Bitter Truth by William Lashner

damn carrots,” he said in between sliders. “Carotene poisoning. That’s why rabbits puke all the time.”
    “I’ve never seen a rabbit puke.”
    “You’ve never looked.”
    While he was shoving the third hamburger into his mouth, keeping all the while a careful eye on the door, the phone rang. He nodded with his head to the phone and I answered it. “What’s Atlanta?” asked the whispery voice on the phone.
    I relayed the question to Jimmy and he stopped swallowing long enough to say, “Six and eight over Houston.”
    “Six and eight over Houston,” I said into the phone.
    “This is Rocketman,” said the voice. “Thirty units on Houston.”
    I told Jim and he nodded. “Tell him it’s down,” said Jimmy Vigs and I did.
    “That’s the problem with this business,” said Jim. “It never stops. I’m scheduled for surgery tomorrow and they’re still calling. I need a vacation. Want a fry?”
    “No thank you.”
    “Good,” he said as he stuck a fistful in his mouth. “They’re not crisp enough anyway, you need to get them right out of the fryer.” He stuck in another fistful.
    “You know, Victor,” he said when he was finished with everything and the bag and empty boxes were safely back in my briefcase and the only remnant of his surreptitious meal was the stink of grease that hung over the room like a sallow cloud of ill health, “that was the first decent bite I’ve had since I was admitted. Starting tomorrow I’m going to change everything, I swear. I’m going to Slim-Fast my way to skinny, I swear. But I just needed a final taste before the drought. You’re a pal.”
    “I felt like I was giving you poison.”
    “Aw hell, they’re scraping everything out tomorrow anyway, what’s the harm? But you’re a real pal. I owe you.”
    “So then do me a favor,” I said, “and tell me about one of your clients, a fellow named Edward Shaw.”
    Jimmy sat still for a while, as if he hadn’t heard me, but then his wide cheeks widened and underneath his tiny mustache a smile grew. “What do you want to know from Eddie Shaw for?”
    “I just want to know.”
    “Lawyer-client?”
    “Lawyer-client.”
    “Well, buddy, you know what Eddie Shaw is? The worst gambler in God’s good earth.”
    “Not very astute, I guess.”
    “That’s not what I tell him. He’s the smartest, most informed, most knowledgeable I ever booked is what I tell him. And he’s such an uppity little son-of-a-bitch he believes every word of it. But between you and me, and only between you and me, he is the absolute biggest mark I’ve ever seen. It’s uncanny. He’s such a degenerate he couldn’t lose more money if he was trying. He’s the only guy in the world who when he bets a game, the line changes in his favor, he’s that bad. He bets a horse, it’s sure to come in so late the jockey’s wearing pajamas. I could retire on that guy, go to Brazil, lie on the beach all day and eat fried plantains, suck down coladas, never worry about a thing, just bake in the sun and book his losers.”
    “Why don’t you?”
    “Well, you know how it is sometimes. Collection can be a problem.”
    “Isn’t he good for it?” I asked, wondering how much Jimmy knew about the family.
    Jimmy let out an explosion of breath. “You know Reddman Pickles? Well this loser’s a Reddman, and there aren’t too many, either. The guy’s worth as much as some small countries, let me tell you, but it’s all tied up in some sort of a trust. He lays the bets based on his net worth but he can only pay up based on his income, which is less than you would figure with a guy like that. When his old man dies, then he can buy the moon, but until then he only gets a share of a percentage of what the trust throws out in income.”
    “Ever have any real trouble getting him to pay?”
    Jimmy shifted in bed a bit and the line on his monitor flat-lined for a moment, his pulse number dropping to zilch, before the line snapped back into rhythm and the