Juice with Junior

New York City Boys
Chapter Eight - Listen

(Revisit earlier chapters by clicking here)

Eyes and teeth filled the bulbous cartoon head awash in gnashed Technicolor that loomed threateningly above him. Marcus Lansing stared up at the Takashi Murakami print as if he were awaiting it to come alive and kill him, and yet his casual ease in front of the image made it appear as if that was a fate of which he wholly accepted and quite possibly wanted. In the distance, Preston Everett watched him and wondered for probably the fortieth time what exactly he needed to do to crack the code and figure out what was going on in Marcus' head. Ever since Preston had rescued Marcus from certain arrest at Gil Granger's party, the two had become friends. George, Preston's boyfriend, often found himself the outsider looking into Marcus and Preston's slowly growing relationship. However, George was invited to the Brooklyn Museum with the pair that afternoon to view the Murakami installation and have drinks at Soda Bar afterward.

Preston sidled up to Marcus with a quizzical expression.

"Do you like Murakami?" asked Preston.

Marcus bit his lower lip. "No, I don't," he responded nonchalantly. "Andrew does. He has a few pieces in his apartment. He says he appreciates the contrast between the prints and his Upper West Side aesthetic. I think he's just being childish. I mean this looks childish to me."

"Are you still upset about everything that went down with him at the party before the summer?" Preston asked warmly. "Because you can talk to me..."

Marcus laughed quietly as the men strolled through the sparsely filled gallery.

"You want me to bad talk Andrew, don't you?" Marcus said turning to Preston.

Preston ran cold for a moment but realized that what Marcus' was saying was by no means a smoking gun or even a particularly astute revelation on Marcus' part. Preston had to realize by now that a man as smart as Marcus would recognize when someone was prodding him for information.

"Hey listen," Preston began. "I want you to... I mean, you can say..."

"Preston," Marcus interrupted him by placing his hand on Preston's chest raising George's eyebrow by extension. "It's okay. I know what you want, at least, I mean I think I do and I'm not a hundred percent opposed to giving it to you. I just have to be assured that you're going to use whatever it is I want to tell you correctly. Just because I have bad feelings toward Andrew Kirshner now doesn't mean I want you to do something stupid to him. I still have some very strong positive feelings toward the man as well which I have to work out... Now tell me, can I trust you?"

Preston stuttered, "Yes. Or course you can."

"Good," Marcus said with gravity in his voice. "Because I have a name."


George paced back and forth as Preston hit keys on his laptop with a red-faced passion. After a few moments, Preston stopped as if he had completed a magic trick and were waiting for applause. George stopped pacing and then waited for Preston to reveal what it was he had uncovered or completed or understood or something, anything.

"What?" George sneered.

Preston looked up from the computer screen with an ear-to-ear grin. He spun the laptop around so that the screen faced George and leaned back in his chair with a confident air. George squinted to read the screen but couldn't without his glasses. Preston thought he'd decode his findings.

"I found the guy Marcus mentioned and his address. He lives in Bridgehampton. I'll have to take the car out."

George stood still in disbelief. He couldn't believe Preston was serious about visiting this man solely based on Marcus' advice. He also felt that no one could stop Preston at this point although he felt it important to try.

"You can't go out there," George said. "What do you think this guy is gonna tell you? Oh hey man I've never met, here's exactly what you need to destroy Andrew Kirshner's life. It's ridiculous, and what if Marcus doesn't know what he's talking about."

Preston chuckled, "Marcus knows exactly what he's talking about and I know that this guy will have the information that I need to really put Andrew in his place. I feel like I'm so close. I just need that one missing puzzle piece. I'll go out tomorrow. It'll take me all day, but I have a feeling that it'll be worth..."

George sat next to Preston with his hand across his own mouth. George had had a thought, which it by itself made him frightened more than he had ever been in the course of riding shotgun to Preston's machinations. Preston could tell George was growing upset. Before he could comfort him, George divulged his concerns.

"You're not going up there."

"Yes, I am..."

