We sat at a small sidewalk café. Ashton, Hardy and me. Vic and Jerry sat in the Navigator a few yards down the street. It was warm in the late afternoon. The café was filled with people chatting and laughing. There were plates of appetizers in front of us and glasses of good white wine. But neither Ashton nor I were much in the mood for food or drink. Hardy ate triumphantly. He eyed me over his fork, then set it down and wiped at the corner of his mouth with a napkin.
“I got friends that want to meet you,” he said.
“I have friends,” I said.
“Not like these. These are friends that can make your world. Or break it just as easily.”
“Why would I want to meet people like that?”
He smiled and drank some wine. “Mostly because you don’t have a choice. See, I work for these guys, and they’re interested in your talent too. While you were waiting for me in the car, I told them about your five-to-one shot and how you played it. They like your moxie.”
“Moxie?”
“Yeah. Balls. You know.”
“I don’t.”
“Everyone gets scared, Cree. The trouble is that most people don’t move through it. It cripples them. Not you. You push through it. Even if you piss people off. That’s moxie, and my friends want it working for them.”
“I don’t work for anybody.”
Hardy spun his wineglass slowly in his fingers. “You work for me.”
“I thought we had a deal.”
“The deal is you work for me. And you work for my friends. That should be clear by now.”
“I think I want out.”
Hardy laughed then. It was genuine. As though no one had ever told him quite as big a joke before. He fumbled in his coat for his cell phone and punched in a number on speed dial.
“Kid says he wants out,” he said into it and smiled at me and shook his head. “That’s what I did too. Cracked me right up. Hey, he’s a green kid, never done nothing in his life. What do you expect?” He listened for a moment and a deep line appeared in between his eyebrows. He nodded, then looked at Ashton and handed him the phone.
“Guess you get to translate, buddy boy. My friend would like to speak to you.”
“Me? Why?”
Hardy chuckled. “Ask him.”
Ashton gave me a quizzical look and held the phone up to his ear. “Yes?” he said.
I watched his face change. It went from curious to worried to shocked right in front of me. He held the phone so tightly that his knuckles went white, and he breathed through his mouth like a kid. I could hear a thin seam of voice from the phone. It was regular, straight, without rises or changes in pitch or volume. Ashton just listened, and when he handed the phone back to Hardy, he couldn’t look at me.
“Tell him,” was all Hardy said. He said it coldly. Ashton stared at him a moment before turning to me.
When Ashton looked at me, his face looked like he’d been slapped. It was white and strained.
“Leo Scalia,” he said.
“Excuse me?” I said.
“Leo Scalia,” Ashton said again, more urgently. “Hardy works for Leo Scalia. He runs book for the mob. Hardy’s connected. He’s made. You can’t quit.”
I looked at Hardy, who sat back in his chair with his legs crossed, grinning at me. “You’re connected?”
“Big-time,” he said. “But hey, my friends are your friends, Cree. You’re our pony now. Or at least, you’re mine. Quitting? Well, no one likes a quitter, do they?”
“I can’t do this,” I said.
“Can’t do what? We’re only asking you to do what you already know how to do. This is no stretch. Hell, if you want, you don’t even have to carry any action. You don’t have to make the bets. You just make the tote, give us the number. We play the horse, and you get your commission and our endless high regard. Besides, I own the paper on your whole friggin’ life. So what’s ‘can’t do’?”
“What are you talking about?” Ashton was shaking his head beside me. Hardy waved a hand in the air. I heard the doors of the Navigator slam and the footfalls of Vic and Jerry. Hardy stood and shrugged and straightened his jacket with both hands. Then he leaned forward on the table toward me. His eyes were hard. I could smell cigar smoke and wine. He put one knuckle under my chin and lifted my head. I heard the goons step up behind me.
“Call me your proud new papa, Cree. I paid your rent. I’m footing the bill for your first cd and video. You want new gear? You got that too, because I got you a gig at the Purple Onion starting next week. You’ll need a bigger amp, and me, I figure the blues sounds best on a Gretsch semi-hollow body with a nice stack of Fender amps behind it. Red, maybe. I like red. What you think, Jerry?”
“Red is good, Win. Real good,” Jerry said from behind me.
“And if you do ever decide to get cute, Cree? Call your folks on the rez. Ask ’em how they like the new truck. Ask your sister how she likes having her tuition paid for. I own all of them. Not just you. So your moves are their moves now. Remember that next time you think you can quit on me. Vic? Give him tomorrow’s form.”
He let my chin go, grinned at me and gave me a light playful slap on the cheek.
“He’s a good kid. Green, but good,” he said to Vic and Jerry. Then he turned and walked away.
Ashton and I sat there in silence. I was stunned. “Can it get any worse?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Ashton said. “It can.”
“How’s that?”
“I didn’t tell you what else he does for Scalia.”
I looked at him. He looked sad and scared. “Are you kidding me?”
“No,” he said. “He’s a collector. A knee-breaker.”
I suddenly felt like drinking the wine. All of it.