Ten Grand
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events are either fictional or fictionalized.
The plum-colored Deuce-and-A-Quarter blew into town from the west like a cyclone, kicking up a five-foot high rooster tail of gravel and debris as it headed for the hotel. At the intersection of Main and First, the driver cut the wheel hard and the Buick’s ass end slid around the corner, front tires squealing, jumping the curb, its shark-snout knifing toward a cluster of teenage boys loitering in front of the building.
They scattered like fish.
It was a Friday, a little before dinnertime, and the boys had been waiting all afternoon. Will he show? They saw the setting sun glint off the car’s massive windshield when it crested the hill outside of town and knew it was the Deuce.
No one in their small village owned an Electra 225, Buick’s eighteen-and-a-half-foot chariot with motorized seats, wood-grain paneling, power windows and a backseat as plush and roomy as a movie theater.
The driver’s side door sprung open and out popped Eddie, a paunchy, bow-legged squirt of a man no bigger than some of the boys themselves. He grabbed a straw porkpie hat from inside the car and tugged it down over his head, snug above two ears that jutted out like doorknobs.
“Why ya’ll standing around with your dicks in your hand?” he said. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”
“I knew he’d show,” Patrick said.
“Last Friday of the month,” his companion nodded. “Payday. Eddie’s day to collect.”
“Think he brought us anything?” Jay asked. “I need some new sneakers.”
“Shut up,” Patrick said.
“What?”
“You’re a leech, that’s what. All you care about is getting shit.”
Eddie waltzed carefree around the front of the Buick and stepped into the knot of boys. He was wearing jeans and an untucked button-down shirt under a light-weight zippered jacket that hid the slight bulge under his left shoulder, which would have gone unnoticed if you weren’t looking for it. Normally, he locked the gun in the trunk or glovebox of the car, unless he was handling large amounts of cash. Then he liked to keep it at the ready.
He sneered at Jimmy, a boney fifteen-year-old boy with soft features and limp brown hair falling into his eyes, bangs parted in the middle. “Your hair gets any longer,” Eddie said, “guys gonna mistake you for a twat, think you squat to piss.”
Jimmy squirmed and mumbled something about homos. Eddie flashed a jackknife smile and winked.
“I’m parched,” he said and bounded up the concrete steps to the entrance of the hotel’s bar, the boys falling in behind like ducklings. At the door, he stopped, turned around and tossed his car keys to Pauli, a puggy 14-year-old with a mouthful of misshapen teeth.
“Pull the car around to the garage and then get the duffle out of the back seat and take it up to my room,” he said. “Tomorrow, you boys can check to see if there’s anything in the trunk that will fit you.”
Pauli clutched the keys to his chest and beamed as if he had just been awarded a first-place trophy.
Inside, the bar was stirring to life.
Franny, the owner’s niece, was home for the weekend from her teaching job down in the city. She sat on a stool at the far end of the bar, legs crossed, raven hair tucked behind her ears, gnawing on a pencil and contemplating a crossword puzzle, pausing occasionally to take down dinner orders phoned into the hotel. She served drinks, too, and also broke up fights, which happened like clockwork whenever the factories, construction outfits and equipment dealerships made payroll. A guy might get his teeth knocked out if he stepped between two brawling men, but Franny could separate them with nothing more than a sharp word and fistful of hair.
It being a Friday, the smell of fresh-baked bread and fried fish filled the bar. The cook, Mrs. Armstrong, poked her flour-specked head out and counted customers. She told the girl chopping cabbage to double the coleslaw. Then she went out back for a smoke.
A short, muscled young man with yellow hair and lidded eyes sat by himself in a corner booth near the pool table, drinking Mountain Dew. He watched Eddie and the boys stream through the front door. “Table’s open, Eddie!” he called out.
Eddie dug a roll of bills out of his front pocket, stripped off a fifty and laid it on the corner of the table. “Same stakes, Sam,” Eddie said.
“Same stakes,” Sam nodded, stood and pushed a handle on the pool table that set the balls free with a clatter and began to rack.
Eddie made his way to the counter to order a drink as the boys fanned out across the barroom, several heading for the pinball machine, a couple others to the jukebox where they fed quarters into the slot. The rest took seats around the pool table.
Leo, a beefy bartender with the head the size of a tree stump, snapped a rag from his shoulder and wiped down the bar where Eddie was standing.
“Leo the Lyin’,” Eddie said.
“How you doin’, Eddie?” Leo said. “What’ll it be?”
“Canadian Club and give the boys what they want. You got my money, Leo?”
