(note: there’s some cursing in this story)
FAMILY
He kicked open the door to the waiting room. He shot the goon manning the desk before he could hit the alarm. He shot through the desk, killing the goon who was hiding under there. He hit the switch hidden in the potted palm, the one that unlocked the rear door.
He opened the door, rolled in a grenade, closed it and counted five. He opened the door and shot the man on fire who was running at him. He walked down the hallway and shot through the door on the right before the goons who were waiting there could rush out and jump him. He punched through a ceiling panel and rolled another grenade down the crawlspace. After a five count, two more dead goons fell to the floor as the ceiling disintegrated.
An injured girl wrapped in a towel, a masseuse, was huddled against the wall in a growing pool of blood. Both her legs and one arm were broken. Tears were running down her face. “Please, Mister…” she pleaded. “I just work here.” He shot her before she could fire the gun she had hidden under the towel.
Here came the Accountant with his Uzi and his helmet and his bullet proof vest. The Accountant raised his gun to fire, but he didn’t take the bait this time. He dived for the Accountant’s legs, cut the Accountant’s unprotected Achilles tendons, then slit the Accountant’s throat when he fell to the floor.
He got back to his feet and looked down, a little stunned. That had worked. The Accountant was finally dead.
There was only one more door to go through. He cautiously nudged it open with his toe. The target, Don Carlo, was sitting naked on the edge of his bed, covering his face with his hands to hide his tears. “I thought I’d have more time,” said Don Carlo. “I thought I’d have more time.”
He unholstered the .45. His instructions had been to make this job up-close, intimate. He moved into the room to end Don Carlo’s torment. A goon hiding behind the door shot him in the back of the head.
Shit.
Now he was back to the cut screen, the one he knew by heart. He was kneeling before Don Bartolomeo, in a dark room, as the others watched. The old Don was sitting in his mahogany chair, leaning forward on his cane. The Don looked pained, as if this really did hurt him more than it hurt anyone else. “You failed me,” said the Don. “You failed me.” There was a long pause. A five count. Then the Don said, “I’m gonna give you one more chance.” The Don’s picture faded from the screen, was replaced by the title: FAMILY. Written in “Mafia” font. The music swelled.
Leo stared at the screen. He’d been so close…
The Don had said “One more chance” this time. That was new. What did it mean? Did he really only have one more chance to win?
“Are you still playing that stupid game?” It was Theresa yelling from the kitchen. He got up and pulled on a pair of pants, then made sure to log out of his computer. He never knew when Theresa or Mom would start snooping.
“I said, are you still –”
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” said Leo. He unlocked the door and walked the three steps across the hallway to the tired linoleum of the kitchen. Theresa was sitting at the table, sorting through a stack of change. “Are you working tonight?” she asked.
He nodded.
“I need you to buy me a pack of smokes before you go.”
“Why me?”
“’Cause I’m cooking dinner.”
Leo looked at the stovetop. If Theresa was planning on cooking dinner, she certainly hadn’t started yet. But he shrugged and decided not to fight it. He’d been taking orders from Theresa his whole life. She was four years older, and significantly heavier than he was, though Leo was no lightweight himself. Besides, he needed the fresh air. That last level was a heartbreaker.
He looked at the change in front of Theresa. “You don’t have enough.”
She continued sorting and said, “I’m not done yet.”
“Most of those are pennies.”
She pushed back from the table and scowled as she realized he was right. “Shit.” Then: “Loan me three bucks.”
“When’ll you pay me back?”
“When I win the lottery.”
Leo scooped up the quarters and dimes that had been separated from the smaller change. “You better.”
Theresa smiled and said, “Thanks, sweetie.”
Leo trudged out the door and headed down the cracked sidewalk in the direction of Jake’s Market. 55th and Blondo. Right in the heart of Omaha. The setting sun was in his eyes. Even if it hadn’t been, he probably wouldn’t have noticed the heavyset man in the track suit who was watching his house from across the street.
#
Leo grabbed an energy drink and headed for the counter. “Pack of Salem 100s.” As the guy reached for the pack, Leo noticed a sign taped to the register. PLS PAY BY CARD. THERE IS A SHORTAGE OF CHANGE.
“You short on change?”
The guy looked at Leo suspiciously. He was little, squirrely. Leo had been coming here since he was a kid and he still didn’t know the guy’s name, except that it wasn’t Jake. “Why?” he asked.
“Do I get a discount if I pay in change?”
