Brighton by Michael Harvey

his hand, a ribbon of steam curling out of the top. Bobby nodded. Max poured him one with cream and a half teaspoon of sugar. Then Max poured one for himself, cream and five sugars.
    “How’s business?”
    “Ragheads opened up down the street.”
    “They taking your customers?”
    “Fuck, no. You ever go in there?”
    “Didn’t even know it existed.”
    “Place smells like camel shit.” Max took a sip from his coffee and added two more sugars. “They gotta bring in a fucking goat just to use as an air freshener. You want a doughnut or something?”
    “Nah. Is he here?”
    Max smiled, revealing a row of teeth stained anywhere from pack-a-day yellow to lung-cancer brown. “What do you think? Been waiting ten minutes.”
    Bobby walked toward the back of the store. Finn was stalking back and forth in front of a Keno screen hanging from the ceiling. Yellow balls were tumbling, and numbers were dropping into place.
    “Give me an eighty. Give me a fucking eighty.”
    A sixty-four popped up, followed by a seven, a twelve, and a forty-three. Finn welcomed each number with its very own expletive. Then the game was done.
    “Cock SUCKER .” He tore up his ticket and threw it on the floor with the rest of the Keno confetti.
    “What are you playing?”
    Finn’s head whipped around. “Hey, B. I didn’t see you there. Same four numbers all week. First three come in, but I can’t hit the fucking eighty.”
    “Go with a different number.”
    “Yeah, then the eighty comes in all day long. Fucking ballbreaker, right?” Finn slipped onto a stool. Bobby sat on a long wooden table that ran the length of one wall and let his legs dangle.
    “Was reading an article in SI about Michael Jordan,” Finn said. “Did you know he has a brother?”
    Bobby shook his head.
    “Dude’s five eight. Imagine that. You’re Michael Jordan’s brother and you’re five fucking eight.”
    “You think it bothers him?”
    “Sure as shit would bother me.” Finn had a folded Herald in front of him and a white paper bag. Bobby ignored the newspaper and opened the bag. He took out a blueberry muffin and broke off a piece.
    “Thanks.”
    Finn nodded at the Herald . Bobby sighed and pulled it across. Inside the fold was a stack of twenties.
    “Three forty. All paid up.”
    “You don’t have to do it this way, Finn.”
    “It’s smart.”
    “It’s fucking stupid. Who’s watching us? Max?”
    “You want to go in the bathroom and count it.”
    “Shut up.” Bobby took out the money and stuffed it in his pocket. It had been their ritual for the last five years. Once a week, they’d meet at the Palace. They saw each other every day, but this meeting always took place at the Palace. Finn would bring a blueberry muffin and a Herald . If he owed money (the usual case), he’d stick it in the paper. If Bobby owed him (the unusual case), Finn would wait while Bobby tucked his winnings in the paper. Bat-shit crazy? Sure. But it was Finn.
    “You work today?” he said.
    Bobby hung drywall most mornings starting around six until two in the afternoon. He didn’t need the cash, not with the book operation and everything, but Bobby liked the physical labor. In fact, it was one of the best things in his life.
    “Yeah.” Bobby tossed the remains of his muffin in the trash. “I just saw the Irishman outside. The tall one with the white streak and eye patch.”
    “Slattery?”
    “Is that his name? What’s he owe us?”
    “I don’t know. Four, maybe five K.”
    “He said he paid in three thousand last week.”
    “He’s a liar. Check with Bridget. She’ll tell you.”
    “Fuck it. I just went Wayne Cashman on his ass.”
    “So what’s he still owe us?”
    “Get what you can out of him. Then tell him to take his business elsewhere. If he gives you any trouble . . .”
    “I can handle that prick.”
    Bobby considered Finn—jowls and belly balanced on a spindly set of grandpa legs. He could handle the weekend bettors from Newton and