THE WAGER

The sight of the long road was very familiar to Jack these past few days. He can feel the sweat of the dessert on his brow but can hear the chips hitting the table and the drinks pouring in Vegas, just a few hundred miles away. Finally, a long weekend away from his father’s business in Philly. Just Jack, the SUV, his playlist, and the open road. This is it, the home stretch. Probably just one more stop at a gas station before he gets to Sin City.

Jack turns the wheel left into a gas station off the highway in a small town, just a couple hundred miles outside of Las Vegas. Jack opens the car door, locks the car, and jingles the keys into his pocket as he wipes the sweat off his face. This gas stop seemed just like the other hundred million he’d been on, except for Mr. Sunglasses standing at the door of the gas station, smoking a cigarette.

Jack stares at the man and the man stares right back through his designer shades.

“How you doing?” Jack asked.

The man continued to stare and smoke his cigarette, he nods his head and takes a puff in the friendliest, yet most intense way possible. Jack proceeds into the store and does his routine gas stop. Give the cashier a fifty, buy a cup of coffee, then tell them to put the rest on the pump. This stop was different for Jack, because he didn’t have a man in a suit and thousand-dollar sunglasses on a cell phone staring at him from out the door. Jack nods to the cashier, takes his cup of coffee and walks out of the store, and walks out of the store, avoiding eye contact with the man in the suit.

Jack gets back to his car, still feeling that glare. Not from the sun, but from the mafioso with the staring problem. Jack tries to ignore it, whistling in the wind. He finishes pumping the gas and gets into his car, only to turn the key and hear the engine stutter.

“Oh, c’mon,” Jack says, under his breath.

Jack frustratedly gets out of the car and goes over to the engine. He might as well be looking into space when it comes to engines. Just as he goes on his phone to frantically Google what’s wrong, he notices the man in the suit standing at the end of the car.

“Oh! Pennsylvania!” The man in the suit says. “Where ‘you comin’ from, kid?”

“Uh, Philadelphia,” Jack replies hesitantly.

“No shit! I’m from Northeast!

“Me too, Lawncrest.”

“Get outta here, I’m from Mayfair! We were probably neighbors.”

“Oh, cool, I’m Jack McCormick. What’s your name?”

“Uh…Mark.”

“Mark what?”

“Mark. Just Mark. Mark The Shark.”

Jack nervously chuckles with the man. The man looks over and sees the engine steaming out of Jack’s car.

“Where ya headed, kid?” The man says.

“Uh-” Jack responds before getting cut off.

“Wait, don’t tell me…”

Mark sarcastically brushes his chin with his hand, then snaps and points at Jack.

“Vegas?” Mark asks.

“Yeah, how’d you know?” Jack responds.

“Why else would you be in this shithole Nevada desert?”

The two chuckle more, Jack’s social bubble is ready to burst due to the car being broken down and only enough money in his pocket to either get his car fixed and drive home, or go spend it in Vegas.

“Car troubles?” Mark asks.

“Uh, yeah. I don’t really know anything about engines.” Jack responds.

“Ah, don’t worry about it. I know a guy. He’ll get it fixed, get it outta here, and he’ll even bring it to you in Vegas. All I ask, is you help me with something.”

“What’s that?”

“I just need you to get me there.”

“Where? To Vegas?”

“Yeah, see I need someone to place a bet for me. We’re from the same neighborhood, c’mon I could really use your help.”

Jack shakes his head and backs away from the man.

“I don’t know you, man,” Jack says.

“C’mon you gotta help me, I knew your dad. He still got the plumbing business?”

Jack widens his eyes as they fill with rage. He grabs Mark’s expensive lapel and pins him against the wall.

“How the hell do you know my dad, who are you?” Jack barks, still holding the man against the wall.

“Relax, kid” The man responds nervously. “I helped your dad get that business up and running. I gave him some money back in the day, those damn Lakers were an easy payday in the eighties! That’s why I need your help! I owe a lot of people money in Vegas, man. I know a lot of people too, but most of ‘em are loansharks who I owe. You gotta help me out here.”

Jack sighs and lets go of Mark’s coat. Jack takes the back of his hand and brushes his coat, trying to unwrinkle the Italian leather.

“If everything you’re saying checks out,” Jack explains, “and you really helped my dad, then just tell me what you want me to do. I could use the money.”

“Thanks, kid,” Mark says. “All I need you to do is put some money on the Knicks tonight and take the over on-”

“NEW BOOKIE, EH MARK?” A voice shouts from a black car parked on the side of the road.

Jack and the man look over quickly. The man’s eyes widen as Jack stands next to him with a nervously confused expression. As the two stare, another man in a suit steps out of the car and walks towards him.

“One word of advice to ya, kid,” Mark says. “You may feel like you’re winning when you gamble, but every win is someone in your life you’ll lose.”

“What?” Jack asks frustratedly.

“That’s the boss. He ain’t gonna let me go this time.”

The boss approaches Jack and the man, with an intimidating frustrated look.

“So, Mark, taking new bets from new bookies outside of Vegas, huh?” The boss asks, spitting angrily on the ground.

Jack puts his hands up in fear. “Look, man, I’m not a bookie, I was just talking to-”

A loud bang roars out, as Jack falls to the ground holding his oozing red chest. The boss turns to Mark and points the gun at him.

“See how many people you hurt when you lose?” The boss asks. “Get in the fucking car.”

David Smith is a Philadelphia native who resides in Orlando, FL. He is a basketball and sneaker nerd, and also loves all kinds of music and collects vinyl.