Friday night regulars, they met to drink, play cards and see how much of each other’s payday they could steal.
“Does it help?” Malachi asked flipping a card toward Tyrone.
Tyrone’s gnarled finger directed it to rest on top of his other cards. He sighed.
“Naw man. Ain’t nothing helpin my luck, tonight,” he pushed back his chair and took the last drag off his cigarette as it burned into the filter.
“Hey, you leavin?”
Tyrone stubbed out the butt and fished a handful of coins from his pocket.
“Reckon I gots me enough to git home.”
“Just me and you, Reggie,” Malachi said as he gathered the deck.
Smoke billowed around Reggie’s head, but he remained silent.
Tyrone and Willie watched the hand play out. Willie ordered another drink, and Tyrone sauntered to the wrought iron exit. Outside, the express pulled away. He considered making it stop. As he sat in darkness, it began to rain, and the gutter became a rushing river. Wind howled and lightening flashed in the sky.
“Brother looks like misery done shit on your parade.” A red Cadillac rolled up on the curb.
“Ain’t as bad as all that,” Tyrone said.
Reggie leaned across the Cadillac’s seat.
“Hey, O Mighty Prince of Darkness. H’bout you hop in and we’ll truck your ass home where it belongs? All Hell’s bustin lose, and your subjects be needin your dark hand.”
Tyrone puffed on another glowing cigarette.
“Like I was sayin, ain’t as bad as all that.”
Keep on writing.
Jo Hawk The Writer