"No Preston, you're not. Did you ever think that maybe this isn't a good idea? What happens if you do find out something serious that you can use against Andrew. Don't you think he'd try to do anything he could to stop you, and if Andrew is as dangerous as you say he is, don't you think that pursuing this would be reckless at best. I mean you're the one always saying how destructive a person Andrew Kirshner is. Maybe we don't tempt fate..."

"I'm going up there."

"No, you're not. Let this go, Preston."

"I'm going up there and that's final."

George dropped his hand from his mouth letting it fall on the laptop keyboard.

"Well, then, I'm going with you and that's final."


At the very end of a narrow private road, Preston and George arrived at a three-story traditional beach-front house with sandy gray shingles and white shutters rocking in the gentle sea breeze. Out front, a truck from a party supplies company was parked while brutish men, clearly workers who had set up a party or two in the area, marched stacks of chairs past a large gate leading to the back yard. Preston exhaled as he shut the door to his Prius and headed to the main entrance as hopeful as possible.

A harried looking woman opened the door after Preston rang the bell a few times. George stood behind him watching over everything.

"May I help you?" the woman asked Preston without a shred of patience.

"Hello, is Randall Llewellyn available?"

The woman squinted so tightly you would think she could barely see.

"May I ask who is here to see him?"

"My name is Preston Everett and this is my partner George Harris..."

"No, we're not buying anything here. Please make your way off the property."

The door then slammed shut with a noisy thud. Preston bristled, and then rang the doorbell again.

"Sir, I just told you..."

"I'm not selling anything," Preston announced vehemently. "I need to speak to Randall Llewellyn. It's regarding his work with Kay & McLeod. He used to be an executive for a company called Kay & McLeod and I needed to speak to him regarding someone named Andrew Kirshner..."

"Sir, Mr. Llewellyn is in Manhattan. This is his private residence. If you have business issues with him, you need to make an appointment..."

Suddenly, the front door swung back farther to reveal another woman standing in the doorway. This woman looked nothing like the first who answered the door; they were in fact polar opposites. The second woman was in her late forties, of Chinese or Korean descent with smooth, shiny jet black hair cascading from the top of her head to her bejeweled caftan that swept down to her feet held in reflective ballet flats. She placed her hand on the other woman's shoulder as she gazed up at Preston with a supreme and unwavering interest.

"Thank you Rita, I can handle this," the new woman said to Rita who was clearly her assistant. With that, Rita walked away to converse with one of the men from the party supplies company. The new woman had diamond drop earrings on so heavy they were starting to pull at her earlobes.

She was still staring at Preston.

"Did I hear you say something about Andrew Kirshner?" she asked.

Preston smiled pleased that someone was paying the right kind of attention to him.

"Yes, I need to speak to Randall Llewellyn..."

"Randall is my husband. I'm Deborah Llewellyn. Is there something that I can help you with?" Deborah said still staring now stroking a previously covered diamond pendant hanging around her neck. "Do you know my husband? You aren't with the police are you? Something hasn't happened?"

"No, certainly no. My name is Preston Everett and this is my partner George Harris. I don't know your husband directly. Someone gave me his name because I..." Preston stopped because he realized he didn't really have a grasp on how to explain why he was there. "Um, basically, Andrew Kirshner bought the magazine I created out from under me and well I... Someone told me that your husband used to work with him years and years ago and that maybe he may know more about how Andrew does business. He may know something that would help me get my magazine back before he ruins it so I wanted to talk to him. Is it true that he's in Manhattan?"

Deborah Llewellyn stood at her front door listening so intently that she barely noticed the few people to walk in and out to her side. Her staring was starting to make Preston uncomfortable and George concerned but the moment she snapped out of it, her face filled with color and she seemed as happy as she ever had to see these men at her front door. She ushered them into her foyer and closed the door behind her, but not fully as workers were still making their way through the space with chairs or place settings.

As Deborah walked through her palatial home, the breeze blew her caftan back behind her as if she were a heavenly creature followed by a visible aura.

