"Victor, you've got a concealed-carry permit, sure, but that doesn't mean you can just pop off at anybody."
Tony was laying into Victor.
Victor jabbed a finger at the security monitor. "They broke in. Illegally. I was just warning them."
Tony sucked in a breath as a warm Chicago breeze rolled through. "But why are you carrying all the time? You planning to shoot somebody the second you feel like it?"
Victor looked at him like he'd grown a second head and pointed west. "Come on, Tony—I live in the South Side. There're gangbangers on every corner. I speed home just so I don't have to stop. Otherwise, I don't feel safe."
"Alright, alright, enough!"
Tony snapped his notebook shut. "I get it. I live here too—I floor it home every night."
"Then why even ask?"
Victor couldn't believe the guy was making such a big deal out of nothing. Tony shrugged. "Just telling you—your little six-shooter's got no punch. You need at least an eleven-round Glock. One squeeze and you're done. Plus, you're allowed a shotgun for home defense."
"Thanks for the tip."
···
Michael shoved the front door open, his shoulder muscles still throbbing.
That chase from yesterday had left his left arm bruised from a bat swing; every time he lifted it, a dull ache shot through.
Ethan trailed in behind him, tossing his dusty jacket onto the rack by the door—where two equally grimy jackets were already hanging.
"We're back," Michael called into the empty living room, voice heavy with post-mission exhaustion and relief. "Victor? You around?"
A clatter of metal came from the kitchen, followed by Victor's trademark light, bouncy footsteps.
"Welcome home, warriors!"
He popped into the hallway holding two highly suspicious-looking plates. "I made you a welcome-back feast."
Ethan wrinkled his nose. Michael instinctively stepped back.
Each plate held a thick, green sludge that shimmered weirdly under the light. Chunks of mystery meat bobbed in it, and limp veggies floated on top like drowning victims.
"Jesus, Victor," Michael gagged. "We're starving, and this is your idea of torture?"
Victor gave an exaggerated shrug, a prankster grin plastered on his face.
"Hey, this is my best recipe yet!"
He scooped up a spoonful; the green goop stretched into a long, wobbly string. "Per Michael's notes—packed with protein, fiber, and… uh… other good stuff."
Ethan threw up a stop-hand. "I'd rather take two more punches from Ian than touch that."
"How the hell did the two of you not take him down?"
Victor suddenly got serious, setting the plates on the coffee table. "You really got Ian committed?"
Michael collapsed onto the couch, rubbing his temples. "Frankie drove him there himself and paid for another six months of 'treatment.'" He air-quoted hard. "Place looks like a medieval dungeon—nah, more like a Hitler youth camp. But Ian had it coming."
Ethan's focus was elsewhere. "Guy's a monster in Gotham—how were we supposed to beat him?"
Victor's face turned grave. "Speaking of Frankie—Fiona came by today."
"Fiona?" Ethan raised an eyebrow. "That girl's got some nerve. Old Joe shut her down flat—told her straight-up she doesn't belong in the South Side."
"Guess some agreements have expiration dates."
Victor rolled his eyes. "She wanted me to put in a good word with Frankie for her brother—some 'past misunderstanding' crap."
Michael snorted. "You told her to kick rocks, right?"
"Obviously."
Victor threw his hands up. "Didn't you guys have fun beating the guy senseless?"
All three cracked up. Ethan grabbed the remote, flipped on the TV, and landed on a channel running an old flick. The background noise filled the empty room.
"Serious talk," Michael said, straightening up. He pulled a fat envelope from his backpack and tossed it onto the coffee table. "We've got all this cash—what are we doing with it?"
Ethan whistled, picking up the envelope and bouncing it in his palm. "That's a nice chunk. Frankie was real generous—gave us every penny of the betting pool."
"Invest it?" Michael suggested. "We can't keep hustling like this forever."
Victor's guard went up instantly. "Invest? In what—stocks? Real estate? That crypto garbage?"
He shook his head. "Too risky. I'd rather stuff it in the mattress."
"In the mattress?" Ethan stared, dumbfounded. "Victor, it's the eighties, not Prohibition! Why not bury it in the backyard with canned goods?"
"At least my money won't vanish because some Wall Street prick woke up on the wrong side of the bed!"
Victor dug in his heels.
"You're more stubborn than Old Joe!"
"Making money off white folks is hard enough!"
"You don't have to hoard it—money doesn't breed, man. Only investing keeps it from rotting!"
Michael raised both hands. "Whoa, time-out."
