The table was a scarred crescent of oak, stained with coffee rings and something darker. Three men sat around it. Across from them, one empty chair.
“Round two,” he said. He pushed the shotgun toward Leo. “Keep passing left. Dead men don’t pass.”
Leo looked at the gun. Then at Darius’s body. Then at the Dealer.
BOOM.
BOOM.
“I know,” Leo said.
She passed it to Darius.
Leo, the youngest, had sweat blooming through his denim jacket. He owed thirty grand to the wrong people. The Dealer was those people’s collector. Win, and the debt was void. Lose, and the debt was paid by his beneficiary—his little sister’s tuition fund. He’d signed the waiver.
He picked up the shotgun. He didn’t put it to his head. He stood up, took two steps around the table, and pressed the barrel against the Dealer’s forehead.
He passed the gun. His hand was steady now. Funny what terror does. buckshot roulette
Darius smiled. He held the shotgun like a lover. He looked down the barrel, then pressed the muzzle to his forehead, right between the eyes.
Leo looked at the gun. Then at the Dealer. He understood, finally. There was no winning. There was only how long you took to lose.
He still owed thirty grand. But for the first time all night, he wasn’t afraid. The table was a scarred crescent of oak,
“Buckshot roulette,” he said, voice a gravel pit. “Not your pussy Russian game with one bullet. We got buckshot. One shell, it’s full of number-four buck. Nine pellets. The rest are blanks. You pull the trigger on the hot one, you don’t get a little .22 in the dome. You get your head turned into a canoe.”