The Troubleshooter: Hard Luck Grift

by Bard Constantine

  Hard Luck Grift

  by Bard Constantine

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  The Troubleshooter: Hard Luck Grift

  Part 1: Place Your Bets

  Part 2: Double or Nothing

  Part 3: Deuces Wild

  Part 4: Gone For Broke

  Enjoy the Troubleshooter?

  More by the Bard

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  The Troubleshooter: Hard Luck Grift is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

  This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author/publisher.

  Help stop piracy. If you believe this novel was made available by illegal means, please report it to the author at http://bardwritesbooks.com

  Copyright © 2017 Bard Constantine

  All rights reserved.

  Cover art credits: Smoking Woman stock photo by Sergey Novikov; Tokyo city stock photo by Brandon Naito; Troubleshooter art by Stefan Prohaczka featuring Mark Krajnak of JerseyStyle Photography. Used with permission.

  After the Cataclysm nearly wiped out humanity, the remnants survived in Havens: city-sized constructs built to reboot society and usher in a new age of mankind.

  However, the new age was not the type the architects had envisioned. The same greed and lust for power that existed before the Cataclysm resurfaced, and the Havens quickly became quagmires of political and economic conflict that threatened to destroy the future envisioned by the Haven's founders.

  This is the world of Mick Trubble, a man without a past. A man with nothing to lose. But when your luck is down and no one else can help you, he can. He takes the cases no one else will touch. The type of trouble no one else can handle.

  Mick Trubble is...

  The Troubleshooter.

  Part 1: Place Your Bets

  If you wanna make it in a town like New Haven, you gotta have a little gambling spirit in you. 'Cause the odds are stacked from the start, the dealers are grifters, and the house rules are that anything goes. So you better know when to hold 'em and when to fold 'em, when to bet large and when to bluff. The same rules for playing in the casinos apply on the streets. Because in both settings, the chances of winning are slim. But should you hit large, it's better to crab before your luck runs out. Because in New Haven they like to give until it hurts.

  Casinos attract certain types of folk, and the majority of them aren't professional gamblers. You got the butter and egg type that arrive in luxury and leave with light pockets. They don't care much about the berries 'cause they got enough to burn. So they get the special suites, catering, and major spoiling that normal Joes can't even catch a glimpse of. Fat cats and casinos are made for each other, 'cause high rollers gotta live lavish. And what's more lavish than dropping a few mil on a game of blackjack or poker while getting treated like royalty?

  Then you got the tourists. They don't spend much; just spend time gawking at the wallpaper and playing the least expensive slot machines allowed by law. You'll find them wearing discount rags and nursing free buzz juice while snapping pics like they're at an amusement park or something. The casino tolerates them with the barest civility and usually stashes them in the cheap rooms with the hopes that they'll eventually go away.

  Finally, you got the lost souls. Drifters, suckers, and depressed losers that got nothing better to do than stagger in and slowly bury themselves under a mountain of debt. They show up on a regular basis with borrowed funds and play with no regard for strategy, relying on the luck gods to grant them that pay dirt, the jackpot they've been waiting for that will solve all of their problems and take them far away to some imaginary land of milk and honey.

  They're the sort that loses everything.

  I know, because I've been there. I'd hit a major rut after losing the only real friends I had. The Luzzattis were dead, and their daughter Natasha was so emotionally damaged from her parents' gruesome murder that she'd disappeared into a mental safe house that rendered her unable to cope with the real world. To top it off like grenadine, I had woken up on the bank of the West River with most of my memory missing only a few months back. I had the perfect recipe for a severe bout of depression, and I wanted to whip those ingredients up just right.

  Perfect time to try my luck.

  Bayside was the designated area for legal gambling. It was a lovely strip of white sands, palm trees, and azure waters that were always the perfect temperature. Towering hotel casinos fenced in the locale, imprisoning anyone with thoughts of engaging in activities beyond losing their hard-earned dough. In addition to indoor gambling, Bayside also offered greyhound and horse racing for folks who wanted to think the animals were anything but synthetic, as well as arena matches where the fur and feather crowd could enjoy a luxurious setting while watching men and women pound each other to a pulp.

  The casinos were wild. Colossal buildings that ranged from tacky to elegant, all glitter and gold, beckoning to the crowds with whispered promises of easy money. Holographic advertisements beckoned, displaying enticements in three-dimensional glory. Everything was for sale on the Bayside, from expensive floaters to sex with movie star-styled dames. The entire district was a money trap, and hapless marks leaped for the bait with reckless abandon.

  I cooled my heels at a joint called the Pale Horse, which was appropriate because Death sure seemed to ride with me. In taking care of the Luzzatti's murders, I had to cross lines that normally didn't get crossed. I'd been the main reason that a gang war nearly blew up in the streets, as well as two mid-level players put on ice. Details were sketchy, but the word had spread that I was involved somehow. I now had a rep in New Haven as a man you didn't rub the wrong way. That worked out well in some ways, but in others not so much. The life of a bad man is a lonely one because decent folks tend to avoid you. That made the troubleshooting business slow down to a trickle, and one thing a man like me didn't need was idle time.

