Anya opened her hand and peered into the screen of her phone. She had a message half-typed to ?Mom?: ?Ill call u later, hes up?. She locked the screen, smiled servilely and pulled both her arms behind her back. ?Very funny,? Anya said. She sat down on one of the stools on the bar?s outer curve, laid her arms atop the nice, smooth counter and smiled up at her father. She closed her left eye and continued to look squintedly and with a flimsy grin out of the left end of her mouth, wrinkling that unfortunate already-crushed cheek under the slipeye. ?Is that what a good father should say, Daddy? Telling me not to text mom with a drink in your hand and---what time is it??

She tried for her phone, tried to thumb the button but Mr. Krist verbally extinguished her bounds, her lazy recovery with, ?7:23---? He leaned further over the counter and it looked, to Anya, as if he might jump completely over it. He did not; he was trying to catch more of the television screen with his old, cloudy eyes. ?---23 or 73.? Grinning, Mr. Krist disarmed the leaping pose and took to again a leisurely, napping lean into the barcounter.

Anya turned around and nodded. ?--yeah. 7:73--you?re right, how weird. What does that mean?? When she turned her grin to her father she found that his grin was longer and sharper.

The smile unspooled to let in the rim of the glass that had no bronze to give; the icecubes ran into his teeth and knocked some pain into his eyes. Extinguishing, he again smiled and reached out for his bourbon bottle. ?It means the end is nigh obviously, Anya. Probably best that you cancel all appoints, lock all doors and hide out in the basement.? Mr. Krists eyebrows stepped up and all the curvy waves in his forehead jolted up with them.

The upstairs area of the Krist home was grand and royal and egregiously spacious. When outside Anya?s door, one is sat right onto the cool, smooth rosewood runnings of the floorboards in the hall, which was wide and tall. The walls were brown and hearty and smooth of upstraight planks, perfect and ascending with almost-symmetry throughout the corridor. The walls were adorned meagerly. Directly right of Anya?s room the hall lead ten yards then splitoff into a T. Directly in the centerwall between the splitting halls hung an ornately-framed portrait of a square-and-hardfaced man in a grey suit. His hair was slicked back, his eyes were small and profound and blue, his nose long and triangular like a sail, his mouth tiny and unemotive.

Anya turned left towards the stairs. The banister, downwardmoving, was shiny and curled down like an unslacked pigstail of rosewood. The downstairs hall was circular, wide, grandiose. It was an ornamental space and entrance both: luxuriously rugged and outlayed completely in royal burgundy (as to match the doorrunner and the downstepping, tonguelike runner rolled down the stairs). The entrance hall was plain, but classic with two lushly varnished end tables stood at odds in the concaving longwalls of the semicircle staircase that wrapped-up the downstairs room like a big white slumbering cobra.

The girl slowly descended the case, turned left in the grand circular room, her head still downcast and stolen by the screen of her phone. A high archway separated the entrance hall from the luxurious living space. The theme was white and modern; right of the room were couches and a row of long windows, left stood a black lacquered crescent shaped bar laid ahead of a longrow library of alcohol. The man in the painting, the slickhaired, sharpeyed, foxlike man, was there, leaning over the barcounter on his elbow with a drink in his hand, his small eyes thrown across the room where the television flickered.

Gamble?s fingers stretched and the tips curled up and made each long digit unnaturally concave. Several warm cracks snapped free of flesh before the man toed-in his fingertips and made each hand a fist. Clyde was no stranger to his partner?s agitations; familiar with both the causes and tells; but appeared strangely resilient in the face of Gamble?s stirring rage. Clyde didn?t take his eyes from Gamble?s, and Gamble?s too did not retreat. Only did Clyde move his hands, taking them up and into the breeches of his coat to again amass at his hips.
   
?I think I?m through,? Gamble said. ?Just about through, yeah, with you, Clyde Morris. I think that it?s best that you runalong.?
   
