Page 35 of Luck of the Draw

You can’t see shit.

But that was a good thing, and she liked it, too.

8

FRENCH QUARTER, NEW ORLEANS

The sound of his phone buzzing on the nightstand shook Brennan awake, and he blindly reached for it. Squinting through one sleep-blurred eye, his stomach curdled as he read the caller ID, and then he leaped out of bed.

“Mr. Moreci, how are you doing?” he answered after closing the bedroom door behind him.

“Brennan,” Vito wheezed through a smoker’s voice. He coughed. “How are ya, kid? Sorry to bug ya so early.”

“Nah, you’re good.” Brennan rubbed his eyes. “I was already up.”

“Oh yeah? You got big plans for this fine Thursday morning?”

“Yeah, I…” Brennan glanced behind him at the closed bedroom door and then paced up and down the hall. “I’ve got a friend visiting from out of town. We’re planning to hit up some tourist traps.”

“Very nice, very nice.” Vito coughed again. “Make sure you take ‘em on that cemetery tour. Out-of-towners love that shit.”

“Yeah, yeah. Sure will. They sure do.”

“Now, kid,” Vito said, abruptly switching gears. There was one reason for this call, and they both knew it. “I was talkin’ to my bookie last night, and it looks like you still haven’t covered your tab yet. This is going on three weeks. What’s the deal?”

Brennan cleared his throat. “Nothing at all. Just…uh…just waiting on a couple of things.”

“Well, you waiting is making me wait, and you know I hate that.” Vito coughed again. “You’re really kinda chappin’ my ass, Brennan.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Moreci, the problem is—”

“I don’t really wanna hear about problems. I like solutions. I like settled scores. And I like you, Brennan. I’ve known you for a while, haven’t I?”

A sick sensation seeped into his gut. “Yeah. Yeah, you have.”

“And we never had a problem before, did we?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, we got a problem now, and I don’t like it. I know you’re good for it, so what’s the damn hold up?”

“Well, I…uh…the thing is…”

“Never mind.” There was a sound of papers shuffling and another cough. “Looks like you’re on the hook for one-point-two.”

Brennan’s brow pulled low. “One point two what?”

Vito hacked a cough and then laughed. “Million, ya friggin’ smart guy. And I’m gonna need that this week, ya hear?”

Brennan closed his eyes and slowly brought his fist to his mouth.

One-point-two million dollars.

He pulled the phone away from his ear and clutched the bridge of his nose. “Fuck. Me.”

How in the hell had he managed to rack up that much?

There was a lot of money in Brennan’s trust fund—even millions were chump change in comparison—and this shouldn’t have been an issue. But this particular week happened to be when Orson had decided to go on a penny-pinching rampage to teach Brennan a lesson, so pulling out that much money right now would definitelynotgo unnoticed.

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