The Rat's Gambit

The stale air of the interrogation room tasted like desperation and cheap coffee. Detective Miller, a man whose face looked like it had been ironed with a tire, sat across from me, his eyes promising a one-way ticket to the Big House. Or worse. Vinny Moretti wasn't the forgiving type, especially not to guys who screwed up as spectacularly as I had. My spectacular screw-up, by the way, involved a mountain of bad blow, a mistaken identity, and a whole lot of blood that wasn't supposed to be mine.

"So, Joey," Miller drawled, his voice scraping against my nerves like a rusty nail. "You've been a busy boy. Earner, made man, connoisseur of fine white powders. Now you're looking at a lifetime of concrete shoes or a cellmate who thinks you're his personal chew toy." He leaned forward, his smile a predatory baring of teeth. "Or… you could tell us everything. Everything about Vinny, his operation, his little pals. And maybe, just maybe, we can help you."

Help me. The word hung in the air, thick and cloying. Help me get out of this mess. Help me not end up face down in the Hackensack. Help me survive. The life I’d chased, the respect I’d craved, the wealth I’d hoarded – it all led to this damp, gray box, staring down the barrel of my own stupidity.