"He is in Manhattan," Deborah confirmed. "I'm having a party tonight and he hates being in the house when we're preparing so he took off to the city in the wee morning. But the lucky thing for you two, Mr. Everett and Mr. Harris, is that he's not the person you want to speak to."

Preston double stepped to catch Deborah as she walked.

"Well then, who would we want to speak to?" he asked.

"That would be me, silly."


"Something told me that all I had to do was wait and this day would come," Deborah said slinking in her husband's desk chair while Preston and George took spots on an opposite couch. "I just knew it had to considering how Andrew likes to treat people. He's truly wicked. I lived my whole life hearing that there were cold, heartless people on the earth but I never encountered them and I always thought they were an exaggeration but then I met Andrew and I stopped thinking that."

Preston shifted in his seat. "I know that ostensibly, it would seem that I want to 'destroy' him and I need your help because your husband worked with him but that is an exaggeration..."

"I want you to destroy him," Deborah interrupted. "I want you to pulverize him into a thousand little pieces so don't worry, I sympathize. Listen, you need dirt right? Well, here's dirt. You know how Andrew left home after college and started Kay & McLeod and it became a successful company and all that?"

Preston and George nodded like schoolchildren being told a captivating story.

"Well," Deborah continued. "Andrew may have been a good enough businessman to grow his business, but he started it with stolen money. Every cent he used to start that company was stolen, and here's the worst part; the money was stolen from his own father, Arthur. In addition to working for Andrew, my husband also worked for Arthur Kirshner for some time. While he was working for both men, my husband funneled money that was not going to be given to Andrew or in a trust or anything like that... This was money directly from Arthur's company that went straight into an off-shore account belonging to one Andrew Kirshner. If anyone knew that dirt, it could send Andrew directly to a white-collar prison of the state's choosing."

Preston's mouth could not close even if he wanted it to.

"Are you serious?" he asked. "Then, excuse me for asking, why would your husband do that? Wouldn't that make him just as guilty?"

"Not if he was being blackmailed," Deborah said spinning around slowly in the chair. She exhaled before speaking again as if the weight about what she was about to say was too heavy. "You see, my husband did this all about fifteen years ago when Andrew was still in high school. That's when it started. You see... my husband is gay and fifteen years ago, he was fucking Andrew who was underage at the time and who threatened to go to the police... with pictures. He blackmailed my husband into extorting money from his own father and then to shut Randall up, Andrew threatened to release the pictures if he ever told anyone about the money. I, of course, found the pictures but didn't know about the blackmail until a few years ago. You can imagine how upset I was and still am."

Deborah stopped feeling dulled by the news she was reporting.

"My husband may be gay and our relationship may be a matter of convenience but I still love him and when I think about what Andrew did to him, it kills me," she added. "He lives in a constant state of fear that Andrew will release those pictures, that Andrew will tell everyone that he's gay and I know that that shouldn't be a secret but my husband is not of your generation. Being out was not an option for him, in business, in life and he was afraid that people would think he was a pedophile. And he's not. Trust me, Andrew has looked like an adult from the time he hit 15 years old and he seduced my husband. The worst part about it is that Randall thinks that they had a relationship. I know Andrew just used him, and threw him away."

Preston had to lean forward with his elbows on his knees processing the information as quickly as he could. It was better than Christmas morning. He didn't even know he wanted this and now that it was here, he couldn't imagine life without having this knowledge.

But then there was always the matter of proof.

"I have a few questions," Preston began. "The first is do you have any proof that the money your husband took from Arthur actually went into Kay & McLeod to, you know, start up the business?"

"That's the first problem," Deborah answered. "I don't. Randall has document after document showing the money he took from Arthur but Andrew was smart even at 15 years old. He took all the documents referring to his off-shore account so we don't have any record of the money going to Andrew or then going to Kay & McLeod. But that's where you come in..."

"Well, Deborah, I don't want to sound ungrateful..."

"Then don't."

