The smell of the place permeated Palmer’s nose. Soured malt and whisky soaked into bartop wood, acrid piss hanging at the edges.

He fit right in here.

            “Gimme fifty on the Bengals,” he said.

            The heavy, lumpish man behind the bar looked at him with old eyes, fever-bright.

            “No,” Cross said, “you ain’t got fifty dollars, forget five grand.”

            “Who said fuck about shit; this five grand business? I said fifty, I mean fifty thousand,” Palmer snapped. He could feel himself beginning to sweat. That was ok. Sweat meant you were working - his dad had taught him that.

From a pocket he suddenly tossed a small felt bag onto the bar, saw Cross look up with those fire-hot eyes, glance down again. More sweat.

            “That backs the play, go ahead, look,” Palmer said, his voice thick. Cross’ hand upended the tiny satchel. Two earring-studded diamonds that would choke a heron shone in the neon haze.

            “Oh sweetheart, you shouldn’t have,” Cross intoned.

            “Cut the shit. Bet?”

            “No.”

            “Why the fuck not?”

            Cross sighed.

            “Because you can barely pay what you owe, when you owe - which is most of the time - to begin with. Suppose you win tonight? Fine, congrats - you’ll fuck it up by Saturday kickoff. You’re a junkie, same as any meth head or ketamine kid. And just like them you’ll use every fucking excuse in the book. You’ll call the poison the medecine every time if it gets you more of it. You don’t get it; I need you like I need fucking anal fissures. I don’t even want to think where you got them two pretty little marbles from. I ought to fucking kill you to make a point.”

            Palmer hesitated. For the first time the sweat felt cool on his brow.

            “Bit harsh, isn’t it?” He said.

            At the far end of the bar the one other patron wheezed a sound that might have been a snore. Behind Cross a television showed the New Orleans Saints leading the Cinci Bengals, 26-24 in the second half.

            Cross gazed at him; spoke.

            “You know, one time when I was a kid - long time ago, right? Back then, my pops, he ran this place. He was in the life - that’s this neighborhood, you know? It’s all the life. Him and my Uncle Mike had me running numbers for’em.”

            “A family story. Touching.”

            “Fuck you. So one night, I come in to pick up for Johnny Torrio. Y’remember Big John T, used to run the shipyard collections? Nice guy. Dead thirty years now - fuckin’ cancer. Anyway, I come in; I go into the back like usual…and there’s pops with Uncle Mike, and they got this guy tied up in a chair, just right back there in the office,” he continued, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. Palmer swallowed.

            His mouth had gone dry.

            “My dad and Uncle Mike, they tell me, ‘hey, this guy, he’s no good. Keeps making bets, dodging the collection, trying to skip the vig. Been lucky so far; he always finds a few C-notes somewhere just in time. But do we want customers like that, Crocifissio?’ That was my dad, only guy ever called me my full name - and I told him no. I said, no; if you’re gonna lend money you want to deal with nice respectable scumbags. Otherwise the only fair thing to do is to let the dumb bastard know he’s betting with his life.”

            Palmer looked at the television. His mouth felt sticky.

            Cross put a hand on the bar. The revolver it held was not large, but it was very real.

            “So no, I don’t accept the marbles, Palmer. But you want this bet? Sure, I’ll take it. Long as you understand what it is we’re gambling with here.”

            Palmer looked away from the TV sharply; tried to talk through the cotton-batting suddenly in his mouth.

            “Those odds don’t cut. Eight to one’s good payout but fuck.”

            “I’ll pay eighteen to one.”

            “You can’t back that. Not against fifty large.”

            “You’d be surprised what I can back. Question is, can you?”

            On the screen, the players were now reversing field positions as the Saints took possession again. Palmer felt flushed, dizzy, and most of all; whole.

            There was no way to sum up the feel of it, the grand sensation of being part of a moment in time that changed the world for a handful of people. The ability to influence that moment, help shape it.

            Most importantly, the perfection of always being one of those changed people, in the end.

            Palmer looked at Cross and for the first time that evening didn’t feel the sweat on his forehead at all, felt words form smoothly in his mouth.

            “Eighteen to one?” He asked.

            On the screen, the Saints, still ahead, once again entered field goal territory.

            “As Mary is my witness.”

            Palmer glanced down. The gun reflected purple. He put his eyes back on Cross.

            “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll take that action,” he said, easing himself onto a barstool.

            “You stupid fuck.”

            On the screen, Drew Brees tried for a sneak a throw and was intercepted by Cincinnati.

            “Maybe so. But things change. Could I have a bourbon and coke?”

            Wordlessly the old Italian filled a rocks glass, his right hand never leaving the revolver. Past the two minute warning now and sonvabitch if the cats weren’t going for it.

            Palmer reached for the glass without looking, taking half down in one steady gulp as he watched Burrow’s, Cinci’s quarterback, launch the ball with damnable grace down the field.

            The clock shattered the half-minute mark and seemed to craze with the rapidity of the seconds.

            In just a moment, everything would be different.

            It was such a wonderful thing to be a part of.

            The game ended, the whistles blew, streamers burst forth, and fireworks lit up the sky.

            The world, always so ephemeral, changed.

Charles is currently a creative writing MFA candidate at Boise State University. He primarily worked in entertainment before turning to writing full-time. Originally from the New Orleans area, he currently lives near Boise, ID. His work can be seen from Dead Star Press, IdaHome Magazine, and most recently at UnlikelyStories.org