The Silver Bear by Derek Haas

feeling it. Then, who knows . . .” I tried to sound like a fish who had just bitten on the worm and gotten the hook.
    Ponts’s grin widened. “Well, I’ll give you your first $500 bet on the house, and a five-thousand-dollar credit line. Does your dad’s bookie give you that?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Call me Ponts.”
    “Okay. . . .”
    He clasped me on the back with a beefy hand. “Now, who you like this week in the Miami game?”
     
     
    THERE is a common misconception following a successful assassination. Often, the people closest to the target will say they never got a look at the hired killer, they don’t know how the assassin could have gotten close to their boss; the man came in like a ghost and put a bullet in their friend, husband, co-worker without disturbing the dust in the air. They’ll say someone in their midst must have betrayed him, they’ll look at each other with skeptical eyes, they’ll check over their shoulders every time a shadow moves across a doorway, every time they cross in front of a dark alley.
    But the truth is they’ve often known the face of the trigger man, they’ve probably shaken hands with him, probably done business with him, hell, probably bought him a beer in a small sports bar in Little Italy.
    If I couldn’t know Levine, if I couldn’t make a connection with him, I could watch his pigeons, I could get to know his roots, where he came from before he lived in the big house on the hill at the end of the street. He got to where he was by being the best at what Ponts and Gorti did now. My guess is he was more ruthless, less forgiving then the typical runner. I didn’t know if he demanded the same of his employees, but I intended to find out.
     
     
    IT didn’t all go wrong on the day of the hit; it happened the night before I pulled the trigger. I was into the guys for most of my nut, the initial amount of credit they gave me to hook me. I played stupidly right off the bat; I didn’t have time to make casual bets. I started with sucker plays, parlays, rolling any wins I stumbled upon, pushing the limits, and Ponts lapped it up like a stray cat with a fresh bottle of milk. In three weeks, I flopped on enough games to be into the fat man for forty-eight hundred.
    I met up with him as he was coming out of Antonio’s.
    “Say, kid . . .”
    “Hey, Ponts. Can I get on a parlay this weekend?”
    “How much?”
    “Double up, catch up.”
    He let out a low whistle. “Forty-eight?”
    “Might as well make it an even five.”
    “What say you give me the forty-eight you already owe, and we’ll go from there?”
    “Come on, Ponts . . . you said a five-grand credit line.”
    “But, kid—”
    “Forty-eight is not five.”
    “Yeah, but you want to go in for ten—”
    “Not if I win—”
    “I don’t know, kid.”
    “Fine . . . I’ll just put two hundred on a three-way parlay . . . B.C. getting three, the over, and Virginia Tech over Michigan.”
    “You just want two hundred?”
    “I want five dimes, but you said you’ll only give me two potatoes.”
    He looked at me sideways and pulled out a small notepad. “The kid wants five dimes . . . I’ll give the kid five dimes. Five to win fifteen on the parlay. Let’s just hope your luck turns, buddy.”
    “I got a feeling this time.”
    He smiled and winked. “I hope so.”
     
     
    I hit the B.C. game but lost both Tech and the over. Now, I owed Ponts and Gorti ninety-eight hundred and I would get my first impression of how they ticked when wound up. I stayed away from Antonio’s for two weeks, just to get their engines into the red. Maybe they thought I’d run out on them. Maybe they thought I wasn’t coming back.
    When I showed up at the bar, Ponts’s mouth disappeared into a thin line. All hints of camaraderie and companionship were gone. I was not his friend; this was business.
    “Where’s the ninety-eight hundred?” he said as I sidled up to the bar. Gorti took a position on the other side of me.
    “Let