“Fuck no,” said not-Jake.
Leo dumped Theresa’s quarters and dimes onto the counter and started sorting them into dollar-piles. The line grew behind him. “Can’t you do that any faster?” complained not-Jake.
“Fuck no.”
#
They hadn’t gotten the spot out.
They’d told her they probably wouldn’t be able to get it out. It was chocolate syrup, mixed with maybe blood, on the lapel of a cheap cashmere jacket. Baked in. She was pissed off anyway.
“You always get the spot out,” she said, like it was somehow Leo’s personal fault that they’d failed this particular time.
“Chocolate is a difficult stain. Cashmere doesn’t clean well,” said Leo, soothingly. He didn’t bring up the blood.
Nothing he said made her happier. “But it’s your job to get it out.”
“Look, I won’t charge you for the coat, okay?” Mr. Winiarsky wouldn’t be happy about that. A technician had spent almost a full hour trying to clean that spot.
But the customer wasn’t satisfied. “Fuck off, moron.” She left without any of her clothes, without paying for anything.
#
His mother was at the kitchen table playing Blackjack on her phone when he got home. She was smoking one of Theresa’s Salems. She really wasn’t supposed to do that. He kissed her on the top of the head. “Where’s Theresa?”
“Out.” She was engrossed in the game. He glanced at the screen. Mom was splitting fives against a dealer six instead of just doubling down. Mom liked action.
“What did she make for dinner?”
“Microwave frozen pizza.”
So. No leftovers. Leo got another pizza from the freezer and nuked it.
“What night is it?” asked Mom as the microwave hummed.
“Friday.”
“How old are you now? Eighteen?”
Leo knew where this was going. “Twenty.”
“So what are you doing home on a Friday night? Why aren’t you out chasing girls?”
“People don’t chase girls anymore, Mom.”
“Sure they do.” She hit a button on the phone. Double down. “Theresa’s out tonight. Somebody’s chasing her. And she’s not exactly Miss America, either.”
The microwave dinged. Leo put the pizza on a plate, grabbed a bottle of Tabasco and a can of RC Cola and headed for his room. “Girls don’t like me,” he said.
He closed and locked the door to his room behind him. “I wonder why,” Mom mumbled as she increased her bet.
Neither of them had noticed that there were now two big guys in track suits watching the house.
#
Leo pushed the pizza away, drained the last sip of RC. He wished he’d remembered to bring a pudding cup with him. He could get one now, but Mom was probably still in the kitchen. It wasn’t worth it.
He clicked away from Twitter and thought for a second. Should he? The truth was, he was tired as hell. He never liked to play when he was this tired. He couldn’t trust his reflexes. Plus Don Bartolomeo had said “One more chance.” What if that was for real? What if he only had one more chance to beat the game?
But he was so close.
Without making a conscious decision, his fingers reached for the keyboard and logged into the game.
Tired or not, he played flawlessly. The goon on fire, the goons in the crawl space – everyone that had ever given him trouble before basically melted in front of him. Even the Accountant, who he’d only killed once before, fell as easily as one of the street punks from Level One.
Before he knew it, he was nudging open the door to Don Carlo’s bedroom again. He fired a shotgun blast through the door – this kill didn’t have to be personal – and heard the goon hidden there fall with a thud.
He pulled out the .45 and approached Don Carlo, who was crying and moaning, “I thought I’d have more time,” over and over again. He was going to put two in the Don’s ear, point blank, just like old times. He was going to end the War forever.
He put the muzzle to the Don’s ear. Before he could fire, a red tint washed over the screen. He glanced down. The Don had stuck a steak knife into his gut, in the gap that his body armor didn’t cover. The Don was twisting the knife – literally twisting the knife – and giggling giddily, through his tears, “I got more time! I got more time! Sonofabitch, I got more time!”
The screen faded to black.
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.
Don Bartolomeo came on screen. It was the cut scene – but this time was different. The room felt darker, the Don looked sadder. A single tear cut a slow path down the Don’s face.
“You failed me,” said Don Bartolomeo. “You failed me.” He took a deep breath, then added: “For the last time.” Out of the darkness behind him, someone handed the Don a purple velvet pillow. Lying on top of the pillow was a gun. A .45.
The Don held the pillow out. “You know what you have to do.” He said it like he’d prefer to say anything –anything – in the world but that.
Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.
The player’s hands reached out and took the gun.
Words appeared on the screen over the Don’s wretched face.
