“What do you mean, ‘serious’?”

“I mean serious. Like, made-his-money-selling-drugs serious. He used to run crack back in the eighties. In a big way.”

“Really?” Jenn said, a lilt in her voice.

“Really. He doesn’t do it anymore, but he’s still got connections. I been working here a long time, I’ve seen some shit.”

“What kind of shit?”

“Italian guys coming in carrying briefcases, walking out empty-handed. That kind of shit. He’s not somebody to mess with.”

“How come you never told us about him?”

“I don’t see him much. He owns a couple of places, leaves running them to the managers. He still comes in, but sits in his office, people coming to talk to him. Shady people.”

“Whatever,” Mitch said. “I’m not scared. He’s a punk.” He drained half his fresh beer in one go, the remnants of adrenaline and shame making his hands shake. “I’d still like to take him outside.”

Alex chuckled.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No. What does that mean?”

“Just that”-Alex shrugged-“I mean, come on, man. You’re not exactly a street fighter.”

“You don’t think I can take care of myself?”

“I don’t mean anything.” Alex exchanged a look with Jenn. “Just relax, OK? Let it go.”

Mitch stared at him, then at Jenn, her eyes locked on her glass. Was this what they thought of him? He wanted to yell, to throw his beer and storm off to find that scumbag ex-drug dealer. Bad enough to have a scene like that in front of Jenn. But then for Alex to basically call him a wimp? His forehead was hot, and he had a sick feeling in his gut, one he hated, the same one that he got every time he held the door for some rich asshole who didn’t even bother to acknowledge he existed.

“Hey,” Ian said, pulling out his seat, eyes bright and smile toothy. “What’d I miss?”

THE NIGHT ENDED much earlier than Ian had in mind. The combination of a handful of drinks and the maintenance trip to the bathroom had him wide-awake, ready to roll. The place was more restaurant than bar, and it shut down at eleven; they’d hung out while Alex finished his closing duties, but the scene with the owner had apparently soured everybody’s mood. Instead of their usual retreat to a back table to bullshit until one or two, Jenn had looked at her watch and suggested they wrap early. Mitch, even quieter than usual as he sat drinking with grim determination, had nodded, and then suddenly they were outside. Alex and Jenn lived in the same direction and split a cab north.

“You’ll make sure he gets home?” Alex said, one hand against the roof of the car.

“I don’t need a babysitter.” Mitch ran the words together. Ian ignored him, said, “Sure,” to Alex, then kissed Jenn on the cheek, closed the door, and thumped the trunk. He felt good, lucky. Maybe after he dropped Mitch off, he’d hop in his car, spin down to the game.

“Greasy little cheeseball.” Mitch wobbled across the street.

“Sounds like a character. Sorry I missed him.” He held up an arm for a cab that blew right past. “He really own the place?”

“Whatever.” Mitch rubbed at his forehead. “So he has a lot of money. So what? That mean he gets to treat people that way?”

“I wonder how much he has.” Ian waved again, and this time a cab glided to a stop beside them. They climbed in, and he gave the driver Mitch’s address. “He was a drug dealer, huh?”

“I don’t get it. How does money give you a-a-a permission slip to be a douche bag?”

“Makes sense that he would have restaurants.” Ian ran his tongue over his gums, enjoying the faint numbness. “Cash businesses. The Laundromat, too. He probably bought into them quietly, has people run them, just watches his money grow. You almost have to admire him.”

“Or hate him.”

“Half of admiration is hatred, man.”

“And Alex! What was that? What’d he mean about me not being able to take care of myself?” Mitch straightened. “I can handle myself. Everybody thinks I can’t, but I can. Just like the people at the hotel. The guests. They give a tip, five measly bucks, treat you like they bought you. Like you’re a slave.” He hiccupped. “Yes, massa. I hold the door for you. Or worse, like you’re invisible. Not a doorman, a door mat.”

Ian turned to him. “You ever gamble?”

“What?”

“You know, blackjack, roulette.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“You ought to. There’s nothing like winning.” Ian smiled. “Or really, even before that. It’s the moment between when you set your chips on the table and the ball stops, the card drops. It’s a crazy rush. This one time,” he said, “I’m at the boats, playing blackjack, and I get two nines. So I split them. You know what that means? You put down more money and play them like separate hands. So I get the next card, and it’s a nine. So I split again. Next card? A nine. Can you believe it? Split again. It was incredible. I could have gone on all night, the dealer just putting down nines and me putting down chips.”

For a moment, Mitch was quiet. Then he said, “Even the game, the question game.”

“Huh?”

“Your question game. The one Jenn asked, what would you do with half a million dollars.”

“What about it?”

“Nobody asked me. Alex wants a house for his daughter, you want to quit your job, Jenn wants to travel. But nobody asked me.”

“So what would you do with it?”

Mitch opened his mouth, closed it. Held his hands out, then said, “That’s not the point. The point is that nobody asked me. Like I’m invisible.”

“Well, I’m asking now. What would you do?”

“I don’t know,” Mitch said. “I’m tired. And drunk.” He paused. “So what happened?”

“When?”

“With the nines.”

“Oh. Dealer had a three and an eight, drew a ten. Twenty-one.”

“So you lost all of them?”

“Yeah, but that’s not the important thing.” Ian wanted a bump or another drink, could feel the liquidity of his buzz fading-and the problems teeming behind it ready to jump him if he let them. “What’s important is that there was that moment, see, where I could have won them all. And every time he put down a nine, that moment stretched, got bigger. And the payday with it.”

“But you lost.”

“Right, but-”

“So there wasn’t a payday. You just lost four times bigger.”

Ian laughed. “Yeah, well.” He looked out the window, watched the closed shops and open bars, the people on the sidewalks. No place like Chicago in the summer, every window open, laughter and music spilling onto the streets. He liked the feeling of riding past it, a pane of glass between him and the rest of the world, but all of it right there, close enough to touch if he wanted to reach out. He glanced at the cabbie. A lot of them were Middle Eastern, too strict, but this was a black dude, middle-aged, wearing a Kan gol. Hell, what was the worst that would happen? Ian reached into his pocket, took out the amber vial. Without letting himself think too much, he shook a little pile onto the back of his hand and snorted quick, like he had the sniffles. The driver glanced in the rearview mirror, and Ian held his gaze until the guy looked away.

Mitch said, “Was that-”

“Yeah.” Ian turned to look at him, gave a shrug and a sideways smile.

“You do a lot of it?”

“Every now and then. You want some?”

Mitch shook his head.

“You sure? Cheer you up.”

“No,” he said, and leaned his head against the window, closed his eyes. “No, it won’t.”

“How about coming gambling with me?”

“Jesus, no. Indiana?”

“Not the riverboats. I know a private game. We can be there in twenty minutes.”

Mitch shook his head. “I’m going home.”

“Come on, man. Don’t be like that,” Ian said.

Silence.

“You know, you can’t win if you don’t bet.”

“Can’t lose, either.”

JENN TURNED ON THE FAUCET, let the water run. It took forever to warm up in Alex’s place. She straightened and looked at herself in the mirror, finger-combed her hair behind her ears. She’d always wanted a pixie cut, something short and sexy, but never quite had the guts.