He thought for a second. "Victor's got a point—investing's risky. But Ethan's right too—letting cash sit is just burning it."
"So what do we do?" Ethan asked. "Buy lottery tickets?"
They all went quiet for a beat.
Gunshots crackled from the TV's old movie, a sharp contrast to the living-room silence.
Victor suddenly burst out laughing. "You guys realize none of us has a clue how to invest like normal people?"
Michael froze, then started howling. Ethan joined in.
Laughter bounced around the room, chasing away the tension.
"God, we're pathetic," Michael said, wiping tears. "Three grown men, zero basic money sense between us."
"Hang on," Ethan snapped his fingers. "I know a guy who might help."
Victor eyed him warily. "Who—your cousin slinging Slurpees at the corner store?"
"Nah, that idiot's obsessed with model airplanes."
Michael's eyes lit up—he got it. "You mean Blair Parfait!"
"Who?" Victor looked lost.
"Blair Parfait!" Michael repeated. "South Side kid, Wharton Business School grad, fresh financial hotshot interviewing on Wall Street right now. Dude's sharp."
"You're talking about the white guy?"
Victor went from confused to stunned. "He'd help us?"
"Frankie used to run with him—bailed him out of a bunch of jams," Ethan confirmed. "Guy's got a shady rep, but his brain's a calculator."
Victor's eyes sparkled. "How much cash we got total?"
"I can put in four grand two hundred," Ethan said.
Michael shrugged. "I've got six-seven."
"How the hell do you have that much?"
"I pay for Victor's groceries—my paycheck's bigger!"
"You've been skimming?!"
"Enough!" Victor cut in. "I'll throw in ten grand. You two kick in five each. We test the waters?"
"Let's test it!"
Ethan was pumped. "We should get a lawyer to vet everything."
Victor's face lit up—he knew just the guy. "Jimmy McGill. South Side hustler turned lawyer. Now practicing in New Mexico out of a nail-salon office."
Michael's jaw dropped. "He's literally the South Side's punchline."
"That's him," Victor nodded. "Shady rep, but the guy's a wizard in the gray areas."
Michael added, "Last year he got Old Tommy's kid off a felony with a loophole so wild the judge called it 'creative.'"
Ethan rubbed his chin. "So we're hiring a disgraced lawyer to guide our investments?"
"Not invest for us," Michael clarified. "Find us safe plays. Jimmy knows everybody—including some… unconventional money guys."
Victor chimed in, "Plus he's cheap, and he's back in the South Side begging for work or he's headed back to the desert."
Silence again. They weighed the pros and cons.
On TV, the movie hero launched into a victory speech as the score swelled.
"I say we do it," they all said together.
"But play it smart," Michael added. "Call Jimmy first, then Blair. Feel them out—tell them we've got cash to grow."
Michael pulled out his address book and started flipping.
"This guy's got burner numbers everywhere."
Victor shook his head. "Sounds like we're about to team up with a lunatic."
"In this crazy world," Michael said, finding the number and flashing a sly grin, "sometimes you need a lunatic who knows how to game the system."
He punched the digits on the brick-sized Motorola, set it on the coffee table, and hit speaker.
The dial tone beeped loud in the quiet room. All three guys held their breath like this call was about to flip their whole lives.
···
Ethan left a page on the beeper.
Minutes later, the phone rang back.
"Hello, Jimmy McGill, attorney at law—I fix anything."
"Jimmy, it's Ethan Lee."
"Oh, hey there, Mr. Fancy Ethan—"
"Fuck you! It's Ethan—the guy who watched the door while you stole taquitos from the Mexican joint!"
"Ohhh—Ethan!!! You bought a Motorola?? Your money's making me jealous!"
"Get to the South Side—2131 North Walls Street. Two hundred bucks if you show. Maybe a contract after."
"Now?"
"What's wrong with now?"
"It's six-ten in the evening, sky's the color of every South Side creep's favorite hiding spot. Forgive me for not having a car that hits ninety."
"That a problem? My brother Michael can pick you up."
"This urgent?"
"Kinda."
"You trying to lure me over and kidnap me?"
"How could you even think that? If I wanted you gone, I wouldn't have warned you before the Mexicans stuffed your 'flower' into an avocado!"
"Fine, Ethan. I'm at the downtown homeless shelter. Come get me—bring a taquito and an ice-cold Coke. I'm starving."
"You're really down bad, huh?"
"Thanks for the compliment, but at least I don't live in the South Side."
"Fuck you! Stay put!"
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