He was being given a choice. The words said: TO CONTINUE PLAYING, SHOOT DON BARTOLOMEO.
After a long pause, more words appeared: OR SHOOT YOURSELF.
The words faded from the screen. The Don sat there, staring at him. Waiting… waiting…
Leo swallowed. The game was designed so that you couldn’t shoot yourself, couldn’t hurt yourself. And now you could? For some kind of penance? So he could fall on his sword like a Samurai?
And the other option was what? To shoot Don Bartolomeo?
Later, Leo would think back and be amazed at how quickly he made his decision. There was no debate. He didn’t have a choice.
He turned the gun on himself and fired.
The Don disappeared. FAMILY floated on screen for a few seconds, then that, too, faded away.
Leo waited for an hour for something to happen – a credit roll, a cut scene, some kind of coda to show the aftermath of his decision. To tie a bow on the game. But there was nothing.
He logged out and tried logging in again. The screen remained stubbornly blank. Not even an ACCESS DENIED.
That was it? He was done? They could do that?
He looked at all the message boards he’d studiously avoided while he was playing, so he wouldn’t run across any spoilers. But there was nothing online about this situation. Nobody talked about it. The people who finished the game said it just cycled through and got harder, like Pac-man or something. Nobody else had had the game just… turn off on them.
After three months – three months – of steady play, it was over. Just over. No answer, no goodbye. Leo didn’t understand. The worst part is he was good at this. He played other games, but he usually didn’t finish them, generally out of frustration or boredom. But FAMILY… he knew he was a good player. He had a feel for it. He was probably higher-up the online leaderboard than anyone with as little playing time as he had. He’d gone through the game fast, but he’d hit all the assignments plus all the bonus tasks. He felt like he was being punished for doing things right. He couldn’t even play anymore? It was like… well, it was like he’d been thrown out of his family.
He only slept a few hours that night.
#
Leo hated working mornings after night shift, but Hannibal had asked him to cover so he could go to his kid’s tee-ball game and Leo was a good guy like that. But the way his head felt… today was gonna be worse than usual.
He poked his head into Theresa’s room. She was passed out, fully-dressed – if you could call it that – on top of her sheets. Leo had heard her come in last night, had heard her friends Ramona and Bizzy drag her into the bathroom to retch a little, then wipe her mouth and dump her on the bed. They didn’t complain. She’d done it for them plenty of times.
Leo looked in the drawer in the bedside table. Sure enough, there were a couple of bottles of 5 Hour Energy rolling around in there with the crushed packs of Salems. He slugged one down and burped, which disturbed Theresa enough for her to moan, “Out of my room… asshole.” He kissed her on the forehead and left.
He walked out into blinding sunlight, but he already didn’t feel so bad. The caffeine and the taurine and whatever the hell else was in that little bottle were doing their jobs. He was reaching for his car door when he heard a noise behind him. A big shiny black SUV had pulled up at the end of the driveway, blocking him in. A tinted window rolled down on the driver’s side and a friendly voice called out to him, “Hey buddy! Can you do me a favor?”
Leo looked the SUV over. There probably hadn’t been a car that expensive in this neighborhood in five years.
The Driver was a young guy with thick black hair and a big smile. He continued, “You think you can give me directions to the ballpark?”
Leo walked over to the guy. It wasn’t like he was going anywhere until the guy moved his SUV, anyway. “You mean the baseball stadium?”
“That’s right.”
“There aren’t any games now. The season’s over.” He was close enough now that he could smell the cinnamon gum on the guy’s breath, and the rich leather of the car seats. The guy was wearing a purple cashmere sweater – good cashmere – with no shirt underneath.
“That’s okay,” said the guy. “I just want to see it. I’m a tourist like that.”
Leo heard a noise and looked up. It was a big day for strangers in the neighborhood. Two big guys in track suits were walking toward him on the sidewalk.
Leo turned back to the friendly guy and cocked his head. Something wasn’t adding up here. “Look, I don’t want to be a dick, but can’t you just look it up on your phone? That’s probably easier than me giving directions. It’s tricky once you get downtown.”
The smiling guy shook his head. “That’s the thing. I can’t look it up on my phone. My phone’s dead. See?” He held up his phone so Leo could see. The screen was brightly lighted. The phone was fully charged.
Before Leo could even wonder what that meant, the two guys in track suits put a bag over his head and stuffed him into the SUV.
