“Alright, alright. Sounds good. Make sure you tell him I only have to pay for five because my other five are free.”

“He knows,” I assured. “It’s the same shit, different day, Rick.”

He glanced down at his slips. “That’s how you know my numbers, huh? You’re a bright boy. Has anyone ever called you that before? A bright boy?”

“I’m usually called worse.”

“To me you’re a star.”

“You know flattery isn’t going to get you shit, right Rick?” I laughed. “The numbers are picked randomly.”

“But they don’t have to be,” he offered.

“Hey. None of that,” I warned, pointing my finger at him. “You know I keep my game on the up and up.”

“That’s why I love you. Such an honorable guy,” Ricky nodded. “I’m a jokester. I like to joke.”

“Good luck,” I said, shaking his hand again.

“Can you at least fix it so old Charlie doesn’t win?” he whispered, glancing past my shoulder at the frail man at the end of the bar.

I shook my head and chuckled, before working the room. They were all beasts ready to eat, so I sold them slips and broken bowls of bullshit. And they always came back for more.

23

December 1935

In my younger years, I had experienced bone-crushing guilt for simply existing. Though it was likely a normal emotion for a child who killed his mother, I had admonished myself for how much I wallowed in it. An irritating effect of the self-pity was how often I allowed my family to talk me into things. I felt compelled to make up for the murder. The most twisted part of it all was I was sure my father and Igor knew how malleable I was and exploited it whenever they wanted something done. After nearly three decades, one would think I would be able to move past the feeling, but the fact that I was sitting in my father and Sally’s apartment on New Year’s Eve preparing to eat a “family” dinner proved that I had not.