  I downed a Bulleit Neat and pressed my luck. "I just need a few more yards, Drago. You know I'm good for it."

  Drago gave me an exasperated glance. He was a giant of a man in a tight-fitting suit with a polka dot bow tie. Of all the resident bookies, he was the only one who would still deal with me. The rest turned their backs as soon as I approached. I'd done some work for Drago when a cross-dressing masseur blackmailed him, so he owed me.

  He spoke with a strong Russian accent. "Mick, you are fair man, I know. But you are not good for it. If my numbers get checked, then both of us are screwed, right? These are not bank funds I loan to you, understand?"

  I knew, of course. The Pale Horse was mob-owned, specifically by the Goryacheva family. They weren't exactly known for their loving patience in dealing with money matters.

  "Look, I've just been under the bend the last few weeks. My trigger finger's been itching lately. A sure sign my luck's about to change."

  Drago sighed. "I don't know why I do this every time. Your luck will never change, Mick. You bet against house, you lose. You are smart man. You should know this." But as I figured, he lifted his tablet and opened up a credit line for me to sync to the holoband around my wrist.

  I slid the account from his screen to mine. "What I know is that Lady Luck is finally gonna have my back. Don't sweat it, Drago. I'll be back to settle in no time."

/>   "Mick." Drago's eyes were deadly serious. "This is final time for me. If you don't square up, I will have no choice but to turn in your tab. I have people to think of. Wife, kids. I can't put them in danger, no matter what I owe to you."

  I nodded. "You don't owe me anything else, champ. And don't worry so much. There's a change in the wind, I can smell it."

  "That's just the bourbon you smell. Udatshi, Mick Trubble." He smiled, but his eyes looked worried as he tried to break all of my fingers with his farewell handshake.

  TIME DISAPPEARED IN a haze of gasper smoke and unremitting bourbon shots. I lost dibs at the roulette table. I lost dibs playing baccarat. I lost dibs at the poker table. I lost dibs on craps. I lost dibs on Big Six. It didn't matter because I was determined to hit, and hit big. I doubled my bets, then tripled them. I laughed like a madman. I drank some more. I lost some more.

  At one point a slinky blonde was on my hip, whispering dirty nothings in my ear. Later on, a foxy brunette sidled over and pocketed a few of my chips when she thought I wasn't looking. I didn't mind. She smelled like evening primrose, and I thought she might send a little luck my way.

  She didn't.

  When the money dwindled, so did the dames. And the free booze. I sat at a lonely blackjack table with the last of my chips, locked in the final stage of Total Loser Syndrome: complete denial. I didn't think about the stacks I'd lost. I didn't think about the mountain of debt I'd racked up. And I sure didn't think about the bloodthirsty shylocks that would unleash their hounds to descend on my vicinity and present me with gifts of broken bones and cement shoes.

  The flurry of casino activity reduced to streaks of blurred activity around me. I sat at the table with my shirt rumpled, tie askew, and my Bogart tilted so far over my brow I was practically blind. A gasper dangled between my teeth, trailing curls of smoke toward the ceiling. My eyes were bleary from sleep deprivation, my head held upright only by using my arm for a kickstand.

  I had all the time in the world to lose everything I had left.

  The dealer was a standard model android named Stella, capable of conversation and various expressions of humor and empathy, modeled in retro movie starlet fashion. From the waist up she was a decent facsimile but behind the counter nothing but cords and wires. Most people tended to prefer human dealers, suspicious of somehow being cheated if the dealer was synthetic. Those folks didn't understand how casinos worked. You're asking to be robbed the minute you walk through the doors. Me, I didn't care. At least I didn't have to look into another human being's eyes while they purposely diced me to financial pieces.

  I squinted at the cards in front of me. Ace and a five. Stella stood behind a ten and a seven. I tapped the table for a hit. Card dealt was a Queen. I slid the rest of my black chips outside the betting box and pointed, indicating a double down. All I needed was a number lower than six and higher than one. I felt pretty good about my chances. The odds were finally in my favor. I felt it, a tingle in the air like an invisible electric current. I was going to turn things around and start my ascent into jackpot heaven.

  Stella dealt me a nine.

  "I'm so sorry." Her voice dripped with sympathy as she cleaned me out. "Perhaps your luck will change next time, Mr. Trubble."

  "Yeah. I can feel it in the air."

  I lifted the booze glass to my lips with a shuddering hand, tilting it back and tasting only diluted water. Even the bourbon was gone. The realization finally hit, as it always does when it's too late. Gambler's regret: the sudden rush of clarity that strikes like a midnight toll to Cinderella, alerting you to the fact that your glitz and glam are loaners and your pumpkin coach is about to be repossessed. I broke out in a cold sweat, shivering at the thought of how precarious my grip on mortality had become. I was literally living on borrowed time, with only hours before some dropper picked up a body shop card with my mug on it.

  My last black chip flipped back and forth across my knuckles as I considered my next move. I still had the transit card Wiseman slipped me before he bought the farm. It was a golden ticket, good for a seat on the train departing from New Haven to the great unknown. I could take a chance on getting to the station without being spotted. I didn't know what kind of world waited outside. Some folks say New Haven is a dream, and you can only wake up if you leave. Others say there is no ticket out of New Haven, that Transit Express is an illusion to make unmanageable residents disappear. No one can really say, because no one has ever come back.

