| General Fiction posted January 6, 2020 | Chapters: |
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Peril has troubles and wants to leave town.
A chapter in the book The Pitches
Rushed Roulette
by Bill Schott
The author has placed a warning on this post for violence.
The author has placed a warning on this post for language.
Samuel Samuelson ran the numbers for south Detroit. Known as Mr. Sam or Sim-Sim, his policy house cleared close to eight hundred thousand dollars a year. Pez, as a young bag man, moved six thousand a week, dropping it off at Sinclair Lincoln's pawn shop on Eighth Street.
Lincoln, or Slinky, as his friends called him, made payoffs to the Chief of Police, District Attorney, Mayor, and certain police lieutenants and sergeants. He liked young Pez, and gave him extra routes to run to earn more money. He wasn't as fond of Peril though, and found it hard to trust him. Eventually, as if by design, Peril took a handful off the top once, a few months ago. He thought he'd gotten away clean, but Slinky knew better. He approached Pez then.
"Hey, Paz! Come a lemme talk atcha."
"Yeah, Slinky. What's up?"
"You fatter's bin skimmin'. He's gan dan f'rit."
"Geezez God, Slinky! He ain't getting' whacked is he? Not for liftin' some chump change!"
"No way, Paz. Caps'll take'm in and a gan'll be fannd on'm. He ain't s'posed to have no gan."
"So he goes to prison? How long?"
"The woym's toyned, Paz. It's life in prison aw da rivah."
Pez left Slinky's and went home. His mother had returned home as well and was fixing dinner.
"Hi, Sweety. Where's your dad?"
"He was checking out some real estate offers in the U.P. Thinks the government is goin' to get property investment back into a sheltered situation. He might be checkin' out a couple jewelry stores too. Diamonds are good to keep when money's scarce."
Pom Pon didn't like what Pez was saying. She knew when bad times were coming that Peril tried to convert cash into solid items, like gold and diamonds, in case his money was taken.
"Your father in trouble, Pez?"
"You gotta ask him, Ma."
As if on cue, Peril entered the doorway. His glassy stare and red face belied his being stewed to the gills. He smiled at his wife, who tried to stand with arms akimbo and form a look of displeasure, but could only giggle and hug her husband tightly.
"Hi, Peril. Hope you left room in your belly for pork chops."
"You betcha, Sugar. First though, me and Pez has gotta play roulette."
The smile left Pom Pon's face and was replaced with a look of fear.
"Maybe after dinner, Peril, honey. Let's get some chops and potatas in ya."
Looking at Pez, Peril's face lost expression.
"Ready to play, boy?"
Pez knew better than to refuse. It was always easier and faster to play the game and get it over with.
"Sure, Pop. I'll go first."
Peril smiled and pulled a snub-nose .38 from an arm-pit holster. He flipped open the cylinder and dumped out six bullets. Putting the rest in his pocket, he reloaded one round in the pistol, spun the cylinder, slapped it shut, and handed the gun to Pez.
"Bring a taste home for me?" he asked his father, as he raised the gun to his temple.
"Well hell yeah!" With that Peril produced a half empty pint of bourbon from his back pocket. He screwed off the cap and handed it to the boy.
Pez grabbed the bottle with his left hand and took a swig while simultaneously pulling the trigger on the pistol. The hammer slammed onto an empty chamber.
"You are my friggin' hero, Pez! You got more guts than a barrel of souse on Sunday!"
Peril immediate took the pistol back, threw the cylinder open, spun it again, and pointed at his own head. The hammer snapped and no bullet was under it.
Pom Pon stepped in to usher the two Pitches to the dinner table, her look of worry holding the line to becoming an emotional breakdown.
"We gotta do it one more time on account of my goin' away," said Peril.
Pom Pon gasped. She looked at both Peril and Pez, waiting for an explanation.
"I gotta lay low for a while. Sim-Sim thinks I done him wrong, so I need to get outta his hair for a while until he cools down. A few months in Chicago or Jersey oughta do it."
Taking another swig of the bottle, Peril put two fingers on the open cylinder and spun it. He slapped it shut and pointed the gun under his chin. He pulled the trigger and lived.
"Do I get a second turn too?" asked Pez, staring at his father.
"No, Sweety," said Pom Pon. "You guys are done now. It's time to --"
"Of course you get another turn, Pez," said Peril. " I wouldn't cheat ya."
"No!" Pom Pon yelled. Then, in a lower tone, "We're having pork chops and Idaho potatas. I got carrots at the market and I have them all caramelized like you like them, Honey."
Pom Pon reached in and grabbed the pistol. She pulled it and Peril instinctively yanked the trigger. A bullet exploded out of the barrel and entered the wall next to the window. Before that, it went through Pom Pon's cheek, below her eye, and out the back of her head.
The three stood silent, all shocked at what had happened. Pom Pon stared at Pez and seared her final look of fear and anguish into his psyche forever.