#
Leo didn’t know how long he was in the car. He’d struggled a little at first, but they’d conked him on the back of the head, through the bag. They must’ve known exactly where to hit him, too, because the lights went right out. It could’ve been minutes or hours later when he woke up. He was lying on his side in the SUV’s third row of seats.
The bag was still on his head but he could hear the guys talking. Somebody was saying, “I wouldn’t fuck her with your dick,” and somebody else was laughing, and somebody else was saying, “Shut the fuck up, asshole.”
They must’ve noticed him stirring, because the guy who’d said “Shut the fuck up” now said “Sleeping Beauty’s waking up.” Sleeping Beauty. Okay, he’d probably been out for hours. He had a hell of a headache. “Don’t try to take the bag off, Sleeping Beauty.”
Leo tried to say “I won’t,” but his mouth was too goddam dry. He’d been breathing with his mouth open. He swallowed a few times, then managed. “What’s going on?”
“You’ll find out,” said not-with-your-dick.
Leo couldn’t think. Even if he didn’t have a headache, this would’ve been way beyond him. “I… I don’t have any money,” he said, as if that would help.
That started all the guys laughing. “No shit you don’t got money. I seen the car you drive,” said shut-the-fuck-up.
When the laughs had died down, a calmer voice – Leo recognized it as the friendly driver – said “You had your fun, now leave him alone. We’re not supposed to talk to him.”
After that, nobody talked. The driver cranked up the radio. A college basketball game was on.
#
The ride changed. They stopped at a gate or something. The driver rolled down his window, said something to a guard. He heard the whine of an electric gate opening.
Then they were rolling slowly down a driveway. Something smooth. A long driveway.
Then they were stopped and Leo was yanked out of the truck. The driver said, “Not so rough!” and one of the other guys laughed and said, “Yeah, I keep forgetting.” Then Leo was walked down some stairs, through a door. The bag was yanked from his head.
Leo blinked to adjust to the bright fluorescent light. He was in a plain stone room – a mud room. There were dirty boots and other outdoor gear lined against one wall, a sink and a hose in one corner, and a drain in the center of the floor.
Another guy was there, slightly older, waiting for them. He gave Leo a long look, sizing him up. “This is him?”
“This is him,” said the driver. Then, he added, in a slightly softer voice. “How’s the mood?”
“Good,” said the older guy. “Very good. Marquette covered.”
The driver winked at Leo. “Good for you.” Then the driver and the guys in the track suits left through a little wooden door. The older guy turned to Leo and said “Strip.”
“What’s that?”
“You heard me. Everything.”
This was all so strange. Leo was so baffled he didn’t even know if he was scared anymore. But… strip? He hesitated. He took a good look at the older man, who suddenly smiled for the first time, like he could read Leo’s mind. “You can’t take me,” he said. “I’m older than you, I’m lighter than you, but I’d fold you up like lunch meat, right? And even if you did get past me somehow, you know I’m not here alone. And where the fuck would you go? You don’t even know where you are.” He said it all in a friendly tone, like he was explaining the plot of a TV show he liked.
So Leo stripped. Everything. The room was suddenly much colder. The older man had him lean against a rickety wooden table and gave him a thorough, full-body exam. His hair, his beard, his armpits, his scrotum, his ass. He ran a handheld metal detector and a few other electronic gadgets slowly over Leo’s body, and when he was satisfied, he nodded and handed Leo some underwear and socks and a track suit and a new pair of sneakers. “Put this on.”
“I can just wear my clothes…” said Leo.
The older guy glanced at Leo’s clothing crumpled in the corner, raised an eyebrow. “You want to wear that in there?”
Leo looked at his “Adventure Time” t-shirt, and his khaki cargo shorts, and his old Chucks. And he didn’t know why, but it suddenly became very clear that putting them back on, in this house, at this moment, would be the very height of insanity. He started putting on the track suit.
“It’ll fit,” said the older guy.
The track suit and sneakers fit him perfectly.
The older guy looked him in the eye, straightened Leo’s hair a little with his hand, then nodded with satisfaction. He took Leo by the elbow and led him through the little wooden door.
#
It was a furnished basement. A rec room. The ceiling was low, the walls were covered with cheap wood paneling. There was a big TV against one wall, lots of comfortable furniture. The room was decorated with stuffed fish mounted on plaques and giant faded photographs of a foreign coastline. The Mediterranean, thought Leo.
His friends from the SUV were there, standing silently along the wall with a few other men. The older guy patted Leo on the back and joined them.