Clyde, a tall and fierce petrification, edifice of an uncertain and ambiguous victory, a genesis of pretentious unfaltering, looked back at Gamble and did not speak. His mouth stayed straight, his yellowy eyes, quiet and small, were straight. When he moved it was only his fingers, those of his right hand, and they crawled, slow and misstepped and impulsively and as wretchedly metered as spiderlegs, towards the pommel of the .45 buried in his beltline.
   
?Haw!? Gamble hollered in excitement. He?d seen the motion, seen those little spiderfingers crawl. He sided his body with a quick turn, a quick step, swung it so that his broad torso no longer faced Clyde and that his skinny hips, less the target, did instead. In rear, tucked into his belt was the curly old trunk of that antique six-cylinder revolver. It?s pommel was rightfaced, acceptable by the right hand in this sided posture.

And Clyde hadn?t made for his gun, but Gamble?s hurry made a hurry of him. Clyde?s eyes crack, separate from the comfortable mysticism silence, a gruff, stringent mouth and a gun award, and panic; they crack. Nostrils flare, his bottom lip leans down as if to release a holler in pain from the ghost of a bullet presaged by Gamble?s gunstance. He?s tricked by his friend?s stance and thrown into defense before the introduction of an honest, tangible offense: fooled by the noise Gamble had cheered, fooled by his siding, and, ultimately and completely, fooled by the varnish on the trunk of his revolver.

?I just heard some things in her sleep,? Clyde said distantly. Gamble tracked the boy as he reversed and attained a purposefully deflective posture, face and distance. ?I just---it was something about your eyes, ?the guy with green eyes?. It could mean anything, I just think she might get frightened.?

?I see. Sounds like a stretch, Clyde.?

?Right,? Clyde said with a shrug. ?I know, but why not be cautious? What do you want me to ask her??

Gamble took up posting against the door. A slanted mouth and lowered eyes considered Clyde?s offer, his tongue slithered out over his lip and wiggled and toyed. He grins. ?Guess what??

Stolen by Gamble?s frightening coyness, Clyde?s answer was a stare.

?I didn?t promise Craig any money,? Gamble said. The man?s handsomely slender eyes zip to his once mighty vehicle, lean over its now-dented edges and end up tangled in the vine-and-grass-ensnared chain link fence that cordoned off Craig?s infinitesimal backyard from the several other junked and overgrown spaces along the shoddy row, along the shoddy block. A tall tenement loomed up like a broken obelisk of lighted yellow squares directly behind the chain fence and in the day Gamble figured that it would lean its fat, boring shadow all over Craig?s lawn. The man picked a window with a women in it and portioned out all of his attention to her curled form. Distance was the disservice to articulation; she was about four stories up and leaned into the sill with her back to Gamble. He could see a phone cord slung from the wall and the steep bounds of the wire made him think it was coiled around her arm as she spoke into the receiver.
?No,? Gamble dragged on coolly. ?Money wasn?t his ?thing?. Weird huh?? Gamble pulled his eyes down and ran them into Clyde. Clyde had slipped into a systemic stupor. It begins with skinny, punching eyes and pinched lips. Then false knowing: nods, chin scratching, picks at ear, slashes at his bangs. Gamble throws the line out, throws the suspension of wording right above Clyde?s nose and watches as the boy?s face crushes in with speculation.

?Say what you?re gonna? say,? finally broken in by Clyde.

?Craig wasn?t going to let us keep her here,? Gamble said. He hooked his thumb over his shoulder, square at the door. ?He didn?t want a cut, didn?t want to help, didn?t want to be a part of something big like this. All he wanted was for us to get that chick out of his house. And so I got to thinking, got to thinking that if we were going to get out of this that he was the way.?

?Are you asking me for permission?? Clyde said. ?You?re having second thoughts??

?I?m having twentieth thoughts, Clyde, don?t be idiotic, you know that. It was hasty of me to destroy my car, and I won?t stand to be immobile. So I offered Craig a few hours with the girl. And when he says ?when? we?re going to give him some privacy, and then we?re going to leave her to him.?

Clyde?s face jumps out as he howls, ?What! You?re gonna? let that f'ckin? pedophile just have her? When??