Samuel Samuelson ran the numbers for south Detroit. Known as Mr. Sam or Sim-Sim, his policy house cleared close to eight hundred thousand dollars a year. Pez, as a young bag man, moved six thousand a week, dropping it off at Sinclair Lincoln's pawn shop on Eighth Street.
Lincoln, or Slinky, as his friends called him, made payoffs to the Chief of Police, District Attorney, Mayor, and certain police lieutenants and sergeants. He liked young Pez, and gave him extra routes to run to earn more money. He wasn't as fond of Peril though, and found it hard to trust him. Eventually, as if by design, Peril took a handful off the top once, a few months ago. He thought he'd gotten away clean, but Slinky knew better. He approached Pez then.
"Hey, Paz! Come a lemme talk atcha."
"Yeah, Slinky. What's up?"
"You fatter's bin skimmin'. He's gan dan f'rit."
"Geezez God, Slinky! He ain't getting' whacked is he? Not for liftin' some chump change!"
"No way, Paz. Caps'll take'm in and a gan'll be fannd on'm. He ain't s'posed to have no gan."
"So he goes to prison? How long?"
"The woym's toyned, Paz. It's life in prison aw da rivah."
Pez left Slinky's and went home. His mother had returned home as well and was fixing dinner.
"Hi, Sweety. Where's your dad?"
"He was checking out some real estate offers in the U.P. Thinks the government is goin' to get property investment back into a sheltered situation. He might be checkin' out a couple jewelry stores too. Diamonds are good to keep when money's scarce."
Pom Pon didn't like what Pez was saying. She knew when bad times were coming that Peril tried to convert cash into solid items, like gold and diamonds, in case his money was taken.
"Your father in trouble, Pez?"
"You gotta ask him, Ma."
As if on cue, Peril entered the doorway. His glassy stare and red face belied his being stewed to the gills. He smiled at his wife, who tried to stand with arms akimbo and form a look of displeasure, but could only giggle and hug her husband tightly.
"Hi, Peril. Hope you left room in your belly for pork chops."
"You betcha, Sugar. First though, me and Pez has gotta play roulette."
The smile left Pom Pon's face and was replaced with a look of fear.
"Maybe after dinner, Peril, honey. Let's get some chops and potatas in ya."
Looking at Pez, Peril's face lost expression.
"Ready to play, boy?"
Pez knew better than to refuse. It was always easier and faster to play the game and get it over with.
"Sure, Pop. I'll go first."
Peril smiled and pulled a snub-nose .38 from an arm-pit holster. He flipped open the cylinder and dumped out six bullets. Putting the rest in his pocket, he reloaded one round in the pistol, spun the cylinder, slapped it shut, and handed the gun to Pez.
"Bring a taste home for me?" he asked his father, as he raised the gun to his temple.
"Well hell yeah!" With that Peril produced a half empty pint of bourbon from his back pocket. He screwed off the cap and handed it to the boy.
Pez grabbed the bottle with his left hand and took a swig while simultaneously pulling the trigger on the pistol. The hammer slammed onto an empty chamber.
"You are my friggin' hero, Pez! You got more guts than a barrel of souse on Sunday!"
Peril immediate took the pistol back, threw the cylinder open, spun it again, and pointed at his own head. The hammer snapped and no bullet was under it.
Pom Pon stepped in to usher the two Pitches to the dinner table, her look of worry holding the line to becoming an emotional breakdown.
"We gotta do it one more time on account of my goin' away," said Peril.
Pom Pon gasped. She looked at both Peril and Pez, waiting for an explanation.
"I gotta lay low for a while. Sim-Sim thinks I done him wrong, so I need to get outta his hair for a while until he cools down. A few months in Chicago or Jersey oughta do it."
Taking another swig of the bottle, Peril put two fingers on the open cylinder and spun it. He slapped it shut and pointed the gun under his chin. He pulled the trigger and lived.
"Do I get a second turn too?" asked Pez, staring at his father.
"No, Sweety," said Pom Pon. "You guys are done now. It's time to --"
"Of course you get another turn, Pez," said Peril. " I wouldn't cheat ya."
"No!" Pom Pon yelled. Then, in a lower tone, "We're having pork chops and Idaho potatas. I got carrots at the market and I have them all caramelized like you like them, Honey."
Pom Pon reached in and grabbed the pistol. She pulled it and Peril instinctively yanked the trigger. A bullet exploded out of the barrel and entered the wall next to the window. Before that, it went through Pom Pon's cheek, below her eye, and out the back of her head.
The three stood silent, all shocked at what had happened. Pom Pon stared at Pez and seared her final look of fear and anguish into his psyche forever.
Policy House is a term for a numbers racket that caters to illegal gambling.
(He's gan dan f'rit.) He's going down for it.
Image from Google pinterest.com
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. (He's gan dan f'rit.) He's going down for it.
Image from Google pinterest.com
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