Information

Derecho
Legacy Name: Derecho

The

Twilight Telenine
Owner:

Lethal

Age: 8 years, 9 months, 1 week

Born: July 24th, 2015

Adopted: 8 years, 9 months, 1 week ago

Adopted: July 24th, 2015

Statistics

Level: 7
Strength: 18
Defense: 16
Speed: 16
Health: 16
HP: 16/16
Intelligence: 4
Books Read: 4
Food Eaten: 0
Job: Unemployed

This hand would be a sure winner but he could not let that fact show on his face. The environment of the room helped greatly. He was sweating, but so were the ring of players seated at the table. Old Roddy the casino owner was a cheapskate who believed in heat and air conditioning only to the extent that he wasn't breaking any health codes. In the hazy heat of August, Roddy's House of Cards was a few degrees above hell's thermostat but it was also the best place in town for a serious game of poker.

Derec learned the subtleties of counting cards as the result of an intellect too big for his pocketbook. One semester of college was all he managed to complete before the cost of books and youthful mistakes caught up to him. His duo-colored eyes are a rare asset in a life full of liabilities. They make the people around him uncomfortable, the exact state you want a fellow gambler in when you are trying to empty their pockets legally.

He takes care with his bet, throwing spare change and gradually working his way up as the overconfident and the desperate increase the pot. He takes the hand. There are no sideways glances or evil eyes, not yet. It's his first win and he's taken great care not to draw attention to himself.

A prickling feeling on the back of his neck tells him that he has returned to Roddy's place too soon. He makes it a point not to visit one den more than a few times a year. The last thing he wants is to be memorable. There are too many loan sharks in this town that have his portrait hanging on their walls with a few blades sticking out of paper flesh. He often schemes a few dollars out of one to keep another from sending thugs. He can only afford to lose enough games to soothe the suspicions of those tourists too gullible or reckless to know better. He avoids the high stakes tables with their regular crowds. His face is a little too memorable to take that kind of risk.

He has Tiger to thank for that. The loan shark's vicious reputation was not enough to keep Derec away from the lure of twenty grand that went to pay off Billy Bulldog. Billy had a memory for faces that Tiger did not, using his network of petty criminals to shadow Derec day and night until the young man's nerves were frayed to the point of snapping. The Bulldog lost interest when he had a sack of greens to pant over. Tiger pounced on the first missed payment, sending his best knife man to rob Derec of his average man's face, giving him a thick white scar over the left eye that even nearsighted Tiger could spot from a distance.

It was almost as painful as what she did to him...but that's a forbidden topic.

His participation in the next hand is minimal. He knows from the deal that he's got nothing and the odds of improvement are phenomenally low. He tosses in a few chips, feigning an interest and backing down only when he's got them all convinced that his queen high might be worth something to the game. He doesn't like being out of the round. It gives him time to observe his surroundings, a hobby best suited to food court loungers and retirees sitting on sunny porches. The last thing you want to do in a place like Roddy's is catch the wrong person's eye, but there are times the player next to you is that person.

The thickset man by the door...is that one of Nikki's thugs? Derec waves over a waiter to order a drink, an excuse to cast his eyes toward the exit. An attractive woman in a red sequined dress is chatting up a beefy black man who keeps winning small stashes of quarters from the slot machines. The suspected thug tries his luck, scowling at a result he doesn't like. The dull green glow from the exit sign reveals the pineapples on his Hawaiian shirt, allowing Derec to breathe more easily. Not Nikki's man, that's for sure. Nikki is way too fashion-conscious to let his boys wear so much as a bow tie in the wrong color.

Derec sips his vodka slowly, setting the glass aside as the next deal commences. This is the hand he's been waiting all night for but he has to play it with care. Keep a neutral face. Let your hand tremble just a bit when your reach for the dealt card. Give them all the wrong cues and even the most paranoid player will fall for your honest act.

There are the usual looks of disgust and disbelief when Derec rakes in his chips and goes to collect, but nobody leaps up from the table to call him out. The girl at the counter chews her gum, the mole on her cheek bobbing up and down to each smack of her jaw as she waits for the machine to transform little plastic chips into crisp green bills. Derec tucks tonight's winnings into an inner pocket he had sewn special on his jacket. He didn't pay extra for the addition. Lucky for him, Tura can work magic with needles.

He's walking past an alley on Ninth when the telltale hushed voices of a bruiser and his prey cause Derec to pause. The target is a little man with a drooping moustache. He's no gang member or hardened man of the street. He looks like an accountant who tried to save a few dollars by getting a black market loan. Derec should shamble past and keep his head down but he can hear the man pleading, crying out when a blow connects. He halts beneath the harsh light of a neon sign advertising Red's Beer.

