Page 98 of A Breath of Life
“Does that mean you won’t help me?”
“It means taaalk,” he whined. “I can’t with this day. Watching paint dry would be more exciting. I’m going to start work-drinking soon. These energy drinks aren’t cutting it.”
“Drinking on the job sounds like a good way to get your ass fired. Unless you’re your own boss like Diem, in which case, have at ’er. Can we focus on me now?”
“Yes, you needy bitch. A gambling question. Go. I’m listening.”
“How might one go about finding a… less than legal establishment?”
“What do you mean?”
“Come on, Memph. Don’t play dumb. You know what I mean. The ones that fly under the cops’ radar and are run by, like, the mafia or something.”
Memphis snorted. “You’re so vanilla.”
“Shut up. I’m serious.”
“The mafia? You watch too much TV.”
“I don’t know. Bad guys. People who have questionable morals. More specifically, they seem to have a boner for Edwardian fashion.”
Memphis went quiet.
“Weird, right? I would love to ask them why, but under the circumstances, it wouldn’t be my first question.”
“Is this for a case?”
“Yes.”
“Deets?”
“No.”
More silence.
“Memphis. Help me.”
“How would I know?”
“You have connections. Lots of connections.”
“Are you calling me a whore?”
“No, babe. I would never. Now think.”
We had both spent the years since college riding the high of party life. Mostly, we enjoyed clubbing, drinking, and fucking, but my best friend sometimes dabbled in extracurricular activities that I suspected included gambling. Also, with his penchant to fuck anything with a heartbeat, he was apt to know someone with answers.
“Memph,” I whined when he paused for too long. “Why aren’t you saying anything?”
“I’m thinking. Let me… call someone.”
“Who? Why? Do I know them?”
“You met him the other day.”
I blanked, searching my memory. Memphis and I hadn’t hung out in two weeks. “Who?”
“Joshua.”
