“Would you stop maiming my boyfriends?” Jo exclaimed, storming into the house. Rainwater poured from her head and jacket, pooling under her feet. She tossed the jacket across a short bannister between two columns and stomped across the marble floor into the drawing room where she knew her father, Nash, would be reading.
“What are you talking about?” he asked, setting down his book and looking at her with an innocent expression. Nash mostly read the newspaper, but when he picked up a book, it was usually on finance or economics. He would underline sentences and do little equations in the margins, and fold down the corners of pages he wanted to find easily again.
“You heard me, Nash!” Jo put her hands on her hips, glaring at her father. She always called him by his first name, because she knew it annoyed him. “Troy is in the hospital with two broken legs and a broken finger, and I know it was you! That’s the third time in one year! At this rate, no one will ever date me for fear of losing an eye! And yes, he broke up with me, in case you were wondering.”
“Well, I should hope so,” Nash said, sitting back in his chair. There was a reason people called him Nasty Nash, and he knew it. He did what he wanted, said what he wanted, and took what he wanted. “You’re a disgrace! Can’t even pick a lock properly. Besides, if you quit dating men who owe me money, they might not get into so many… accidents.” A small smile played on his lips and she knew he was manipulating her—to do what, she wasn’t sure, but she recognized the feeling and it burned.
She could feel rage building up, red hot. Every single day she woke up knowing she could be arrested for things her father had done, or that she could get caught in the middle of something worse than petty theft, or that she would come home to a house full of hookers, gamblers, or worse—police! All she wanted was to live a normal, legal life. She took a deep breath and put a neutral expression on her face. It wouldn’t do for Nash to know how much affect he had on her.
“Let me know when you’ve decided on a more lucrative career than garden center employee—” Nash let out a snort, “and then we can talk.”
“I’m a horticulturalist!” she hollered back, and stormed up the stairs and into her room.
It was time, she decided as she toweled off her hair and shed her soaking wet clothes. She was moving out, no matter what Nash said. Hopefully he wouldn’t burn her apartment to the ground, but she at least had to make the effort. A new house, her own stuff, her own schedule, her own boyfriends.
“Oh, honey,” her dad called up the stairs. “Look nice tonight, why don’t you? I’m having some friends over.”
She growled under her breath and pulled open her closet, stepping inside. It was the last time. Tomorrow, she’d be out.
• • • • •
“Sorry to hear about Troy, sweetie,” Carl called as Jo delivered drinks to his table. She scowled at him and headed back towards the kitchen. She really needed to get it together. It was fine to be angry with her father, but she shouldn’t take it out on other people. She took a deep breath and put a smile on her face, taking a few extra seconds to make sure it reached to the lines around her eyes.
Her father had outdone himself tonight. It was the first time in months he had hosted a night of “friendly games,” as he called it, and over a hundred people had shown up. She would serve drinks until midnight, and then switch to the Rabbit’s Foot table—hopefully after all of the potential tags had left for the night. Rabbit’s Foot was a highly illegal game that sometimes ended in death, and she wished her father would stop hosting it. On the other hand, she was an excellent and distracting dealer, which her father paid her to do. She could make enough money tonight to pay a month’s rent several times over—and as long as she wore her body armor, she wouldn’t die.
“Can’t seem to keep ‘em!” Chuck yelled as she strolled by, reaching out to pinch her. “Don’t worry baby, you always got me.”
She scowled at him briefly, making a mental note to spill his beer all over his lap the next time she stopped at his table, and then put her smile back on. The room was filled with raucous laughter and angry exclamations; card games happened on nearly every table, with her dad’s most trusted associates dealing at the large tables in the center of the room.
At 11:00 she set down her drinks. She had to start getting sign-ups for Rabbit’s Foot.
“Stanky,” she yelled into the kitchen. His actual name was Stevie, but everyone who worked with him preferred Stanky, mostly because he always smelled like he left his laundry in the washing machine a few days too many. “I’m going to go get names! Get Sylvia to cover me!”
“Got it!” Stanky called back, grinning and giving her the thumbs up. Out of all the people who worked with or for her dad, she thought she probably liked Stanky the best.
Heading back out to the main room, she picked the closest table—where Matty and Matt played their own random game of dice and chance, and climbed up on top of it so she could see the whole room. She gave a piercing whistle and the room quieted almost immediately.
“SIGN-UPS, THAT CORNER!” she yelled pointing to the corner on the opposite side of the room. She hopped down from the table as the room filled back up with noise. “Thanks guys,” she said, smiling at Matty and Matt.
The first three sign-ups were guys she had known since she had first started running games for her father in high school. Old farts, as she thought of them, who needed a little danger in their lives. They had played many times over the years, and even had a few scars to show for it. She thought they were nuts, but clearly they had too much money and not enough to do.
Next up was Mavis. She was so old Jo thought she could probably die at any minute. None of her family paid any attention to her, and she didn’t really have any friends. She had been a musician in her younger days—albeit a rather unsuccessful one. But even though she owed mountains of debt to Jo’s father, Nash let Mavis keep playing because he felt sorry for her.
“You’re too old for this game,” Jo said. She glanced over at Nash who stood next to a far wall. He gave her a thumbs-up and pointed to a bag he held over his shoulder, and then to Mavis. She must have paid off some or all of her debt.
“If I die,” Mavis argued, adjusting the collar on her yellow flowered dress, “then I won’t owe any more money to your dad.”
“How much do you still owe?”
“Nothing,” Mavis said, smiling through her wrinkles. “I paid him. You can go ask!”