“I’m a little shy, Eddie.”
Eddie surveyed the room. Male customers filled half the stools along the bar railing while red-faced men and sturdy-looking women fresh from the factories filled the tables scattered throughout. Toward the back, near the restrooms, card games were underway.
“Give those fellas at the back tables a round of drinks on me,” Eddie said. “How light, Leo?”
“Two-fifty, three when you add in the vig I owe from before. I wasn’t excepting you tonight. I can get it, no problem, if you just give a few more days.”
“If your aunt had balls she’d be your uncle,” Eddie said impassively. “Let me give you a free piece of advice, Leo. Quit. You’re a lousy gambler.”
“That’s what I intend right after I break even.”
Eddie threw Leo a sideways glance. He knew dozens of guys like Leo and he told all of them the same thing, give it up, but they never listened and that’s what kept him in business. Hell, half the men in town were in hock with Eddie and forked over a chunk of their paychecks every couple weeks.
“I leave Sunday night,” he told Leo. “You got until then.” Eddie dropped two twenties on the bar and carried his drink over to the pool table.
“Your break,” Sam said, chalking his cue as strands of Mr. Bojangles poured from the jukebox.
“No,” Eddie said. “Your honors.”
“What, you think I gave you a loose rack?”
“Thought never crossed my mind,” Eddie said. “Break.”
Sam leaned over the table, brushed back the hair from his eyes, and sent the cue ball screaming toward the rack. Thunderous crack, balls dancing across the red felt. The eight-ball rolled toward a corner pocket, tottered on the edge and then dropped in. Game over.
“Loose rack my ass,” Sam said and swept the fifty into his shirt pocket.
“Maybe I should have broke,” Eddie laughed and sipped his highball.
Franny delivered a tray of drinks to the back. “Thanks, Eddie!” the cardplayers called out. Eddie turned and waved. He said to Sam, “Double or nothing?”
“Sure, Eddie, why not?” Sam said and re-racked the balls.
Eddie was down $150 when he said, “I gotta piss like a racehorse,” and headed for the restroom. When he stepped back out, he paused at the card tables. “Who’s winning?” he asked.
Al, the pocked-faced dealer, chinned toward the player seated across from him. “Logan’s into me for half my take home,” he said “Cards are worth shit,” and threw his hand into the middle of the table.
“How’s the car-hauling business, Eddie?” another player asked. “Any new models fall off the truck lately?”
Eddie shook his head. “Those days are over. Can’t slip anything past the pencil pushers now.”
Eddie was a Teamster and hauled autos for Detroit’s carmakers, but the real money, for him and his mobbed-up friends in the city, was booking bets, lending and collecting.
He had been coming to this out-of-the way rural village in northern Michigan for nearly a decade, after getting snowbound there once. The residents took him in and he repaid the favor by becoming something of a Pied Piper to the town’s male youth, splurging on clothes, food and entertainment for the boys and, one time, a multi-day trip to the East Coast in a rented RV. Eddie’s generosity endeared him to many of the locals even as more and more of them fell deeper into his debt.
Al pushed up from the table and made his way over to Franny and whispered in her ear. “In your dreams,” she said, shoved him away and returned to her crossword puzzle.
Logan raked in another pot. “How’s it hanging, Eddie?”
“Loose, like a long-neck goose,” Eddie said. “Know where your older brother is?”
Logan squinted up at Eddie, cigarette smoke stinging his eyes. “Red? I thought he’d be here by now. His shift ended two hours ago.”
Eddie clucked his tongue. “Red’s into me but seems he always manages to pull a Houdini when I’m around. Hate to think he’s trying to stiff me.”
“That’s got nothing to do with me,” Logan said. “That’s between the two of you.”
“If any of you other guys see Red, tell him I’m looking for him.”
A card player from the next table over piped up. “I seen ’im. At the Union Tavern down at the shore. I stopped in after work for a quick drink. He was there with a couple of his buddies. The way they were goin’ at it looked like they were gonna be a while, too.”
Eddie gave Logan a quizzical look.
Logan shrugged. “Maybe, I dunno. He goes there sometimes. He don’t check in with me.”
When younger, Red and Logan were inseparable and people often mistook one for the other, even though Red was a couple of years older. That had as much to do with their physical appearance – they were both gangly, pale, freckled with ginger-color hair -- as it did with their closeness.
Over the years, the brothers had grown tighter, until, that is, Red was drafted and went to Vietnam. Two events altered their relationship forever. Red accused Logan of going behind his back with his girlfriend when he was away. The other had nothing to do with Logan. Red’s best friend and Army buddy, Rog Wolfe, was killed in a car accident when he and Red were drag racing one night. After that, Red withdrew from family and friends, started drinking hard, gambling and getting into fights.