Gamble turned his eyes around, looked at the sealed door and shrugged. ?I told him soon,? he said. ?But it?ll be fine.?

Pushing himself up, Clyde stretched casually then moved towards Gamble, his eyes stuck on the slumbering girl on the suspended cot. When Gamble opened his eyes at the boy, Clyde fished his thumb towards the door and started towards it. Gamble, playfully unwilling, asked, ?Something the matter?? Clyde grimaced. He tossed his head towards the door and mouthed, ?c?mon?, but Gamble, his face a festering show of cruelty and rambunctious humor, would not move. Clyde stomped over and leaned over so far he nearly stuck his nose into Gamble?s mouth. ?We have something to discuss,? he whispered sharply

?Mm? Then discuss.?

?Not here man, c?mon. Please.? Clyde takes several steps back and expands his eyes. ?Please.?

Gamble peels away from the bench and takes the lead through the door to the outside. Clyde catches the door and jets out after, nervously slashing at his hairline with the edge of hand. Throwing both arms away from his body and letting them limply flail around, Clyde sighs and works a few circles in the gravel. Gamble zipped right for the old car and peeled the driver door open, leaned in and ejected the trunk. Crossing back around, he asked, ?Well?? then moved to lift the trunk latch up.

?Alright, Gamble. I?m going to say a bunch of sh't here, and you just need to listen.?

Bent entirely into the trunkspace, Gamble pulled one arm out and waved it around servilely to perpetuate his partner?s qualm. Clyde didn?t believe the man was at his most attentive, but with the criteria on hold, he figured this for the better. ?This whole thing,? Clyde began. ?It?s rotten. It?s not the kind of sh't we do, Gamble, you know that. We?re thieves, we?re thugs. We do that sh't well, we?ve been doin? it forever and been doin? it well. I know better than to climb in your shoes and take a ride, and in all honesty I can see the gains here, but the percentages just aren?t there, man, they?re not. They?re not and you know it, so I want the truth. You call me a f'ckin? half wit, that?s probably true, and I can accept it because you?re a sharp guy. So there?s more to this, right? There?s somethin? I?m not seeing? Other plans??

Removing a large bag and a wide black case from the trunk, Gamble snaps open his eyes with sardonicism and ruffles the flesh of his brow. ?No,? he draws idly, turning to set down both the bag and case. He unsnaps the bindings of the long case. ?Pretty black and white---now, didn?t I mention this earlier? Didn?t I purposely keep you in the dark as to avoid this stuff from you, Clyde? I?m not asking you to stay.? Gamble, over his shoulder, eyes skinny, butted up his chin. ?I mean it---go. It was unfair of me,? returning attention to the unclasped case, ?I?m not going to shoot you in the back were you to turn-tail. This is too big for you.?

Craig Ames was a stubby man with shiny brown skin. His face was round with a long, frowned mouth cut below a choppy black mustache with silver frosting. His head was shaved down neatly, his hairline cowering-in on his forehead from a recession of fifty years. Craig?s eyes were tiny and black and shone dully like marbles sprayed over in acrylic. He jabbed the air at Gamble and told him, ?I don?t owe you anything. So,? a passe wave sailing slumberly to the doorway, ?just leave, please. I?m in the process of building.?

?Building what, boy-o?? Gamble said. Sneaking his head through the doorframe separating the rooms, he spotted Clyde and smiled. then reverted to Craig. ?Mm? I think you need to just hear me out.?

Craig was impervious. His rotund body barely cleared the frame without incident, and once in the room he trucked to the couch where Anya laid and flung the toe of his boot up from below, pushing the girl and the mattress up. Anya, impressively, remained convincingly unconscious during her trip through the air. ?Up,? he said to her. Then to Clyde: ?Up---Get. Her. Up.?

Out of place, Clyde snuck back and failed eye contact. ?C?mon man,? he said. ?We need this. Just let us lay here for a while.?

