“I see what you’re sayin’, country boy, but the way I figure, ya was stealin’ my ringside tickets. The way I figure, Sonny stole them from me, then ya stole them from me…an ya sold ’em!”

“I’m really sor—”

“Enough of the sorry shit!” The Chop spit on the floor of the truck. “So how much ya make from sellin’ the duckets, country boy?”

“Close to a hundert an’ ninety thousand dollars, Mr. Sanseli.”

“That’s not so good. You shoulda made a lot more. How come ya made only a hundred and ninety Gs?”

“The rain delay hurt, an’…an’…an’ I guess I wasn’t a very good hustler.”

“That’s still a lotta money, country boy.”

“Yes, sir, it is,” whispered Billy, “sir.”

“That’s money ya owe me, right?”

“Yes, sir. It is, sir. I guess.”

“You guess?”

“No. I’m sure. It’s your money, sir. I’m sure it’s your money.”

“So where is it, country boy?”

“I lost it, Mr. Sanseli.”

“Lost it? Like in ya don’t know where it is but if ya keep lookin’ you’re gonna find it? That kinda lost?”

“No, sir. Lost like in I lost the money bettin’ on the American in the heavyweight championship fight. That kinda lost…sir.”

“That kinda lost, huh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All of it, country boy, all hundred an’ ninety Gs?”

“All of it, Mr. Sanseli.”

“So now you’re in twicet, right? Once ta me for a hundred an’ ninety an’ once ta da bookie for a hundred an’ ninety.”

“Yes, sir.”

“This is very distressing news, country boy.”

“I’ll say it is.”

“You supposed to be the horse’s mouth. That’s right, innit? You supposed to know what’s goin’ on, in that right, kid?” asked Sanseli.

“I think I…I mean about bein’ the horse’s mouth…I was just jok—”

“You don’t know shit, kid!” screamed The Chop.

There was a momentary lull in the conversation.

Then Sanseli said, “I lost much more money than ya did bettin’ on the nigger, country boy. Or should I call ya Horse’s Mouth? An’ who told me to bet on the nigger even though ya was told I never bet on niggers? Huh? Huh, Horse’s Mouth? Who did I trust to tell me where my money should go? Huh? Who? Answer me, Horse’s Mouth.”

“Me, sir. I did, sir,” whispered Billy. “I told you to bet on the American.”

“What? I can’t hear ya, country boy. You’re whisperin’. What did ya say?”

“I said it was me, sir. I did, sir,” Billy said as loud as he could. “I told you to bet on the Amer…on the nigger.”

“I want ya to think about that, country boy.”

“Yes, sir. I’m thinkin’ about that right now.”

“An’ while you’re thinkin’, say hello to Mr. Rothberg here, sittin’ next t’me. Mr. Rothberg here was the last person to see your friend, the Jew cocksucker, alive. No offense, Morris.”

“None taken, Giuseppe.”

“Hello, Mr. Rothberg,” said Billy, looking straight ahead, suddenly very sick to his stomach.