pills suspiciously. “What are they?”
“OxyContin. It’s great stuff, man. Will make you feel good fast.”
“Thanks.” He took one and swallowed it dry.
Chance dumped the rest into Wesley’s hand. “For later, dude. If you want to feel like you’ve just been laid by the woman of your dreams, chew it. Want something to drink?”
“Soda, if you have it.”
“Coming up. What the hell happened to you?”
“I went to try to patch things up with The Carver.”
Chance’s eyes bulged. “Dude! Are you suicidal?”
“I thought it was the best thing to do, under the circumstances. He was going to come after me eventually.”
Chance cracked open a can of Mountain Dew and handed it to Wesley. “So what did he do to you?”
“Cut me up a little.”
“Really? I always wondered if the rumors were true. Did he use a bowie knife?”
“Switchblade.”
“Cool.” Then his friend blanched. “I mean—fuck. That had to hurt like a son of a bitch.”
“Yeah.”
“And he wanted twenty-five grand?”
“Yeah. A fee for pain and suffering, he called it.”
“Sorry I couldn’t help you out, man.”
“That’s okay. I got it.”
“Where?”
“Friend of the family.”
“Sweet. So does that clear your debt with The Carver?”
“Hell, no. Like I said, that was just a fee to let me keep breathing. I still owe the guy, like, twelve grand. But I’m making payments.”
“I’m glad you’re back. I have an economics exam next week. Think you could take it for me?”
Chance’s sense of self-preservation was more keen than anyone’s he’d ever met. “Sure. Meanwhile, I need a game. Can you keep your ears open?”
Chance grinned. “Sure.”
“I’ll need a bankroll. Same deal as before—you pay the sit fee, we split the winnings?”
“Deal. I’ll make some phone calls right now. Have a seat, man, and let the drug kick in.”
Wesley walked into the living room—a bachelor’s dream of black leather furniture and oversize electronics. Predictably, the large flat screen was showing porn, this one of a homemade variety. What the film lacked in quality it made up for in candid angles. Wesley switched the input to the latest Xbox gaming system and pulled up Poker Smash. He settled into a chair and played a few hands. The adrenaline and the caffeine helped to speed the painkiller through his system. He glanced around at Chance’s toys, conceding that his friend lived a charmed life.
His life would’ve been like this if his father hadn’t been forced to abandon his family. Wesley remembered the piles of toys he’d had when he was little, the expansive bedroom painted with blue sailboats, the platform that had held a running train with a real switching station, the navy-and-gray uniform of the private school he’d attended. When his father had been indicted, the train had been sold along with the house. And although Wesley had been allowed to finish the year at his school, by the next fall, his parents had been gone for several months. Carlotta had sat him down and explained that they didn’t have the money for private school, and soothed him with the promise that he’d have much more fun in public school, anyway.
He hadn’t. He’d been a shy, smart little kid with big glasses, a prime target for bullies. And he’d missed his parents terribly. He’d saved his acting out for home. In hindsight, he’d been a real pain in the ass to his sister … and it seemed that things hadn’t changed much. Ten years later, he was still getting shoved around, and was still being a pain in the ass to his sister.
A knock sounded on the door.
“Get that, will you, man?” Chance shouted.
Wesley looked up to see his friend talking on his cell phone in the kitchen and scribbling on a piece of paper. He pushed himself to his feet and got a head rush from the painkiller. Chance was right—the OxyContin was damn good stuff. Wes walked carefully to the door and opened it, then balked.
E.’s boyfriend, Leonard, stood there, tall, dark and beefy. “Is Hollander around?”
“Uh, yeah, he’s on the phone. Come on in.”
When Wesley stepped aside to allow him to pass, he noticed the man was carrying a black gym bag similar to the one that Chance had asked him to deliver to some shady character in a shadier part of town—the errand that E. had thwarted. It was ironic that her boyfriend appeared to have picked up where Wesley’d left off.
He closed the door. “I’m Wes.”
Leonard flicked his gaze over him as he paced. “Yeah, we’ve met before.”
“Right. I didn’t know if you—”
“Hollander!” Leonard yelled, obviously impatient.
From the kitchen, Chance held up a finger—his middle one—but wrapped up his conversation and snapped his phone closed. “Wes,” he said, striding toward them, “there’s a big game next Wednesday and you’re in it. Five grand a seat, twenty seats, and the pot is forty large, twenty to the winner.”
Wesley nodded, but glanced sideways at Leonard. He didn’t trust the man with his business, and it didn’t help that he pretty much hated him for being with E. in the first place, and deceiving her to boot. He looked at Chance. “I’m outta here. Call you later.”
He grabbed his backpack and banged the door shut behind him. He opted for the stairs instead of the elevator, but the OxyContin slowed him down a bit. Once he got outside, though, the fresh air helped to clear his head. He was unlocking his bike when he heard the sound of heavy footsteps behind him. He recognized Leonard’s hefty shadow before he could even look up. When he straightened, he half expected the guy to kick sand in his face.
“Does E. know what you do on the side?” Wesley asked, trying to look taller.
“No,” the guy said through big, gritted teeth. “And if she finds out, I know where to land with both feet, capiche?”
Wesley bit down on the inside of his cheek. “Is that all?”
“No. Got a message for you from The Carver.”
Wesley swallowed. Shit, he didn’t see that coming. “You work for The Carver?”
“Listen up, dickhead, because this is the deal of a lifetime. A way to clear everything you still owe.”
Wesley