It was almost ten o’clock when Eddie announced, “We’re leaving.” The boys piled into the big Buick and Eddie, who had been drinking all evening, handed the car keys to Patrick, Red and Logan’s younger brother.
Unlike his older siblings, Patrick was black Irish, with brown eyes, a dark complexion and hair the color of coal.
“Where to?” Patrick asked as he backed the Deuce away from the curb and shifted into drive. He punched the accelerator and the car’s nose rose up like the prowl of a battleship.
“Down to the shore,” Eddie said. “The Union Tavern.”
Patrick pointed the car east. There were two routes to the shore, one over a paved road, the other on gravel. The gravel route was shorter and a straight shot but filled with ruts and washboards. Patrick kept to the curvier pavement.
It took nearly 20 minutes to cover the nine miles to Union Tavern — the Buick stuck behind a pickup truck and a station wagon, the bends in the road not affording Patrick any safe passing lanes.
Finally, he pulled into the tavern’s parking lot. A sign at the entrance said Big Daddy’s, a local country and western band, would be preforming until midnight.
The group spilled out of the car and marched to the front door, where a bouncer held up his hand to stop them. “No one under 18 after 10 p.m.,” he said and pointed to a sign posted above the entrance.
“I’m their guardian,” Eddie lied.
“Makes no difference. Cover’s five bucks. For the band.”
Eddie told the boys to wait by car, and handed the bouncer the money.
The barroom was crowded. Big Daddy’s was playing a Tammy Wynette song and couples were slow dancing. Eddie flagged down a waitress and ordered a Canadian Club with soda. “Make it double,” he said and handed the woman ten dollars. “I’ll be over there,” he shouted and motioned to a railing that ran along the back wall.
When the drink arrived, Eddie drained half of it in one swallow and told the waitress to bring him another and started looking for Red. Many of the customers were bigger than Eddie and blocked his view and he cursed not having the boys to act as spotters.
He pulled a chair closer, stood on it and scanned the room when he saw two guys he recognized in the far corner. Eddie didn’t wait for the second drink to arrive and tipsily shouldered his way through the crowd.
The band stopped playing and dancers drifted back toward their tables, jostling Eddie. A big woman with heavy breasts brushed up against him and knocked his hat off his head. “You’re cute even if you are the runt of the litter,” she belched in his face.
“Cunt,” Eddie spit and stepped past the woman to retrieve his hat. Her partner grabbed Eddie by the shoulder and spun him around. “What did you say?”
“He called me the “C” word,” the woman whined.
Eddie slapped the bigger man’s hand away, stepped back, opened his coat and showed him the .45. “Get the fuck out of my face,” he said. The couple staggered off. Eddie re-zipped his coat and plucked his hat from the floor.
He reached the two men just as they were settling their tab. “Where’s Red?” Eddie asked accusingly.
The men studied Eddie through glazed eyes. “Who?” one of them said.
“Eddie,” a voiced called from over his shoulder, “is that you?”
Eddie spun around, “Pete, what the hell you doing here?”
“Been bartending for a while now. Left the hotel about a month ago. Better pay, shorter hours. Whaddya drinking?”
“Canadian club and soda.”
Pete poured the drink.
Eddie said, “I’m looking for Red. You seen him?”
“You just missed him. He split about half hour ago. Got a call and ran out without settling his tab.”
“Muthafucka,” Eddie slurred. “Know who called him?”
Pete shook his head. “A guy. I could barely make out what he was saying over the band.”
Eddie drained his drink and ordered a shot. He downed it, thanked Pete and stumbled out the door to his car. The boys were leaning against the Buick, drinking beers. “We bribed the bouncer for a sixpack,” Patrick said.
“Get in, we’re goin,’ ” Eddie said, sliding behind the wheel.
“He’s drunk,” one of the boys said to Patrick. “He can’t drive.”
“Gimme da keys,” Eddie said, and held out his hand, staring at Patrick with bloodshot eyes.
“No, Eddie, I’m driving,” Patrick said and pushed him over. Jack, one of the older boys, climbed in from the passenger’s side, pinning Eddie in the middle.
Patrick pulled out of the parking lot and headed back toward town and the hotel. A light rain had started to fall and he slowed through the curves to keep Eddie from ping-ponging between him and Jack. Eddie’s chin drooped to his chest and he started muttering
“What?” Patrick said.
“You warned him,” Eddie said.
