Gambler's Luck

“Left hand or right?” From the sound of the voice, it was an enforcer. Every other week, he probably found himself in a situation like this, holding a hammer, or an icepick, or a shovel, prepared to scare, maim, or kill for the highest bidder. Today was most likely no different.

“You sick bastard. You’re crazy! I already told you, I can get Richie his money. Call him up, tell him, for the love of God, just stop!” The man’s voice was ripe with panic. He was in over his head. Every gambler hits rock bottom someday. And as the weight of a five pound hammer crunched the fine bones inside his hand, Marco had hit rock bottom. I had seen the descent.

“He said it doesn’t matter. He said to make an example out of you, one that every no-good deadbeat will understand. You know what we do to people who cheat, Marco?” It was a rhetorical question, one with an implied answer that involved a hole in the desert. But Marco was the type to keep his mouth running.

“I ain’t no cheat, man! Lady Luck shined on me, and then she cut out my heart. I know you’re gonna kill me regardless of circumstance, so I don’t have much reason to lie. I won that hand fair and square.” Marco was indeed today’s luckiest loser. The series of events that had brought him to this point were strange indeed. The enforcer just made a noise that resembled human laughter.

“That’s a good joke. You drew a full house, a straight flush, and then a royal flush, all in the same game. Now, I am not a mathematician, as you can see. My business is hurting people. But even a guy like myself can tell how unlikely that is. How stupid did you think we were, Marco?” Mick judged his quarry to be guilty, but he wasn’t there to give him a fair trial. The truth was unknown. Maybe, against astronomical odds, he had legitimately won the game. But if so, his luck had run out. His fortune had turned to misfortune very quickly.

See, that’s where I come in, hiding in an armoire. I’m the poor sap Marco’s wife hired to keep an eye on him. I had tailed him, kept watch on his activities, saw him squander a fortune. I felt bad for the wife, but she wasn’t paying me to stop him. No, she paid me solely to provide surveillance and photography of his transgressions and many sins. I got the impression she wanted a divorce. But if I didn’t do anything soon, she would be a widow.

At the time, I thought I was the best in the business. My ear to the ground of the criminal underworld, an ex-cop with a mostly honorable discharge, up until that day, I felt untouchable. What was some angry unfaithful husband going to do against a private eye with a gun and a badge he didn’t know was expired? Nine times out of ten, they’d always back down.

There were six bullets in my gun. I wondered if I should just let Marco die, leave him to his unhappy fate and inform his wife she’s a widow. Instinctually, I knew the whole job had gone rotten, that the money wasn’t worth the risk any more.

An den ?

reply to post by JHumm


All dead, rocks fell.

I don't know myself what happens after that.

See, when all you have to go on is a constant barrage of film noir as a nightlight, it's hard to keep a story straight.

A man tends to get things mixed up.

reply to post by Grifter42




I use family guy for a night light , so my story is about a never ending fight between a fat guy and a giant chicken.

There were six bullets in my gun. I wondered if I should just let Marco die, leave him to his unhappy fate and inform his wife she’s a widow. Instinctually, I knew the whole job had gone rotten, that the money wasn’t worth the risk any more. But something in me told me I couldn’t abandon a man to such an awful death. I unholstered my revolver, and burst out of the armoire. I leveled it at the man’s back.

“I’ve got a .357 pointed right about where your spine ought to be, pal, and I like making cripples. Means I don’t have to kill you. Let’s talk.” I spoke, and the enforcer tensed up at the unexpected company. He dropped his box-cutter, and began to turn. “Keep your back to me, friend. I’m not going to risk you making any sudden moves. You got a name?”

“I am Mr. Smith. This man owes a debt to Richard Smiler. You will come to regret becoming involved his business.” His voice was almost robotic. Behind him, Marco moaned. He was cut up in a dozen places, his hands deep purple, and useless. His one remaining eye stared at me.

“You know, I used to be a cop once. I used to put away people like you. I used to collect evidence on Smiler. We could never get enough for a warrant though. You know what I learned after they discharged me from the force? Warrants, trial by jury, Miranda rights, they don’t mean a damned thing. All that matters is that the wolves are cut down so the sheep may live.” A man with a gun digging into his back tends to listen to what they’re told.

“This isn’t right. You can’t just shoot me in the back. That’s not honorable.” The enforcer spoke, and cold cynical laughter rang out. This time, it was mine.

“You’re really going to go for that argument? It isn’t honorable? You torture people for money.” I wondered if it was right to kill this man. I certainly wanted to. I cocked the revolver. With one trigger pull, it would be wheelchairs and colostomy bags for the rest of his life if I wanted to make it so.

“Who are you? This guy, he’s a deadbeat. You leave now, I forget your face, and this all goes away.” I never saw a hit-man plead for his life. I couldn’t help but chuckle at the unique nature of the situation.

“One thing at a time… First off, my name’s Granby. I’m a private detective. Second, I knew Marco was a professional loser. His wife, nice lady by the name of Neria hired me to keep an eye on him. And as to you forgetting my face, believe me, you will. Have you caught on to why I’m telling you all of this? When this pistol goes off, it’ll punch through your skull. After that, it pretty much just turns everything inside your head into scrambled eggs. You won’t remember my face, you won’t remember anything at..-” I informed the enforcer of what was to come, until he rudely interjected.

“A private eye? Just a private eye? Are you some sort of idiot? Let’s say you kill me. Smiler sends two men after Marco, and his pretty wife. I’m sure at some point, one of them will squeal, and mention your name. You’re a dead man.” The enforcer was right. Killing him would be a death sentence. But I was tired of the grind. Of the endless stakeouts in parked cars, watching husbands violate their wedding vows in low rent motels. I felt the bloodlust inside, and for a moment, I wondered if I had lost the plot. But the feelings of self-doubt passed, and I steeled myself.

“It’s as good a cause as any to die over. We’re both dead men. But the difference is what we’re giving our lives for. You’re going to die here, for the cause of cruelty and greed. Myself, well, I know how Smiler runs his operation. The emaciated bastard rules everything from here to the coast. I knew a girl, escaped from one of his so called massage parlors. I still feel sick every time I think about what they did to her. After she left protective custody, we found her a week later in a shallow grave.” I told him my rational. Yet, he laughed when I spoke of the girl. The trigger pull weight of my revolver popped into my head. It was three and a half pounds.

“I knew that girl. It is indeed a small world, Granby. Smiler was very specific about how the job was to be done. She lasted three days before she died, you know.”
“You’re not going to last three hours.”