weapon to hide in that getup. Go on in,” he says, stepping aside. “Head straight through and into the back room. Don’t interrupt anyone’s game.”
“Thank you.”
I’m just glad my ruse worked. There’s no way I have that sort of pull, but he doesn’t know that.
There’s no pretense with this place. The interior is very much as you’d expect from looking at the exterior. Peeling paintwork, grimy corners, a few men sitting at tables losing money they don’t have, an old television set showing a cage fight that looks like World War Three.
It stinks of dirt and sweat and cannabis, and feels slightly on the cool and damp side of comfortable.
“Ah, fuck!” shouts one of the patrons at a table nearby. “You’re fucking cheating me!”
A dark-suited bouncer is there in an instant. “Sit down, Jack.”
“I want my money back.”
“I said sit down. Game’s not finished and nobody’s cheating. I’ve been watching.”
“Then you’re in on it! It’s not fair, I can’t afford—”
“I said sit the fuck down. Am I going to have to make you?”
The patron takes a swing at the bouncer, and I step back, releasing a shriek of surprise as he’s swiveled around in an instant and slammed against the wall. Eyes turn our way and I shrink into myself, hurrying away from what’s happening, following the instructions I was given and making my way to the back room. How can anyone enjoy their time in a place like this? I can almost understand the appeal of a casino, the glamour and excitement, but here?
I see the door marked private and don’t even bother to knock, turning the knob and pushing it open, heading inside into an office that’s only a little nicer than the room I’ve just left. It’s cramped, a space barely large enough to accommodate the wooden desk, its top so ringed with coffee-cup stains you’d almost believe it was designed that way.
“You the priest’s daughter?”
A man in his fifties sits behind the desk, a cigarette drooping from bored fingertips an inch from his chapped lips. He doesn’t exactly have a beard, it’s more that he either doesn’t bother to shave regularly or doesn’t pay much attention when he does.
“Yes. Malta Green.”
“Malta, huh? Like the country? You can call me Dan. Thought priests weren’t allowed to have kids. Not allowed to fuck, right? That’s Catholics, right? A vow of celibacy. Thought Winston was a Catholic priest.”
He places the cigarette lightly to his lips and sucks on it like he’s drawing poison from a wound, bulging eyes staring my way. He’s so skinny, it gives his face a kind of amphibious look, like his eyes are too big for his head.
“Winston raised me. He’s the only father I’ve ever known.”
“Ah, I get it. And your real dad?” He coughs, bringing up phlegm and swallowing it back down. “Biological they call it, right?”
“I’m here to settle my father’s debt,” I tell him, not wanting to discuss personal family business. What does it matter to him? “Tell me how much he owes and I’ll cut you a check.”
“You’ll cut me a…” He grins, then starts to cough again. The cigarette drops into a glass ashtray, joining a half dozen other butts as he leans forward, struggling to clear his throat.
Anyone else, I’d bang their back or something. But right now I can’t help thinking if he died it would solve a lot of problems.
Unfortunately, that’s not on the cards. The coughing ends and he takes a deep breath, still chuckling as he picks up the end of his cigarette again.
“You’ll cut me a check? You think that’s how this works?” He laughs, shaking his head. “That’s not how this works, sweetheart. Cash. I don’t care who pays it, I don’t care if Winston is your real daddy or just some guy who felt sorry for you, I don’t care if the notes are tied together in nice neat thousand-dollar piles or covered in shit because some fucker just used them to wipe his ass. A quarter of a million, that’s the damage. You got that hidden in that dress somewhere? You gonna make me play hide and seek? ‘Cos I will, but I have to tell you you’re not my usual type. No offense. Russians, Eastern Europeans, they’re my weakness. I might even give a discount if you had a bit of an accent.”
“Quarter of a…” The words slip out, my head feeling woozy like I might collapse at any moment.
How could my dad lose that kind of money? Why didn’t he tell me he was in that much trouble?
“You should see your fucking face!” Dan’s laughing again, but it’s barely registering through the shock. “Yes, little girl, a quarter of a million dollars. I’m guessing you don’t have that, right? Not even if you cut me a fucking check. But see, there are other ways you could pay.”