“Warned who?” Patrick said.
“What’s he talking about?” Jack said.
Patrick shook his head. “No idea.”
Eddie’s head snapped up. “Fuck you don’t.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Eddie. You’re not making any sense,” Patrick said.
“Who you think you’re messin’ with?”
“No one’s messing with you, Eddie. I’m just trying to drive.”
They’d all seen Eddie like this before: drunk, belligerent, accusatory, mean, unpredictable. Eventually, he’d pass out and sleep it off, no memory of it in the morning.
“Red owes me ten grand. You called your brother, you little shit, tipped him off that I was coming, didn’t you. Fuckin’ snitch.”
“I didn’t know you were looking for Red,” Patrick said. “He owes you ten thousand dollars?”
“It’s none of your fuckin’ business,” Eddie sputtered.
“Patrick didn’t call anybody, Eddie,” Jack said. “I’ve been with him all night.”
“Cocksuckin’ micks,” Eddie said. “It was either you or Logan.”
“We’re only half Irish,” Patrick joked to lighten the mood. “The other half is good.”
“You think I’m fuckin’ kiddin’?” Eddie said and reached under his coat and pulled out the automatic and racked the slide.
“Put the gun away, Eddie,” Jack pleaded. “Patrick hasn’t done anything wrong.”
Eddie laid the barrel alongside Patrick’s head. “I oughta blow your head off.”
“Jesus,” one of the boys in the back seat said.
Patrick’s eyes darted back and forth between the road and the gun. He stomped on the accelerator and the speedometer needled jumped to 80 miles an hour and kept climbing, the car’s rear end fishtailing around the rain-slickened curves. “Go ahead, Eddie,” Patrick said flatly. “You’ll kill all of us if you do.”
The needle touched 110 on a straightaway, the car’s tires hissing on the wet pavement. The boys in the back whimpered softly.
The last curve before town was 90 degrees. There was no way the big Buick would make it.
“Slow the fuck down, Patrick,” Jack cried.
Patrick clamped his hands on the steering wheel and pinned his eyes to the road.
Eddie laid the gun over Patrick’s arms, pulled the trigger and fired a round through the driver’s open window, the roar defending, like a sonic boom inside the Buick, the empty casing pinging around the car.
Eddie reholstered the weapon. “I don’t get paid next one’s for Red.”
Patrick lifted his trembling foot from the gas pedal and the car decelerated. The Buick crawled through the final turn.
By the time they reached town, Eddie had passed out. Patrick drove the boys home, dropping them off one by one, warning them not to say anything about what had happened.
Jack’s house was the last and he climbed out of the car and then leaned back through the open window. “You need help with Eddie?”
“No. I’ll wake him when I get to my house. He can drive back to the hotel from there. It’s not far.”
Jack whispered, “That was some weird shit.”
“He had too much to drink,” Patrick said.
“Think he was serious.”
“Eddie’s always serious when it comes to money, you should know that by now.”
“But fuck — ten grand?”
Patrick shook his head. “Might as well be ten million. Red ain’t got that kind of money. Dumb fuck should never have gambled with Eddie.”
Jack said, “Don’t say anything but Eddie’s into my ol’ man, too. I don’t know for how much but if my mother ever found out, she’d leave him. Funny thing is, she’s sweet on Eddie. He’s always telling her how good she looks, never curses around her. Always polite, yes ma’am, no ma’am, kinda shit.”
“Yeah, my mother, too. People see the flashy car and big bankroll and don’t ask where the money comes from or why he’s spending it on a bunch of kids. Eddie getting stranded in that snowstorm was the worse thing that ever happened to this town.”
Jack rapped his knuckles on car’s roof. “I gotta go.”
“Sure thing.”
Patrick drove past the deserted hotel on the way home and noticed that the garage where Eddie parked his car was open. He circled the block and nosed the Buick inside. It would only take him 15 minutes to walk home.
“Eddie,” Patrick said and shook him by the shoulder. Eddie only grunted.
Patrick shook Eddie harder, his coat falling open, the butt of the gun poking out. Still, Eddie didn’t stir.
Patrick sat for a moment, lost in his thoughts, the big Buick idling silently, wispy exhaust plumes drifting in through the car’s open windows. He reached across Eddie’s slumbering body, unlatched the glovebox, pressed a button and popped the trunk. Patrick slid from the car and scooped up the bags in the trunk and closed the lid. He then pulled the garage door shut tight and walked home.
They would find Eddie in the morning, one way or the other.
It was none of his fuckin’ business.
Mark Pawlosky © 2026