"But how am I supposed to use this information without getting your husband in trouble?" inquired Preston with care in his tone. "If I tell anyone the truth about Andrew's business, Andrew will know it came from Randall and he'll release the pictures or have Randall arrested alongside him."

Deborah laughed.

"Oh no, you're thinking about this all wrong," she explained. "You're not actually going to tell anyone like the authorities, that would get Randall put in jail... No, you're just going to let Andrew know that you know what you know..."

"So you want me to blackmail him?"

"It's the only language Andrew understands," Deborah noted slyly. "Listen, once Andrew realizes that he doesn't hold all the cards anymore, he'll start making concessions like giving you your magazine back or making sure that those pictures of him and my husband never see the light of day."

"But I have to find the proof, that connection between Andrew and his father's money."

Deborah leaned back in her chair silently watching the ceiling. Eventually, she leaned forward again with a grin.

"I have asked Randall to try, just try, and see if he can find some proof but he won't do it. He's too afraid and when he found out I tried, he told me never to try again," she said slowly. "He's more content living in fear than fighting back. But then you show up at my door and you look tenacious. I knew if I waited long enough you'd show up... Maybe you'll be the one to finally put a stop to him."

"I intend to try."

Deborah stood and reached out her hand, which both men shook.

"It was lovely to meet you both," she started before stopping herself. "Wait, what are you guys doing tonight?"

"We were just going to drive..."

"Come back to the house at 9," Deborah said. "You'll stay for the party. Plus, there's someone I want you to meet."


Preston and George managed to find a Brooks Brothers in town where they purchased new outfits to change into for Deborah's party. When they arrived, Deborah walked them through the crowd of people milling around her home holding drinks and hors d'oeuvres until they stopped at the feet of a shorter, round, gray-haired man in a checked dress shirt and a navy blue blazer. When he saw Deborah, he gave her a kiss on the cheek while darting his confused eyes toward Preston and George.

"Randall, honey, these are my old friends; this is Preston Everett and George Harris," she said.

"Oh, I don't believe we've ever met before," Randall said extending his hand. "Randall Llewellyn. Nice to meet you."


On the island of Manhattan, Andrew Kirshner was in the process of trying to balance a bottle of Heineken and two boxes of Chinese food in his hands when his cell phone vibrated off of the kitchen counter top and hit the floor.

"Hello."

"Andrew Kirshner?"

"Yes," replied Andrew. "Who is this?"

"Keep tabs on Preston Everett. He may be onto something."

"Excuse me. Who is this?"

Silence.

Then, the line went dead.

New York City Boys
Chapter Nine - Reasons to Forgive

Thwack. The magazine hit the bare desk surface with a slap like a palm meeting a penitent cheater's face. Standing over it was a beaming Andrew and a surprised Jon, who was not expecting to see the pages of glossy paper before him. The pair were standing in Andrew's office in a Penn Plaza high rise with the door slightly ajar for Jon's comfort. Jon picked the magazine up in his hands when Andrew made the "ta dah" noise like he had made a car appear out of thin air. On the magazine's cover was a 24-year-old model with a hairless, fat-free body awkwardly posing on a sun dappled beach wearing nothing but a Speedo. The image also featured generous enhancement of the model's crotch area. Andrew crossed to the opposite side of his desk so that he was standing side by side with Jon, who had placed the now treasured magazine to his chest.

"Turn to page 112," Andrew whispered.

Jon flicked through the magazine's pages, faces of men with lust in their eyes flying past him like pictures in a dirty flip book, until his thumb stopped on page 110. A few more flicks produced a page with full color pictures of books and Jon's name staring back at him with the words "Senior Editor" printed in bold type underneath. It was Jon's article about gay bookstores, a respite of reality in the sea of toned bodies in the rest of the magazine. Jon gasped and almost dropped the book to the floor. Andrew wasn't by his side any longer. He was fishing around his office to find champagne to celebrate the moment.

"Senior Editor? Are you serious?" Jon exclaimed.

