Jimmy Numbers thought skimming off the top was easy money, until a 40-to-1 longshot turned his commission into a death sentence.
Writer’s Prompt
The Vig on a Ghost
The neon sign of the corner diner flickered, casting a rhythmic, sickly green glow over Jimmy’s newsstand. Jimmy “Numbers” didn’t like the color. It looked too much like a corpse.
For a decade, Jimmy’s “commission” was the cleanest game in the city. A guy bets fifty on a three-legged dog, Jimmy pockets five, and the mob is none the wiser. It was a victimless crime—until Sal Genaco walked up. Sal didn’t just bet; he loomed. He dropped a stack of hundreds—ten grand—on a longshot named Cold Grave at 40-to-1.
Jimmy’s greed was a reflex. He shaved his ten percent. He logged a $9,000 bet and tucked a grand into his sock, figuring the horse was glue-factory bound.
Then the radio crackled. Cold Grave didn’t just win; he finished five lengths ahead.
The math was a firing squad. The mob owed Sal $400,000. But the books—the official books—only showed a payout of $360,000. Jimmy was forty thousand dollars short, and Sal Genaco was a man who performed amateur surgery on people who miscounted his change.
The black sedan pulled up to the curb, idling like a growling beast. The window rolled down. Sal’s face was a map of scars and bad intentions.
“Jimmy,” Sal rasped, his hand resting on the pearl handle of the Bowie knife tucked into his belt. “I hear I’m a rich man. You got my paper?”
Jimmy’s hand went to the envelope under the counter. It was light. Behind him, he could hear the heavy footfalls of the mob’s enforcer, “The Baker,” coming to verify the tally. Jimmy looked at the knife, then at the shadow of the Baker.
He had three seconds to choose how he died.
The ending is in your hands. Does Jimmy try to bluff the most dangerous man in the city, or does he run into the dark? How does he explain the missing $40,000?