  Didn't sound so bad. Better than waiting to catch a case of the New Haven Blues in some dark alley.

  Then I thought about Natasha.

  She was a mess. Still in shock over witnessing her parents' brutal murder, she disappeared into abstract art and her own little private world to cope. She needed time to recover, to deal with the pain. I was the only person close to her. The only person she trusted. If I just pulled a Casper and vanished, she'd be alone. Vulnerable. She needed me.

  Probably should have thought of that before putting myself on a Mafia hit list.

  The chip tumbled from my fingers, rolled across the table, and fell into a black-gloved hand.

  I glanced up at the glove's owner. The Chinese dame was the kind of woman you only see in picture shows or on the airbrushed pages of some glamour mag. Porcelain skin, dark eyes, cherry lips. She tilted her head, studying me as if deciphering my secrets. I tried getting a read on her, but her poker face baffled my normally keen senses. I knew she was a professional. Just didn't know the occupation.

  She spoke in a silky undertone, eyes locked on mine. "You are a very poor gambler, mister...?"

  "Trubble. Mick Trubble."

  "Well, Mr. Trubble, you've been giving away your money all night. Might want to consider another occupation."

  "I have another occupation."

  "Really? What do you do?"

  "I'm a Troubleshooter."

  "That's ironic."

  "Yeah? How's that?"

  "You keep on this downward slide, and it will be trouble shooting at you." She held up the chip, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

  "You don't know the half, sweetheart."

  Her fingers folded over the chip. "I'm going to hold on to this. If you want it back, it will be paying for my drink at the bar."

  A dry laugh rasped out of me. "I think that would be the only good use of my dibs this entire night."

  She walked toward the bar with my chip still in hand. I watched her go, taking in the way she moved. It wasn't the seductive stride I expected. Her walk was entirely casual, without any attempt to impress. At the last second, she lifted her arm, waggling her fingers in a beckoning manner.

  I stood, adjusted my tie, and tilted my Bogart just the way I liked it before following her to the bar.

  The world became a stasis of whirring slots, shuffling cards, clattering dice. Time was nonexistent in the casino, like it is in any purgatory. Day, night—it didn't matter. A gambler lives in the moment, blinders firmly secured, eliminating notions of past and future. At that moment I was at the bar in the company of a beautiful woman. The only thing that mattered was the sound of her voice, the soft sheen of her skin, the shape of her slender frame against the silk of her black, lotus-embroidered dress. Her fragrance of cloves and rose petals managed to overpower the smoke that trailed from my gasper.

  "I haven't been in New Haven long." Her eyes shimmered with a distant sadness. I thought it was for me at first, but I realized she carried sadness with her like the sequined clutch under her arm. Melancholy was an adornment, as much a part of her as the glove on her hand or the costume jewels glinting on her neck and wrists.

  I downed a shot of bourbon. "Folks come to New Haven because they're either looking for something or running from something. Which are you?"

  "I prefer not to talk about my past."

  "Yeah, me too."

  "Because of the pain?"

  I grimaced at my warped reflection in the bottom of the glass. "Because I don't remember it."

/>   "That must be a blessing."

  I shrugged. "It has its perks, I guess. Just can't think of any right now."

  Her laughter was an automatic response. "You're different from what I expected."

  "How's that?"

  "You seem to be a nice man."

  "I'm only nice to folks who deserve it."

  "You don't know if I deserve it or not."

  "I got a soft spot for dames. You gotta prove me wrong if you wanna see my bad side. So you came here from the Outside. What's it like?"

  "Same as anywhere, I guess." Her gaze grew remote. "Busy. Dangerous. I was in Singapore before I came here. I made my money gambling at casinos. Saved enough to make my way here."

  "Singapore has a Haven?"

  "No. But Outside isn't the post-apocalyptic wasteland you Haven residents believe it to be. There are pockets of civilization, entire cities functioning without Haven oversight."

  I sat back, chewing on the revelation. "Ol' Wiseman used to talk about the Outside. Wanted to get out of New Haven something bad."

  "Friend of yours?"

  "Used to be, before the street sweepers decorated him and his moll with slugs. So...you're a gambler by trade?"

  "It's something I'm good at." She toyed with the martini glass in her hand. "Might be the only thing I'm good at."

  "I highly doubt that. Good to have a talent, though. Wish I had a little skill in that area."

  "Instead of a death wish?"

  I paused in the act of lifting a finger at the barkeep for a reload. "Excuse me?"

  "You're gambling out of misery. As if you want to put an end to it."

  "If I wanted to off myself, I'd dive off the balcony."

  "Some men don't want a quick death. Some want to suffer first."

  "And you think that's me?"

  "Yes. You play with the disregard of someone suicidal spending borrowed funds. I doubt your loans are from a legal source, so there will be collectors. The violent kind."

  I shrugged, uncomfortable with the echo of my fears. "I got a handle on it."