Andrew stopped looking in drawers for a moment, "You deserve it. You've been here the longest, you're the best writer I have and I just want you to know that I respect that. I swear I thought someone gave me a bottle of Moët recently. Where did I...?"

"Um, Andrew, could you focus for a second? Senior Editor? What does that mean?"

Andrew stood, "It means more money, you can write what you want when you want. You can even have an office, if you want. I'll just kick someone out of one."

Jon stopped breathing for a moment, his teeth clicking.

"You're not still trying to have sex with me, are you?"

Andrew blushed and leaned sideways so that his shoulder met Jon's.

"Why?" Andrew whispered again. "Do you want to?"

Jon laughed, "Stop kidding. I'm being serious. You're not giving me more money or anything because you think that means I'm gonna want to sleep with you or..."

Andrew sat on his desk pushing a page-a-day calendar and his phone back a bit.

"No Jon, this is not a Jacqueline Susann novel," Andrew laughed back. "I'm not trying to seduce you with fancy titles or more money."

"Then what are you trying to do?"

Andrew's shoulders slumped creating tufts in his tweed blazer where his arms connected to his chest. He lowered his head and a blade of auburn hair fell out of its predetermined place. He sighed while Jon stared at him as he had many times before.

"I was actually trying to apologize to you my earlier behavior. Instead of taking no for an answer, I pressed you and took advantage of you when you were vulnerable, and for that I truly am sorry," Andrew confessed. "I guess you could say that I'm not used to being rejected. Guess I'm not as cute as I thought."

Jon chuckled as he pushed Andrew's desk blotter back so he could sit down too. The moment seemed comfortable enough to put his arm around Andrew's shoulder to cheer him up. Jon glanced at the open office door. It would be OK to put my arm around him, Jon thought. He won't try anything.

"Andrew, I should really apologize too. It's not that your not cute or anything like that. You're a gorgeous, intelligent, rich entrepreneur. I would have to be an insane person to not find you attractive, except that I already find someone else attractive and he's my boyfriend," Jon said. "Erik has to be my life because I made a commitment to him and him to me and all that stuff. Anyway, the bottom line is that if I was single, I'd totally be all over you and you know that but I'm not, single that is, and I shouldn't have ever given you the impression that I was available. I really am sorry about all that. Can you ever forgive me?"

"Yeah, I guess," Andrew whimpered jokingly. "But you can forget about an office."


Erik and Jon's night proceeded as nights in the past normally did for the couple. They ate Japanese take-out. They talked some about Erik's upcoming audition for an Off-Broadway play. They watched "The Biggest Loser" sitting on the couch. It was sometime during "Law & Order: SVU" that Jon's hand, which had been innocently stroking Erik's thigh, slipped under the fabric of Erik's boxers. Erik was stroking Jon's temple as he guided Jon's head over to his lips for a kiss. Before long, the two were making out like love struck teenagers as Jon climbed on top of Erik and straddled him, his knees creating crevices in the couch cushions. The sounds of muffled moans lied in stark contrast to the brightness of television commercial jingles. Erik's fingers worked their way into Jon's underwear and were searching around the plane of Jon's ass driving Jon crazy with sexual anticipation. Jon ran his hands up under Erik's shirt to pull it off the top of his head. Their faces separated momentarily as the shirt flew to the floor but their teeth snapped as they hit one another's faces gently bringing themselves into another furious kiss. Eric pulled away from Jon's lips for a second and held onto his face with his hand.

"I love you," Eric breathed. "I want to fuck you."

Eric then wrapped his hands under Jon's legs and lifted him up into the air. He carried Jon the short distance over to their bed, where the two took off each other's clothes only for as long as they couldn't deny the urgency of the passion flowing out of them.

They had sex for as long as Erik could prevent himself from reaching orgasm, which wasn't very long. Jon climaxed far earlier and was now gleaning most of his pleasure by providing it to the man he loved, running his fingers through Erik's damp hair, feeling every muscle in his legs and torso contract and release with ferocity. He whispered words of encouragement in Erik's ear. That is what did him in; hearing the purr of his boyfriend reminded him of how sexy Jon could be when he wanted to be. They spread out in the bed together afterward, enjoying the radiating cool of pleasure wafting through their exposed bodies. Eric moped his brow.