There was a dapper old gent on a little couch at the other end of the room. He had thick white hair and a suntan and a purple polo shirt. “Come in! Have a seat,” he said, with a big smile, pointing to a chair that was catty-corner to him. His teeth were fake – bad dentures that clacked around in his mouth when he talked.
Leo sat down while the old man ran his eyes over him, happily. Then the old man saw the look in Leo’s eye and seemed to wake up a little. “What am I thinking? You must be thirsty. Get our friend a drink.”
Before the words were out of his mouth, a glass of soda with crushed ice was on the coffee table at Leo’s elbow. “You like RC Cola, right?” said the old man. “Old-fashioned. Lonnie had to go to five places to find it.”
Lonnie, a younger, thinner guy who was leaning against the wall didn’t look too happy about that.
Leo drank from the glass greedily. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was. Lonnie re-filled without being asked.
“Young man,” said his host, “Do you know who I am?”
Leo didn’t know how to answer that. “I… uh, no, I don’t. Sir.”
The old man laughed. “Don’t worry, you can’t insult me. It’s better that you don’t know who I am. I like to keep a low profile. Call me Pat. Everybody calls me Pat, from the President to the janitor. Just Pat. Got it?”
“Hello, Pat,” said Leo. And then, because he didn’t know what else to say: “I think there’s been some kind of mistake.”
Pat laughed again and gave Leo a grandfatherly pat on the knee. “No mistake, no mistake. But I know this must be a very confusing situation for you. Believe me, it was confusing to me when I first heard it, and I wasn’t just thrown into it, like a fish into a pitcher of beer.
“Young man,” he continued. “Leo. I have been looking for you for quite a while. And I think this might be the beginning of a bright new day for both of us.” He gestured to the other men in the room. “For all of us. My friend, you check all the boxes. You’re even Italian!”
Leo choked on his soda. This was a mistake. “Pat, I’m… look at me. I’m definitely not Italian. My last name is Pinckney… Pat.”
“Yes,” said Pat, “Yes. But what was your Mother’s Mother’s name? Rizzo. Not just Italian. Sicilian. So maybe it’s not close, but you’re Italian somewhere.” He laughed at the look on Leo’s face. “Don’t be so shocked. I know everything about you. I been studying you for a month. Hell, Tony was up half the night feeding your sister drinks.” The SUV driver shrugged and smiled from the wall. “I know more about you than you do, I bet.”
“Okay, Pat,” said Leo. “I believe you. I guess my question is… why?”
Pat tapped his knee again. “That’s the right question. Can somebody wet my whistle?” A Pabst Blue Ribbon was swiftly poured into a tall glass and handed to Pat. He sipped it. “That’s better.
“So, Leo,” he said. “You’re smart. I know from your test scores you’re smart. So I think you know already, from the way I operate, from the people I work with, from the precautions I take, that my enterprise is… well, it’s criminal.”
Leo nodded. “I figured that out.”
“Sure you did. Specifically, we’re what people call the Mafia, La Cosa Nostra, the Outfit, whatever. Just to be clear.”
Leo nodded again.
“Now,” said Pat, “If I was to describe the width and breadth of my business to you, I could say it was a great many things. I could say my business was construction, or shipping, or garment manufacture, or moneylending, or narcotics, or gambling…”
“Gaming,” corrected one of the men by the wall. Leo did a double-take when he looked at him. He looked like a slightly plumper, better-dressed version of the SUV driver.
Pat waved his hand in the air dismissively. “Gaming. I’m supposed to call it ‘Gaming’ now. It’s Gambling. The point is, I could go on. We’re diversified. But lots of people do these things. These are common industries, right? What makes my business so different, so much more successful than these other enterprises, is what we are willing to do to protect or advance our interests, when necessary: We kill.”
Leo was processing a lot at that moment, but this honesty actually surprised him. It showed on his face, “Don’t be shocked by my frankness,” said Pat. “I only speak so freely because I’m among friends, trusted individuals, in a safe environment that is under my control. But even when I’m out in the world and unable to speak so freely, people know the truth about me: I kill. I’m a killer.”
He nodded towards a few of the men by the wall. “My sons are killers.”
There was a silence as Pat searched Leo’s face. Was he looking for comprehension? Creakily, Leo whispered, “I understand.”
Pat shook his head. “You don’t understand. My sons are killers. My father’s sons are killers. His father’s sons. And so on. A never-ending daisy chain of killers. Some families, they’re accountants. They’re shoe salesmen. My family… our business is killing. From way back.”
