Spoonbenders

“These cheating motherfuckers,” Nick said. “You got to check every single roll. Sometimes they short it a quarter, or put a nickel in there, or some Canadian shit. If you want something you gotta do it yourself.”

“But—”

“But what?”

Frankie was going to say, Was it really worth your time to check every single roll of quarters, then rebag them yourself? Instead, he said, “But what else are you going to do, right?”

Nick stared at him. “Who would have thought little Frankie would be sitting here in that chair?” He wrapped his fingers around the roll.

Hot bile rose from Frankie’s stomach to his throat. He clamped down, steadied himself. Delay, grovel, and charm. From the front of the shop came the hum of huge dryers. There were customers out there, customers who’d come running if Frankie started screaming. Or go running, out of the place. Either way, possible witnesses who could be tracked down by the police in case Frankie was murdered here.

Finally he could take a breath. “I want to say, right off the bat, I meant no disrespect to you or your sister for failing to make my payments. I know that was wrong, and I sincerely wish to make amends. I also want to assure you that I can pay you, in full, on Monday.”

Nick squinted at him. “Really?”

Frankie nodded.

“Well, that would be incredible news.” He set down the roll and ran his hands through the pile of quarters. “Where’s this money coming from, if not Teddy?”

“I have friends.”

“But do you have assets? That’s what I’m interested in. Tell me about those.”

“Assets?”

“That van you drove up in. I figure it’s worth fifteen thousand Blue Book. You own it?”

“I owe sixteen on it.”

“Ouch. Okay, but still. Inventory. How about the family car, what are you driving?”

“A ninety-one Toyota Corolla.”

“Good shape?”

“It has a pretty big dent in the hood.”

“I know a guy can do dents. Let’s call it five K. And the house?”

Frankie tried to smile. “I don’t know why the house matters. I’ll have the money on Monday.”

Nick made a hurry-up gesture. “How much do you think it’s worth?”

“Uh, I don’t know.” He didn’t like where this was going. “We paid sixty-eight thousand six years ago. So maybe seventy? Seventy-five if we got lucky?”

“How much do you owe on it?”

“Mr. Pusateri—”

“How much.”

Frankie tried to think. A band had tightened around his chest, forcing open the pores across his body. He was full of holes, gushing like a lawn sprinkler. “Loretta’s parents loaned us twenty-five grand for a down payment, so—”

“That’s family. How much to the bank?”

“Thirty-five? Thirty-four, maybe.”

“Well, there you go. Money just sitting around.” Nick walked to a metal desk in the corner, picked up a phone.

Frankie tried to breathe. Abide all threats, he told himself. Four more days. After Monday, after Labor Day, none of this would matter.

Nick was saying, “It’s me, Lily, let me talk to—no, Christ no, not Graciella. Put me through to Brett.” Frankie stared at the tubes of quarters. Each one twenty-five bucks. Was he really so paranoid that he had to check them all? Or maybe he just liked to run his hands through them, like Smaug or Scrooge McDuck.

“Brett!” Nick said. “I need you to give me a ballpark figure.” He looked at Frankie. “What’s the address?” Frankie recited it, and Nick said into the phone, “Right, Norridge. Two-bedroom, basement. Frankie, is the basement finished?”

Frankie shook his head.

“Unfinished. One bath. I’m guessing ‘fair condition.’ Okay. Hurry it up, though.”

Nick put the phone to his chest. To Frankie he said, “When my son first started the business, it was all in binders, but now they can look everything up in computers. My idea. Nick Junior, he didn’t know what the fuck he was doing.”

Frankie thought, So innovative he’s on trial for murder.

Brett came back on the line. Nick listened for a minute, then said, “Ah, both of ’em are on the deed? Okay, still doable. So if we get it for sixty, spend as little as possible on carpets and painting…uh-huh. Right. Usual transfer fees. Got it.”

Nick hung up. “I’ve got some good news and bad news,” he said. “You’ll be able to pay down thirty thousand of your debt. You still owe me twenty, but you get to keep your van and keep working—and keep paying me.”

“You’re taking my house?”

“No, I’m buying your house. And the Toyota. Now here’s the bad news.”

A sound escaped from Frankie’s chest, part squeak, part hiccup. A noise he didn’t know his body could make.

“You’re wife’s on the deed, so we’re going to have to go pick her up.”

“Okay, okay,” Frankie said. He was having trouble breathing. “I can bring her by next week, and we can—”

“No, Frankie. Now.”

“Now? But Monday I can—”

“Monday you can pay me the rest, when your friends come through with all their cash.”

“Okay.” He took a breath. “Okay.”

“Why are you looking at the door?”

He was looking for Teddy. For Agent Smalls. For Irene. For anyone to arrive, in the nick of time, to pull his ass from the fire.

THE PRECIPICE

15 Buddy