"It's about $65,000," he said.

Jon coughed, "What?"

"I owe about $65,000," Erik repeated. "Actually it's 64,390 to be exact. It was half that until I went double or nothing in a poker game and lost. I think it was fixed, the game I mean. Um, that's what I owe. I'm sorry I lied to you by not telling you the truth. I love you and I want you to know that I'm gonna work my way out of this mess..."

Jon turned so that his naked leg intertwined with Erik's.

"I love you too," he said. "And we're gonna work you out of this together."


The whiskey stung the back of Andrew's throat as it fell down his esophagus and the shot glass landed back on the liquor stained bar. He was waiting in a sleepy East Village bar at one a.m. on a weeknight, waiting for someone to show up and meet him for another round of drinks. There were a few lonely guys in a corner silently watching highlights from the latest football game on a widescreen television perched over their heads. Beer bottles clinked as workers filled garbage bags in the back. Even the jukebox was sleeping giving the bar an eerily still atmosphere.

Heels clacked on the wood floor slowly as some guy in an imitation leather jacket ambled through the place his eyes scanning the room for the recognition of someone else. When he spotted Andrew, who looked out of place with his tweed sports coat and tan corduroy pants in contrast to the other guests sweatshirts and bomber jackets, the guy sat at the bar stool next to him and ordered a beer. When the tall chilled glass reached his hands, he felt it was time to introduce himself out loud although Andrew already knew who he was and what he wanted.

"Are you Andrew?" the guy asked using a voice deeper than his actual. "I heard from a couple of guys that you were looking for me."

Andrew smiled, "Well I didn't know you were you. I just know that we have a mutual friend, Erik Marr, and that he owed someone a whole shitload of money. I asked around and I guess you're the lucky winner."

The guy shifted in the bar stool a little. "Yeah, Erik owes me a pretty hefty sum especially after losing his last game..."

"And you've never roughed him up for it? Or worse?"

The guy shifted again this time his face getting red from aggravation.

"I've never had to rough him up," the guy responded. "Erik always pays, and I don't know what you've heard but I don't do anything worse. That doesn't even make sense to me. How can someone pay you if you beat them up so bad they can't make more money?"

"The compassionate bookie," Andrew laughed. "I thought you were an urban myth."

The guy laughed too but he still had a curious expression on his face.

"Who are you anyway? Why did you want to see me?"

"Listen, you don't need to know who I am. I wanted to see you because I wanted to make you a proposition."

"Okay?"

"How much money does Erik owe you?"

"Um, a lot, why?"

Andrew sighed, "Why is because I want to pay you and I need a number."

The guy stiffened in his seat and his pupils dialated.

"100 grand."

Andrew laughed, "I actually know how much he owes you. Try again."

"About 65 grand."

"That's more like it. Alright, I want you to do something for me," Andrew started pulling his checkbook out of his jacket pocket and a pen out from the other side. "I'm gonna write you a check for $75,000, that should be enough. This will clear Erik's debt, OK?"

"Hell yeah."

"For this, I want you to do one thing for me. I want you to tell Erik that you sold his debt to another bookie and that he now owes this person the money and not you. Do you think you can do that?" Andrew asked as he finished writing the check.

The guy, Erik's bookie, was overcome with joy.

"Fuck yeah I can do that," he exclaimed as Andrew handed the rectangular paper over to him with a warning.

"If you tell Erik that it was me who paid you or fuck this up in any way, this check will be canceled faster than a baseball game in a thunderstorm, you heard me?" Andrew started. "All you do is tell Erik that you sold his debt to someone else, you can't say who, and that he will be contacted, understand?"

"I got it," the bookie said getting up from his seat. "Thanks man."

The bookie got up and started to walk away from the stool when he turned back.