The old man smiled. “I have four sons. I was blessed with them late in life, like some Biblical patriarch, but I got ‘em. Tony you know of course.” The SUV driver winked at Leo. “But I have four sons total. Three of them, like me, are killers. One of them likes computers. Computers! At first I didn’t understand. I thought he was brain-damaged, right?”
Pat laughed. The guy who looked like an older, fleshier Tony smiled and rolled his eyes.
“But what do I know? Maybe this is the way my great great grandfather felt when he had a boy who said, ‘I want to use a gun.’ Maybe my great great grandfather said, “No gun. A knife – stiletto – is good enough.’ But his son knew better.” The old man took a sip of beer, cleared his throat, then added, “My son knows better.”
He clapped his hands together. “Which brings us to today. My business is good – my business is always good – but I have one big problem, besides law enforcement and rats –” he paused to spit on the floor, “etcetera etcetera. It’s not a problem unique to me. Oh no. Everybody’s feeling it these days From IBM on down. You know what it is?” He smiled, clapped his hands again, and said, “Staffing. It’s staffing. The last few generations, it’s been very tough to find candidates for employment who are qualified and motivated and intelligent enough to do what we do. Yes, I said ‘intelligent.’ There’s more to this business than squeezing a trigger, right? You gotta get away with it afterwards. It used to be you could drag a net through an Italian neighborhood and find likely candidates. Now it’s ‘What Italian neighborhood? Where?’ And the people you’d get… There’s no… no…”
“Work ethic,” contributed Tony.
“Bingo,” said Pat. “Nobody wants to work. They all want to write movies and comic books, shit like that.”
Leo nodded.
“Now, besides work ethic, there’s one special quality I need from my employees: Loyalty. IBM, McDonalds, they need it too, of course. But not like me. And loyalty, that’s something you can’t teach. That’s something you can’t learn on the job.
“So my computer genius son Peter, he tells me no problem. He’ll take everything we need, he’ll put it into a computer game, and the applicants will be coming to us, from all over the world. They’ll be paying us to test them. It’s lunacy, I think. Brain-damage, right? But then, a couple of years ago, I got desperate enough to give brain damage a try. Why not? And after two years of trying, and thousands of applicants… here we are.”
Here we are, thought Leo. “This isn’t real.”
“Sure it is,” said Pat. “It’s real ‘cause we made it real. Let me tell you, your scores are off the charts. Best we’ve ever seen. I mean, you’ve got a lot to learn, real life is very different from clicking a mouse and whatnot, and it looks like you should put on some muscle – you didn’t play football in high school?”
Leo shook his head no.
“All my boys play high school football. Good for putting on muscle. That can be fixed. But your reflexes, your timing, your judgment – they all blew Peter’s algorithms away. And on the final test, the loyalty check… No one else has ever come close. Your timing there… just a long enough pause for you to register you have a choice to make, but much too short for you to even calculate the odds. You did the right thing, without thinking. And you did it out of loyalty to a computer program. Not even a real person. Perfect score. The algorithm went nuts.”
From the wall, Peter said, “That’s not exactly how –”
“You let your old man tell the story,” said Pat. “You won, alright? So take the win and shut up.”
Peter smiled and shut up.
Pat turned back to Leo. “Now, maybe you’re thinking, ‘This guy makes hit video games. Why is he still being a criminal?’ That’s easy. First off, Crime pays better. You wouldn’t believe.” He laughed and waved his hand around the room. “Don’t be fooled by the luxurious setting. Crime pays good. But, more important, I like being a criminal. I perform a… uh… a function for society. If I don’t do it, somebody else will. And that guy could be an asshole. Besides, not all my sons are into computers. They gotta work, too.”
Leo had known where this was heading for some time, but he had to make this clear to himself. He had to hear it out loud. “This is a job offer.”
Pat nodded. “This is a job offer.”
One of the guys by the wall handed Pat a purple satin pillow. There was a handgun on it. It was just like the game.
“And you’ll kill me if I say no?”
Pat laughed. “Why would I do that? Who’d ever believe you? No, you can go back to the dry cleaner whenever you want. I’ll even arrange for you to get a raise.”
Pat held the pillow out to Leo. “So what do you say, kid? It’s yours if you want it.”
Again, years later, Leo would be amazed to think back at how quickly he made his decision.
THE END