Four Live Rounds

One of Louie’s thugs sat on a chair in the corner, snoring with a deep bumble-bee buzz. The other was looking out of the grimy eighth story window, the fire escape blocking his view of the city. Each men had more scars on their knuckles than Hutson had on his entire body.

Scary guys.

Hutson picked up the card and said a silent prayer before looking at it.

A five.

That gave him a full house, fives over threes. A good hand. A very good hand.

“Your bet,” Little Louie barked. The man in the pink suit boasted tiny, cherubic features and black rat eyes. He didn’t stand over five four, and a pathetic little blonde mustache sat on his upper lip like a bug. Hutson had joined the game on suggestion of his friend Ray. Ray had left hours ago, when Hutson was still ahead. Hutson should have left with him. He hadn’t. And now, he found himself throwing his last two hundred dollars worth of chips into the pile, hoping Little Louie wouldn’t raise him.

Little Louie raised him.

“I’m out of chips,” Hutson said.

“But you’re good for it, right? You are good for it?”

The question was moot. The mobster had made crystal clear, when he extended the first loan, that if Hutson couldn’t pay it back, he would hurt him.

“I’m very particular when it comes to debts. When the game ends, I want all debts paid within an hour. In cash. If not, my boys will have to damage you according to what you owe. That’s the agreement, and you’re obliged to follow it, to the letter.”

“I’m good for it.”

Hutson borrowed another five hundred and asked for the cards to be shown.

Little Louie had four sevens. That beat a full house.

Hutson threw up on the table.

“I take it I won,” gri

Hutson wiped his mouth and stared off to the left of the room, avoiding Little Louie’s gaze.

“I’ll get the money,” Hutson mumbled, knowing full well that he couldn’t.

“Go ahead and make your call.” Little Louie stood up, stretched. “Rocko, bring this man a phone.”

Rocko lifted his snoring head in a moment of confusion. “What boss?”

“Bring this guy a phone, so he can get the money he owes me.”

Rocko heaved himself out of his chair and went to the kitchen counter, grabbing Little Louie’s cellular and bringing it to Hutson.

Hutson looked over at Little Louie, then at Rocko, then at Little Louie again.

“What do you mean?” he finally asked.

“What do you mean?” mimicked Little Louie in a high, whiny voice. Both Rocko and the other thug broke up at this, giggling like school girls. “You don’t think I’m going to let you walk out of here, do you?”

“You said...”

“I said you have an hour to get the money. I didn’t say you could leave to get it. I’m still following the agreement to the letter. So call somebody up and get them to bring it here.”

Hutson felt sick again.

“You don’t look so good.” Little Louie furrowed his brow in mock-concern. “Want an antacid?”

The thugs giggled again.

“I...I don’t have anyone I can call,” Hutson stammered.

“Call your buddy, Ray. Or maybe your mommy can bring the money.”

“Mommy.” Rocko snickered. “You ought to be a comedian, boss. You’d kill ‘em.”

Little Louie puffed out his fat little chest and belched.

“Better get to it, Mr. Hutson. You only have fifty-five minutes left.”

Hutson took the phone in a trembling hand, and called Ray. It rang fifteen times, twenty, twenty-five.

Little Louie walked over, patted Hutson’s shoulder. “I don’t think they’re home. Maybe you should try someone else.”

Hutson fought nausea, wiped the sweat off of his neck, and dialed another number. His ex-girlfriend, Dolores. They broke up last month. Badly.

A man answered.

“Can I speak to Dolores?”

“Who the hell is this?”

“It’s Hutson.”

“What the hell do you want?”

“Please let me speak to Dolores, it’s real important.”

Little Louie watched, apparently drinking in the scene. Hutson had a feeling the mobster didn’t care about the money, that he’d rather watch his men inflict some major pain.

“Dolores, this is Hutson.”

“What do you want?”

“I need some money. I owe a gambling debt and...”

She hung up on him before he got any farther.

Hutson squeezed his eyes shut. Thirty thousand dollars worth of pain. What would they start with? His knees? His teeth? Jesus, his eyes?

Hutson tried his parents. They picked up on the sixth ring.

“Mom?” This brought uncontrollable laughter from the trio. “I need some money, fast. A gambling debt. They’re going to hurt me.”

“How much money?”

“Thirty grand. And it need it in forty-five minutes.”

There was a lengthy pause.

“When are you going to grow up, Bernard?”

“Mom...”

“You can’t keep expecting me and your father to pick up after you all the time. You’re a grown man Bernard.”

Hutson mopped his forehead with his sleeve.

“Mom, I’ll pay you back, I swear to God. I’ll never gamble again.”

An eternity of silence passed.

“Maybe you’ll learn a lesson from this, son. A lesson your father and I obviously never taught you.”

“Mom, for God’s sake! They’re going to hurt me!”

“I’m sorry. You got yourself into this, you’ll have to get yourself out.”

“Mom! Please!”

The phone went dead.

“Yeah, parents can be tough.” Little Louie rolled his head around on his chubby neck, making a sound like a crackling cellophane bag. “That’s why I killed mine.”

Hutson cradled his face in his hands and tried to fight back a sob. He lost. He was going to be hurt. He was going to be very badly hurt, over a long period of time. And no one was going to help him.

“Please,” he said, in a voice he didn’t recognize. “Just give me a day or two. I’ll get the money.”

Little Louie shook his head. “That ain’t the deal. You agreed to the terms, and those terms were to the letter. You still have half an hour. See who else you can call.”

Hutson brushed away his tears and stared at the phone, praying for a miracle. Then he had an idea.

He called the police.

He dialed 911, then four more numbers so it looked like it was a normal call. A female officer answered.

“Chicago Police Department.”

“This is Hutson. This is a matter of life and death. Bring 30,000 dollars over to 1357 Ontario, apartment 506.”

“Sir, crank calls on the emergency number is a crime, punishable by a fine of five hundred dollars and up to thirty days in prison.”

“Listen to me. Please. They want to kill me.”

“Who does, sir?”

“These guys. It’s a gambling debt. They’re going to hurt me. Get over here.”

“Sir, having already explained the penalty for crank calls...”

The phone was ripped from Hutson’s hands by Rocko and handed to Little Louie.

“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” Little Louie hung up and waggled a finger at Hutson. “I’m very disappointed in you, Mr. Hutson. After all, you had agreed to my terms.”

Hutson began to cry. He cried like a first grader with a ski

“It’s time.” Little Louie glanced at his watch and smiled. “Start with his fingers.”

“Please don’t hurt me...”

Rocko and the other thug moved in. Hutson dodged them and got on his knees in front of Little Louie.

“I’ll do anything,” he pleaded. “Anything at all. Name it. Just name it. But please don’t hurt me.”

“Hold it boys.” Little Louie raised his palm. “I have an idea.”

A small ray of hope penetrated Hutson.

“Anything. I’ll do anything.”

Little Louie took out a long, thin cigarillo and nipped off the end, swallowing it.

“There was a guy, about six years ago, who was in the same situation you’re in now.”

He put the end of the cigar in his mouth and rolled it around on his fat, gray tongue.