"Wait, man, there's no name on this check. Only a business. Who are you anyway? Andrew what?"

Andrew took a sip of another beer he ordered.

"Don't worry about it," he chuckled. "I know who you are. That's all that matters."


Macks ran up to Jon with his arms outstretched waiting for a hug. Jon wrapped his arms around Macks' narrow waist and pulled him in close hollering with appreciation for his gesture. Music thumped around them as several dozen revelers crowded around them dancing holding drinks generally being happy to be alive. Jon called up some friends of his and Erik to celebrate the fact that Erik landed the lead in an Off-Broadway play. "David in Saigon" was a play about a white Vietnam War veteran who discovers that he has a grown Vietnamese son he never knew about from an affair during the war. Erik was cast as the adult Vietnamese son despite the fact that he was Korean. None of it mattered to both Jon or Erik as the play meant an everyday job, money, a sense of permanence. At the moment, Jon was most happy to see Macks.

"I haven't seen you in so long," Jon yelled over the music.

"Ugh, Catt Kostas is up my ass about the dresses. Dresses, dresses, dresses! It's all I hear every day," Macks shouted. "Congratulations on the play, that's amazing!"

"It's not me who did it. It was all Erik," Jon said.

Macks raised his eyebrow, "Jon, we all know it was you."

Across the room, Erik was laughing in a group of other actor friends of his when a familiar face caught his attention and made the hairs on his neck stand on end.

"Hey, Barry, if you're here for a payment, I don't have any money right now but I just got a part in a great play and I will definitely be able to pay you back in like a few months..." Erik stammered.

Barry, his bookie, stopped him before he could continue.

"Hey listen, you don't owe me anything anymore," he said.

Erik paused and then laughed nervously. "Yeah, I don't owe you anything. Funny."

"Seriously, Erik," Barry continued. "You don't owe me anything anymore. I sold your debt to someone else. I needed the money, Erik, and I couldn't wait for you anymore and this person gave me the money and they said they'll come to you to get it back."

"Who, who did you sell it too?"

"Don't get upset, Erik, but I can't tell you because I don't really know. I went through a guy who knows another guy."

"Did you sell my debt to the mob?!"

"No, just a guy, a bookie. Listen, there's nothing to be worried about. They'll contact you and I'm sure set up terms for how to pay them back," Barry said patting Erik on the back. "No worries man."


After a few weeks of not hearing anything, Erik slowly forgot about the money he owed. Rehearsals for the play were going well and he and Jon were getting along better than they had in years. One night, after a grueling rehearsal, Erik finished putting his regular clothes on and said goodnight to his fellow castmates who were slowly trickling out of the theater. Erik opened the heavy steel door that lead to the back alley of the theater and slung his bag over his shoulders. As he began to walk down the empty alley, the sound of a car screeching nearby caught his attention. As soon as he could see down the alley to decipher what was happening, the sound of footsteps grew into the images of several large men dressed in black from head to toe.

"Are you Erik Marr?" one of the men said.

Confused and nervous, Erik answered, "Yeah, why?"

The men descended onto Erik. One punched him in the face stunning him so much his bag flew out of his shoulders and he thought his head might snap from his neck. Although he was winded enough, he didn't fall to the floor. Erik realized that this was because one of the men was holding him up, while another prepped to punch him in the stomach, which he did until Erik could feel blood rise in his throat. Just as suddenly, he was thrown to the floor being kicked several times all over his body each kick stinging like he was in a car accident.

After what felt like an eternity, Erik heard a whistle and the men dissipated. Seconds later, the sound of a car screeching was the last thing Erik heard before he lost consciousness.


The men clad in black sped off from their attack of Erik in a black windowless van. Inside, one pulled out a cell phone and dialed a number with a hand uncovered by a black leather glove.

"Mr. Kirshner," the man in black started. "It's been done."

"Good," Andrew replied, hanging up his phone.

Andrew sat at his desk and stared out of the window at the illuminated buildings surrounding him. He knew there was no turning back now.