?Out of the question,? Craig said. He lumbered away to the stained refrigerator in the back corner of the room and retrieved a bottle of beer. He flipped right around and grunted. He smacked his boot against the fridge and snapped off the cap. When he drank, he shook his head. ?No. No; **** you. **** both of you.? With bright anger Craig pushed off the appliance and its rust-blanketed drawers rattled when it hit the wall. ?I just spent four f'ckin? years in federal f'ckin? jail. Then this,? he said, panning with his palm, serving Clyde and Gamble, then finally Anya, upon it. ?I don?t care. There?s nothing that?ll change my mind. So how about you take this battered bitch out of my little sh'thole before I call the cops. I can?t risk this.?

Gamble crossed the room and smacked Clyde?s shoulder. Clyde zapped back and took the breeches of his jacket between his fingers. ?Cigarette,? Gamble said. Clyde gave him one and took one for himself. They passed a lighter around, the fulgent orange globular of flame smacking their faces, creating steep black lines about their mouths, drawn like nightfangs. The blackness of the space now contained two orange dots, a flat plane of blued light carpeted from the backroom's lamp and the resonating square of sundown orange that haloed the unfit frame of the front door.

After navigating the secret alleyways with the cackling Nova, Gamble finally dared to jerk the car into traffic. He appeared uneasy briefly. He knocked on Clyde?s shoulder and requested another cigarette. Once in traffic the car ticked louder. Gamble tested the gas and smoke gusted from the grill. It bowled over the windshield and both men vociferated in whisper. ?Get it off, get it off,? Clyde ordered, gripping the dash. Gamble yanked the cigarette out of his mouth and scanned the street.
   
?Alright,? Gamble said. ?I have an idea.? Following several erratic lane changes amidst a throng of protuberant cawing horns and flashing lights, the querulous vehicle snapped leftward and slipped into another skinny alleyway. It was dim and crowded. A collective of happily desperate children; skinny and placid; were stuffed into the throat-like road. At once, seized by the smoldering old car, they ceased action and stood geniously still with wide eyes glowing in their brown, poor bodies. One tall boy was holding a stick, another was bent over, retrieving a ball, and the community behind, in unison, stared on with mystic scrutiny. Gamble smiled and leaned on the horn. At once the youthen statuary leapt from their embossment and scattered backwards, waving their arms and laughing, turning this, their little strange moment, into a game.

Clyde threw his arms up. ?Well!? he cried. ?Where is it now? Where the f'ck is this going to end??

?At Craig Ames? garage. It?s only blocks away. Remember who I?m talkin? about??

Clyde did, so he nods. It felt good to have structure now. A slight and esoteric something always beats a flush of nothings. ?Alright. Alright---good. So we?re taking her there. What will Craig say??

Gamble shrugged his bottom lip and left shoulder. ?Don?t really matter,? he said. ?Craig is spineless and lonely. How long?s it been since you?ve seen ?em??

?I 'dunno. Couple years??

?Know why??

?Heard he was in jail,? Clyde said, nodding.

?You got it---know what for??

?Dude, I 'dunno. Just go.?

?Guess.?

?Cheating on his taxes, Gamble; I don?t f'ckin? know, man.?

Gamble gripped the shifter and twisted his body around. For Anya, whom appeared quite still and calm, Gamble crossed a smile. ?Our good old friend Craig Ames is a registered sex offender. How wonderful for us. Once he gets a look at little Anya he?s gonna? sh't.?

Just after Clyde turned the key (and following a minute smirk because the engine limped to a groan), he jerked his head out of the cabin and hollered for Gamble. Hollering, reddening, stepping free of the console, Clyde crept to the bow of the car, to the exposed, moaning engine block, and squinted. Nothing; no one. He brims his eyes with his palm and leans into a strong look at Anya?s car where there was great movement. From the horizon of the Mercedes? roof, Clyde picked out the slithery ends of Gamble?s hair: it was moving, dipping and appearing over and over.

