Chapter One
Benny
Another day, another beat down.
That’s actually my nickname. Benny “Beat Down” O’Casey.
I’ve been doling out concussions and sending men to the emergency room for so long that I’ve forgotten what life was like before. They don’t pay their debts to my boss and I come knocking, leaving a few of their teeth on the floor and collecting promises to pay soon—or else.
I hate it when they don’t keep those promises.
It happens more often than I care to remember.
These men who warrant a visit from me…it’s because they can’t stop gambling. It’s a compulsion. A sickness. No matter how badly it affects their life, their family, it’s in their blood. There is a devil on their shoulder whispering in their ear that next time, next time they will win it all back. But they don’t. They lose Frank’s money—and that’s when I show up at their door, forced to collect a pound of flesh instead of cash.
Today’s victim lives way out in the bayou. So deep in the swampy heat and murky water that I have to take a boat. One of my associates, Grim, steers us through crocodile-infested backwaters and low-hanging trees, slapping at mosquitos on his neck. They are biting me, too, but I don’t bother shooing them away because I don’t feel the bites. I don’t feel anything anymore. It’s a necessity in this job. To be cold and ruthless and hard-hearted. To not be swayed by the pleading of desperate men, I’ve had to retreat into a less human part of my mind and stay there, allowing myself to be sent to the next job. The next.
More blood, more screaming, more bones being broken.
We stop at a log cabin that is nestled into the trees. Smoke curls from the chimney, empty liquor bottles decorate the front yard—if that’s what you can even call it. Mostly the house is surrounded by mud and trash. The eaves above the porch hang down, ready to fall at any second. A window upstairs is broken.
Sighing, I stand up carefully and get ready to climb out of the boat. It’s easier said than done, though, considering I’m a lumbering six foot nine. Grim is watching me nervously and I glare at him until he turns away. Only then do I throw one foot out onto the bank of the swamp, the boat teetering and creaking ominously beneath me. Somehow I manage to keep my balance and reach the shore without gravity working against me.
See, I was destined for this job the day my mother gave birth to me, a fourteen-pound baby. An ugly as sin child that she couldn’t bear to look at past my fifteenth birthday. That’s when I left home and went to work for Frank, a man who had use for someone like me, unlike everyone else. I’m valuable to a man whose profession is loaning out money and killing anyone who doesn’t pay it back. My meaty arms and barrel chest are an asset to him.
As they will be today.
I let out another sigh and climb the porch steps, raising my hand to knock before I can talk myself out of it. It’s just a job. Don’t think about it.
The cold locks over my limbs like body armor. Footsteps on the other side of the door signal the approach of my victim. Mentally, I force myself to check out. The only time I’m present and minorly happy is when I’m with my animals. But this? It’s just a job that needs to be handled. And I don’t have a choice but to make this man sorry for taking a twenty-thousand-dollar loan from Frank and gambling it all away on cock fights and horse races.
The door opens slowly—and there it is. The smell of fear. It’s sharp and foul, like the rest of the house behind my victim, so he definitely doesn’t have Frank’s money, even though it was due back today, with interest. The victim’s mouth is moving, but I’m hearing none of it. I don’t need to hear him beg. All begging sounds the same.
Empty promises, apologies, please please please.
I pick him up by the throat and throw him across the room. His scrawny, sweaty body hits the wall and drops to the floor like a sack of flour, crying. Babbling. Asking me for mercy.
There is none to be had.
In the first year of this job, I was tempted every single time to give my victim the benefit of the doubt. Men make mistakes. Men can be redeemed. That’s what I’d been taught in church every Sunday growing up in Baton Rouge. But after I gave two victims a pass, trusting them to have the money the following week, I quickly learned that some men can’t change. Especially when they’re in the grip of a gambling addiction and there’s no one to help them. In the bayou, where a lot of poor folks reside, the temptation to lay down a bet is everywhere. With so little in a man’s pocket, might as well try and double it. Triple it.