The Toss

They sat in the front seat of Dante’s 1998 Cadillac DeVille. The heater was blasting, smelling of dust, but Leo couldn't stop shivering. His arm was wrapped in a bar towel Dante had swiped from the lounge.

They were parked under the BQE, the rain drumming a heavy rhythm on the roof.

"I thought..." Leo started, then stopped. "Everyone says you're a joke. A liability."

Dante lit a fresh cigarette. The smoke filled the car, blue and hazy. "People see what they want to see, kid. If they think I'm a joke, they don't look at my hands. They don't look at the books I cook. Being underestimated is the best armor in this business."

He turned to Leo. "You did good back there. You stepped up. Stupid, but good."

"I slipped," Leo muttered bitterly. "I almost got us killed."

"But you didn't run," Dante said. "Most guys? They run."

Dante reached into his coat pocket. He pulled out the thick envelope of cash—fifty thousand dollars of winnings and collection money.

He sat it on the dashboard.

"Here's the situation," Dante said. "We go back to the Boss. We tell him we got jumped. We hand over the money. You get a pat on the head, I get yelled at for gambling, and tomorrow we do it all again."

Leo stared at the money.

"Or?" Leo asked.

"Or," Dante reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver quarter. "We tell the Boss the Irish took the cash. We split this fifty-fifty. You get a new suit. I pay off my bookie. And we forget this ever happened."

"That's stealing from the Family," Leo said. "That's a death sentence."

"Only if we get caught," Dante said. "And who's going to catch us? The Irish aren't going to brag about getting shot by a senior citizen."

He held the coin up. It caught the reflection of a passing streetlight.

"Chance, kid," Dante said softly. "It’s all just chance. The cards, the knife, the bullet. Why stop now?"

Leo looked at his bleeding arm. He looked at the grimy dashboard of the Cadillac. He thought about the itchy suit and the way the Boss looked through him like he was glass. He thought about the fact that Dante—the "loser"—was the only one who had actually saved his life.

"Heads, we tell the truth," Dante said. "Tails, we take the money."

Leo swallowed. The pain in his arm was a dull throb now, grounding him. "Flip it."

Dante grinned, the old, reckless spark returning to his eyes. With a flick of his thumb, he sent the silver coin spinning into the air.

It rose, turning over and over, a blur of possibility suspended in the darkness of the car.

Leo watched it rise, holding his breath, waiting for gravity to make the decision that would define the rest of his life.