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Brody’s Bad Day

Don Ray Crawford

    “Are you gonna pay us back? When? Dammit, Brody, I been patient over four weeks. Big Manny ain’t gonna wait much longer. I may not ask you again. You know he don’t abide welchers.”
    “What the hell, Dark, I always paid Big Manny ever fuckin cent I owed him. Hell, what’s a measly ten grand? I’ll get it. Just gimme three more days. I got something in the oven?”
    “Bullshit. All you got in the oven is burned cornbread. He ain’t gonna buy it and you know it.”
    Brody fumbled in his pockets and pulled out his well worn black billfold. It was thin to the touch. He reached in and jerked out four soiled one hundred dollar bills. “Man, this is all I’ve got in the world. If you take it, I don’t eat; maybe lose my room. Come on, Dark, gimme a break for Christ’s sake. Where’s your humanity?”
    He took three. “Three C notes, maybe buy you two hours. What then? Damn it, Brody, I like you but I can’t protect you from your own damned reckless impulses. What made you think that nag, Ghost Dancer, would win at Pimlico? And, why the hell ten grand, you stupid bastard? You deserve whatever Big Mannie orders up for you.” His face was contorted with anger.
    “I know, no sermons, please. You’ve always been a real pal, Dark, and I want you to know I appreciate it. I’ll get the money. Three days. Tell Big Mannie if I don’t have the money by then, I’ll give myself up to whatever he wants to do with me.” They both knew it was just a stall.
    “It’s your funeral, pal. I’ll tell him but we both know what he’s gonna say.” He stared at Brody, turned on his heels and walked back to his car. They’d been standing in the narrow doorway of Brody’s cheap walk-up hotel, called the “PITT’S.” The name fit like gravy on mashed potatoes.

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    Brody kept his eyes on the big shiny Chrysler until Dark was out of sight. Then, he dashed across the street to his old Volvo and kicked up the tired engine. It sputtered, died, He started it again and it caught but continued sputtering until he had it up to twenty-five miles per hour.
    He was headed for Shelly’s place, where he intended to hit up his old buddy from prison. Shelly had helped him before; told him never again, but he was desperate. Shelly owned the Green Felt Lounge, a card game set-up. He’d gone to prison for extorting local Korean bodegas. The last chink had called the cops, even though he’d been warned not to. Unfortunately for the chink’s family, he’d suddenly been run over in a hit and run. The driver was never caught.
    “Hey, you sidewinder, how’s it going?”
    “Brody, before you even ask, I’ve told you, never again. I know you paid me back. That ballgame you won saved your ass last time, but I can’t rely on your gambling as any kind of assurances or collateral for the size loans you’ve been asking for.”
    Shelly was standing behind a make-shift bar with a scotch in his hand. Smoke filled the room. His muscular face wore a deep frown, which grew deeper when Brody walked in. A couple of green felt covered tables with six chairs were filled and Brody could hear the chortling of the players.
    “Come on, its only fifty, Skip, give me a chance to get even.”
    “Damn it, Shelly,” Brody almost in tears now, “I gotta have at least five G’s to stay alive. I’ll pay you back, I swear to God! We go way back, man. My life is hanging by a spider web. If I don’t come up with something by tonight, it’s adios Brody. You don’t want that on your conscious, do you?”
    “That’s facetious, Brody. Don’t play me for one of your marks. You know better.”
    “I know, man, but I’m desperate; damned desperate, like never before. I ain’t got no one else I can turn to. It’s life or death this time, no shit, Shelly, that’s the dead honest truth. It’s Big Mannie, and you know how he treats welchers.”
    “I should, I’ve taken a beating from his goons more than once in the old days before I got lucky.” He took a long swig of his scotch.
    “Wanna drink. Maybe that help relieve your nerves, but don’t get the idea I’m soft, see. I aint gonna give you five G’s, that’s for damned sure.” He wheeled around and grabbed a glass from the shelf and poured out three fingers of Cutty Sark Scotch.
    Brody grabbed up the glass and downed it in one gulp. “Can I have another?” Shelly stared at him hard, but poured out two more fingers.
    “Better take this one slow; it’s the last one I’m givin you.”
    “But, about the five G’s, Shelly, how about just a part of it?”
    Shelly sighed and rubbed across his mouth with his sleeve.
    “God dammit, Brody. Why you always have to come here?” He winced when he saw tears forming in Brody’s eyes.
    “Okay, okay, you damned jerk. He reached under the counter and took out two thousand in wrinkled bills. He squeezed them in his beefy fist for a moment; reluctant to give them up. Then, he shoved them into Brody’s face. “Take these two and get the hell outta here. I expect it back within a week, dammit; no excuses.”
    Brody grabbed the bills, sat the glass down and raced for his car. Maybe Big Mannie will give me some slack for two G’s, God, I hope so. He never heard the slug that pierced his lung.
    I’m gonna live the docs say. But, for what? The next time . . . .

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