He can't help the poor sap. He can't even help himself.

He ducks inside, making straight for the bar. He's already got a bit of a buzz from the vodka, nothing he can't handle. It's high past time to change that.

The bottle is a cheap brand, a knock-off of one of those hotshot companies you see bragging up their product during football games. He gets halfway in before the room starts to spin. Nobody notices, nobody cares. This is a place where everybody declines to know your name, intentionally. He stumbles his way past a guy retching into the gutter. Is it the little accountant or somebody who can't hold their sauce? Derec doesn't pause to find out. He stumbles in the direction of his apartment and doesn't remember putting his key in the lock.

The early rays of sunlight that strike his face are searing lasers intent on melting his brain. He groans and throws an arm over his eyes, wondering with annoyance why men with jackhammers are working inside the building. It takes him a moment to realize the angry pounding is within his own skull. He groans louder and attempts to roll over, mashing his nose against the back of his couch.

"I would've put you to bed, if the nasty level of your room wasn't at atomic stink level. Seriously, Derec. Do you ever wash your socks or do you just wait for them to crawl down to the laundromat on their own accord?"

He would recognize Tura's lilting voice in the midst of a crowd. The country-bred girl was sunshine and wit wrapped in a rainbow-striped scarf. She was the kind of girl a man like him could poison so easily.

"You don't have to see me like this, you know. You don't have to see me at all. I'm no fitting company for anyone."

Tura rolls her eyes and grabs his arm, forcing him to his feet. "Come on, Doom and Gloom. Let's get some coffee in you."

She keeps shooting glances at him as she seeks out the blue can of beans and the filters on the top shelf. That's Tura for you. She's the nurturing type that should be guarding a cute little farmhouse with chickens in the yard and kids always getting underfoot. Instead, she wastes her precious free hours away from the restaurant looking after his sorry self. He knows he should use the same bad attitude on her that has scared away every other person he once called a friend. He can't do it. His heart starts pounding when she so much as goes down the hall to use his toilet. He just can't bring himself to cut his last tie to humanity.

She takes the chair next to his as she presses the mug into his hands. "How bad, Derec?"

It's a fair question, considering he lost ten grand just last week on a stupid risk. She doesn't know the full extent of his debt, of course, but she's figured out more than he ever intended to reveal. "One arm and two legs but I convinced them to let me keep the arm that writes checks."

Tura is not amused. "I know I can't stop you from gambling, Derec, but I wish you'd at least think about giving up the life. There are other ways to get money, good ways. I'll help you get a job, if you'll just let me"

Derec snorts. "Yeah, flipping burgers is going to keep the bruisers from snapping my neck like a toothpick. No thanks, Tura. I'm done with worthless interviews where a bunch of stuffed suits look down their noses at me like I'm some kind of oozing slug messing up their precious polished floors. Nobody wants a college drop-out like me, not even the guys who drool over high school grads. I'm too smart for the dumb jobs and too stupid for anything that pays."

The alarm on Tura's wristwatch goes off, warning her that she needs to leave for work. Now. "You are not stupid, Derec. At least promise me you'll stay away from the east side, okay? I've been hearing stories from the girls...I just don't want you to end up on the news for all the wrong reasons."

Derec's snide comment gets stuck in his throat at the genuine concern in Tura's eyes. "Go to work, Tura. The places out there are all penny games anyway."

With Tura gone and a whole fruitless day staring him in the face, Derec finds himself falling into his usual pattern. It used to be he'd use the morning hours before class as study time. Old habits die hard. Most of his books were sold months ago for a third of their value but there are three he has kept, written in, and highlighted to the point that only he can understand the cryptic mess of small text in the dog-eared copies.

He can recite his favorite passages from memory at this point but that doesn't stop him from reading them, analyzing them, and pondering what he would say if the authors were seated in his musty chairs. It's funny how dead men make better company than the future idiots they wrote for.

He does not need to worry about vicious calls from his creditors. He has no phone anymore. He's lucky to have a microwave, the only appliance left that didn't come with the apartment. Some loan shark will probably come for it one of these days, but for now he's not limited to just peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

He does not head for the casino until the sun is down. He hates to walk the streets by day, feeling exposed in the harsh light of the sun. Night brings its own risks, but few people spare a glance for a guy in a black hoodie at night.

House of Dice isn't his top choice, which is why he goes there tonight. The poker table is small and doesn't draw a lot of people, but it's also a place owned by some fat guy with a tooth gap who has never even heard Derec's name. Tura wants him to pick a safe place and this is it.

He tries a few rounds of dice, just to recover that feeling of risk that first awoke his gambling spirit. He gives up in disgust as snake eyes land to stare him in the face.