Clyde fastened his left hand to his throbbing thigh and began hobbling to the white car. Squinting, the jouncing of Gamble?s hair diminished, Clyde pinned the  side of his hand to his forehead, swatted fangs of hair away, then peered from the cover of the brim again. A sharp pain sounds from the other side of the car, where he had seen Gamble. It was a wounded howl, cresting, plummeting with vital terror. Clyde squints harder, seeing movement through the driverside window. Arriving, the gait mild with practice, Clyde throws his hands against the trunk of Anya?s car and peers in. He peckers around, his neck ribbing and leaping off the joint excitedly, saying ?Gamble.? Clyde limped to the right end of the of the trunk and saw him pulling the croaking young boy out of the car. He hollared again, ?Gamble---Gamble!?, woundedly cocking his head, glowering, firing spines into Gamble. The boy was on the street, eighteen, nineteen maybe, his face thick with fear and dissociation, something likening the power of birth laid instantaneously upon a fully cognitive mind, accepting the blade of life. Gamble was over him, Clyde could see, his hands sunk into his pockets, looming.
?
You gonna? answer me, boy-o,? Gamble said. ?Or are you just gonna? cry and squirm and whistle out of your shattered f'cking nose.?
The boy tried to push himself up, like a backwards push-up, to a seated position. Gamble popped him in the shoulder with a little kick and sent him back hard, although he had not made much progress anyway. When the back of his head bounced off the tarmac he cringed, writhed weakly and started bellering, thin tearbolts cracking down his face.
?This is shameful,? Gamble said. Placing the toe of his boot into the plate of the boy?s shoulder, he pushed down and the boy cried out with a red, sweat-filled face. ?C?mon. This is what pampering bought you? Look at you. An entire life of f?cking cute little tramps and hanging off your daddy?s nuts, and you never even took the time to toughen up? Well what did it getcha?? Gotcha? a separated shoulder and a broken f?cking face.?

Clyde was inching around the frontend when Gamble caught him. ?Back to the car,? Gamble said to him and Clyde froze, eyes wide. Gamble reverted to the downed boy. Wriggling the toe of his boot in his shoulder, the boy howled again.

?Gamble!? Clyde howled. His squint had abandoned qualities of reconnaissance; now it was an unpleased scowl, hot and piercing. ?Come the hell on!?   
    
Gamble adjusted the hem of his shirt, pulled his lips to the side of his mouth and tipped back to examine the sky; the greyness had fallen closer like a blanket settling over the sheets. He gripped his chin and appeared to gnaw. ?Have it your  way,? he said. Stepping over the boy, Gamble hoisted his eyebrows and smirked at Clyde on his approach. Clyde, still hunched over the hood, let some of the fury go from his face. When Clyde nods Gamble freezes like he had stepped out of time, like whatever spark that promotes movement of joint had leapt from the sleeves of flesh and bone. The spark returns and Gamble?s pallid green eyes dart back, and as if the momentum of these eyes coerced it with inertia, his entire head reverts to the boy (again pushing himself up by the points of his elbows).

   Curled in the rear of the Nova, Anya stirred when a bolting sound crushed the soundlessness of a the desolate city block. Her mouth separated like an opening treasure, for the dried blood that crusted over her lips likened a rusted latch. Next Clyde came rushing to the car, his knee crashing into the door while he struggled hurriedly, a fervor to pop it out of the jamb. Clicking, the separation of latch from its obviously pinched or broken housing, the passenger side swings open and Clyde collapses into the bucket. Glimpses of consciousness came to her like weak light through fast cloud: unpowered, wan and inconsistent. She groaned when Gamble entered, her eyelids scudding apart, waterlogged and wild eyes cruising around the stuffy cabin at high speed noncognitively. Snippits arrived, but she was not committing. The younger voice was wild with vociferation, accusing, rocking, the entire vehicle seemed to jounce with his crazed cries. She shifted a bit and heard the calmness of reply, dark and derisive, spitting his defense with rhythm but without much power or care on his words. Stacy groaned when the car jerked to a stop. A pocket of words were committed on the way; the priorities being ?boy, why, dead, shoot (shot) and f?ck?.