Jo shook her head and rolled her eyes. “If you say so,” she said, and wrote her name on the list.
“I’m in,” said a young man in a suit, looking around nervously. He wore glasses and carried a briefcase. On the surface, he looked like a young businessman who was only there to try his luck, but Jo had a weird feeling about him. She frowned.
“Who’s your sponsor?
“Chuck DeLaney.”
Chuck was one of those people who always said, “Sure, I know that guy!” whether he actually did or not. Not a reliable sponsor, to say the least.
“You know what you’re in for?” she asked.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, looking around nervously again. He leaned in and whispered, “Is it Rabbit’s Foot?”
Jo frowned and began to observe a little more carefully. The jacket he wore didn’t fit quite right, and he was rubbing his right forefinger with his thumb. His shoes had mud on them, and his hair was a mess. He was dressed like he thought he should be, not like a normal person. Besides, anyone who knew what they were talking about would have answered her question with a number, not asked which game it was. You either knew—or you didn’t.
“What’s that on your collar?” she asked, pointing to his shirt.
“Oh, what? This?” he said, looking down, brushing his collar gently. “Just, you know, a hair or something.”
“Why do they always send in the worst of you lot?” she asked, sighing. She raised her right hand in a fist, and in less than five seconds, two large bouncers appeared, each grabbing one of the man’s arms.
“Mole,” she said, crossing her arms. “Get him out of here.”
“Need any help?” said the next man in line. He was tall with broad shoulders and a shiny bald head. His suit fit perfectly, except that where his muscles bulged, the seams appeared to be crying out in agony.
“Who are you?” she asked, scowling at him. This had better not be some elaborate trick—get one mole dragged out and put another right in line behind him.
“Name’s Quin Black,” he said. “I’d like to sign up.”
“Who’s your sponsor?”
The man gestured over his shoulder. “Mavis Oliphant,” he replied.
“She doesn’t have friends.”
“Didn’t say we were friends.”
She paused, staring at the newcomer. It was always a risk with the newbies. “What’re you in for?” she asked, still frowning.
“Ten thousand,” he replied.
She raised her eyebrows and held out her tablet. “Sign.” They didn’t really use the signature for anything, but it made the agreement seem more official, and often made newcomers feel nervous. This guy didn’t seem nervous though. He nodded and held out his finger, scribbling a nearly illegible name.
“First round,” she said, writing his name on her list, “you’re up.”
By the time midnight rolled around, she had gotten thirty people to sign up—enough for three rounds. It was a good number—not a record, by any means, but enough to make a significant amount of money that night. She smiled. She should get enough to put a deposit down on an apartment.
She slipped into her body armor—it wasn’t uncommon for people to die playing this game—and strolled over to the Rabbit’s Foot table, taking her position in the middle. The three old white guys sat next to the new Quin guy and tried to talk to him, but he ignored them. Mavis sat on his other side, but Quin didn’t talk to her either. He sat perfectly still, his chips on the table in front of him. The other five people at the table—two black women, a man with blue pointed ears that made him look like he was from the planet Pantal, and an androgynous person chatted pleasantly with each other.
“You all understand how this game works?” she asked. Everyone quieted down immediately and nodded but she continued with her normal speech anyway. “You need a run of cards of the same species.” The cards had animals on them—players could get a run of fish, mammals, insects, or birds. “You bid at each round, or you drop out and are obligated to pay what you bid in the beginning. If you get a run, you are required to battle with the White Rabbit—me. If you beat me, you win the pot. If I beat you, I win the money.”
Everyone was nodding as if that was exactly what they had expected—except for Quin. He sat perfectly still, looking straight ahead. Mavis had a little smile on her face. She enjoyed this far too much—especially given that she was probably going to lose. Again.
“Please take two cards,” Jo said, spinning in a circle again, rapidly offering cards to each of the ten people who sat at the table.
Black looked at his cards briefly and then set them on the table in front of him. He was watching the faces of the other people around them. That was smart, she thought. If someone got a matching pair, he would know and could make decisions based on probabilities. Nash didn’t like it when people paid attention, but since it was nearly impossible to count cards in this game, he didn’t get too up and arms over it, unless someone won over and over again. Then he might give a simple warning—a broken finger or arm most likely. Though, this Quin guy didn’t seem like the type to let someone break his finger.
She waited another minute and then held out a bucket. “If you’d like to see the Rabbit’s cards,” she intoned, “please place a token in the bucket.”
Everyone in the circle placed a token in the bucket. That was good. People who bailed out early made Nash mad. He preferred to suck up as much money from these people as possible.
She laid two new cards on the table.
“Fiddlesticks!” one of the old men exclaimed. “I’m out already, what do you know?” His friends ribbed and harassed him as he threw down his cards and stalked off. The new guy didn’t move—his face didn’t even twitch. After a moment, though, she noticed his eyes flick to the cards the old man had thrown down. He was definitely keeping track.
She spun the bucket around again and showed the next card.
“I’m all in,” Quin said, but three others dropped out.
She was about to spin the bucket around again when she heard a commotion on the other side of the room. Stanky had come out of the kitchen, which was generally not allowed, but he looked nervous, twitchy, and kept pointing and shouting towards the kitchen.
Finally, he yelled at the top of his lungs, “FIRE!”
Gasping, Jo stood up in the middle of the table, about to jump down, when the kitchen erupted in a huge ball of flame. A wave of heat washed over her followed by a brain-rattling wall of sound. The next moment, she was flying backwards through the air, and all she could think about was that it smelled like tacos. Then everything went dark.