He starts walking toward the table, coming to a stop as he places the face of a lady in a faux ermine boa. The diamonds in Shimmer's ears are so obviously fake that it's laughable but she can't tell a true diamond from a clump of dirt. As long as her man Tiger tells her she's smoking hot, she will wear every cheap piece of glass he cares to give her.

Shimmer is sure to recognize him on sight. She'd tried to hit on him once out of boredom. The heiress to crime was almost as bad as her.

Derec returns to the street, turning his steps in no particular direction. He's not aiming for Serpent Pit, it's just where he ends up.

Tura's going to be pissed if she finds out. Derec's not only on the east side of town, he's in the center of BJ's territory.

People laugh when they hear that the biggest crime name in the city is that of Bob Johnson. His competitors take names like Tiger and Cobra and dreadful Black Widow with her poison-tipped shoes. They never stop to consider why a man with Bob's reputation might choose to keep his birth name.

BJ needs no special title to get the point across. Mess with BJ and you're dead. Simple. Easy to remember. Just like the name Bob Johnson.

One of the players looks familiar which should be all the warning he needs but Derec is in no mood to go looking for another place. He wants a game and he wants it now. The rest of the players are the usual thugs and losers, nobody he knows. The man to the left of the dealer is definitely one of BJ's men but he shows not a hint of recognition as Derec takes a seat.

His luck is holding just a little too well. Not good. His opponents say nothing as he rakes in a few hundred dollars in a matter of minutes. The guy sitting next to him snorts and throws his cards face down on the fourth hand, knocking against Derec's shoulder as he rises. He offers no apology, lumbering in the direction of the glowing pink Restrooms sign. Derec rubs the sore spot with a soft growl of annoyance but says nothing. That's usually the best policy when an aggressor is three times your size.

The next hand is mediocre. He takes care to fold at the right time, well aware that the odds are about to turn in his favor. Hand seven proves his silent prediction. It almost doesn't matter what card he draws. Based on probability, his win is a sure bet.

A meaty hand clamps down on his arm as he reaches for the single card he requested. Beefy is back from the bathroom and his face is red as a rare steak. He rips Derec's sleeve, tossing the ace of spades to the table. Six pairs of accusing eyes fix Derec with hostile stares.

Derec would never attempt so obvious a ploy. Before he is dragged out of his chair he catches the eye of BJ's man. They call him Scarecrow, for his wasted limbs. It is a detail that pops into Derec's mind as Scarecrow smiles and holds up a hand, counting off each of his five fingers. The implication is clear. This was all a setup, one Derec has failed to anticipate.

The sack that's thrown over his head smells slightly of cheese. BJ's boys are thorough in their work, pounding Derec's body until he falls to the pavement in surrender, then working in a few kicks for good measure. They are laughing as they walk away, leaving him bleeding.

He does not rise, though the voice in his head screams for him to do so. He's had his share of beatings at the hands of loan sharks but he has never hurt like this. It's fitting, really. BJ was by far the worst of his creditors, the man he owed forty grand, an amount it will take him half a lifetime to acquire. He makes it to his knees, wheezing for breath. Something in his body is broken, he just doesn't know what. It can't be his legs because they sort of work, granting him a drunk stagger that sends him lurching forward to collide with a brick wall. He nearly blacks out, digging his fingernails into the rough surface to give the world a more solid feel.

He limps his way through the streets, keeping to the shadows and avoiding the better neighborhoods. It's not all that challenging, considering where he lives.

He doesn't make it home, not even close. He sinks to the concrete stoop of a two-story brick building, staring with glazed eyes at the neon sign across the road. It's a diner of some sort. It almost looks familiar but his thoughts are growing too fuzzy to determine why. He doesn't even realize at first that someone is talking to him until Tura's familiar voice finally makes an impression.

"Derec! Don't you go to sleep on me, Derec. You stay with me, alright? You just hold on and I'll get you some help. No, don't close your eyes, come on!"

She gets him to his feet though she has to support most of his weight. He's rambling in a choked voice by the time she lays him out on her bed.

"She told me she was dying. She said there was a drug that might help but it was new and it was expensive. She was always going in for tests, I thought she was. It was all a lie, Tura. All of it. She never was sick. She got me to give her seventy grand so she could run with it, run with her real boyfriend. She never loved me."

Tura cuts away his grimy shirt with the scissors from her sewing box, finding the bruises both faded and new, swiping furiously at her tears. She knows one person who can save him, a man she had hoped never to speak to again. "That doesn't matter now, Derec. I love you. I'm going to take care of you, okay?"

She gets him to take a pill, one that will ease his pain and help him sleep. Her fingers tremble as she dials her father's number.

Story by Pureflower
Profile by Lethal
Stock img via google search.