05/23/2026
The Deadbeat’s Dividend and the Nickel-Plated Grin
The brick tasted like copper and old regrets.
My face was mashed against the damp wall of an alley behind Fifth Avenue, not far from the flickering neon of the Gaslamp. It was November, and the San Diego air was salt-heavy and thick as clam chowder, though the Santa Anas were blowing just enough heat to make my cheap suit itch like a penance. A single sunbeam struggled through the smog of the nearby tuna canneries, illuminating the dust dancing over a pile of rotting crates. My desk fan back at the office was probably rattling its last breath, but I had bigger problems. I had forty-two cents and a two-thousand-dollar debt to a man who didn’t believe in installment plans.
“Stoner, you’re a difficult man to love,” a voice rumbled. It belonged to Leo ‘The Lip’ Moretti, a two-bit heavy with knuckles the size of walnuts. Behind him stood a silent lug named Tiny who looked like he’d been carved out of a sidewalk. They worked for Benny the Book, and Benny wanted his C-notes.
“I’ve heard that from better-looking dames, Leo,” I spat, wiping a smear of crimson from my lip. My fedora was lying in a puddle of gutter water, ruined. “Tell Benny the ponies at Del Mar have a personal vendetta against my wallet. I’ll have his scratch by Tuesday.”
“Benny says Tuesday is for funerals,” Leo sneered, pulling a lead pipe from his overcoat. It caught the light with a dull, murderous silver. Tiny stepped forward, his breath smelling of onions and cheap gin. He reached for my collar with a hand that felt like a meat hook.
“Wait,” I wheezed, my mind racing faster than a getaway car. I reached into my inner pocket, slow and steady. Tiny froze, thinking I was palming a g*t. Instead, I pulled out a crumpled, grease-stained envelope I’d swiped off a naval officer’s desk at the El Cortez the night before. “I don’t have the cash, but I’ve got something better. Freight manifests for the Coronado ferry. High-value shipments, Leo. Unmarked.”
Leo squinted, his tiny brain grinding gears. Corruption was the only language these gorillas spoke fluently. I watched the greed flicker in his piggish eyes. It was a bluff—the envelope contained nothing but laundry receipts and a dry-cleaning ticket for a dress I’d never picked up—but he didn't know that yet.
“Give it here,” Leo barked. He grabbed the paper, his focus shifting just long enough.
I didn’t wait for a thank you. I kicked Tiny square in the kneecap and bolted toward the street. My paunch protested, and my lungs burned like I’d swallowed a lit cigar, but I hit the sidewalk running. I blended into the crowd near the trolley tracks, disappearing before they could realize they’d been handed a bill for two shirts and a pair of trousers. I was still broke, still bruised, and still being hunted by the sharkiest bookie in SoCal.
I stepped into a dive bar and ordered a double rye with my last two quarters.
Winning is just losing at a slower speed if you know how to run.
