Free Murder Takes Time by Giacomo Giammatteo

was supposed to get eleven roaches, ten for the race and one extra. He came back within twenty minutes, holding a jar full of frantic, nasty roaches.
    “Twelve,” he said. “Got an extra one in honor of Suit.”
    We laughed our asses off. Suit didn’t like the number eleven. There were eleven kids in his family and he lived on the eleventh house on the street, number 1111. “Too many fuckin’ elevens” Suit’s father always said, and Suit took it to heart. If he was eleventh in line at school, he’d push somebody out of the way so he could be tenth. He wouldn’t even play football because there were eleven guys on the team. Suit avoided elevens like Paulie Shoes did thirteens.
    We all got a good laugh, but then got to work. Tony’s job was to write the numbers on small pieces of paper, which Paulie glued onto the roaches’ backs. Bugs painted a small circle on the concrete, about the size of a coffee can, then another one about eight feet in diameter, making it almost four feet from the coffee can to any part of the circle. This was no scientific calculation, it was dictated by the space we had on the German kid’s concrete pad. The concept was simple: Suit would put the roaches in the coffee can, then we’d turn it upside down in the little circle. When he lifted it, the roaches would scatter, heading in all directions. The first one to cross the line won.
    “How do we do the odds?” Suit asked.
    Never being too good at math, things like odds boggled Suit’s mind.
    “We should ask Doggs,” Tony said.
    I nixed that idea. “He’ll be betting. Can’t trust him if he stands to make money.”
    “Who we gonna trust?” Tony asked.
    “Sister Thomas.” Bugs said, and acted like it was a good idea.
    I smacked him in the head. “You’re gonna ask Sister Thomas to calculate odds for our races? What the hell is in your head?”
    “Doesn’t she always say to put what we learn to practical use?”
    Tony was all smiles. “He’s right, Nicky. Nothing more practical than this.”
    “You ask her. I’ve had my beatings for the month.”
    Tony and Bugs braved Sister Thomas’ wrath and discovered not only was she willing to help, she was well-versed in race-track odds and how to calculate them based on previous performance. This made us wonder about the life of nuns in general, and of Sister Mary Thomas in particular.
    “When are we gonna have it?” Mick asked.
    We decided on Saturday and tacked signs to telephone poles throughout the neighborhood. By 12:30 on the day of the races, we only had four people in the backyard, not counting us. We were damn disappointed. But by five to one, we had thirty, maybe forty, paying customers. I tapped Mick on the leg. “This is gonna be big.”
    At one o’clock, Suit gave a loud, shrill whistle, signaling the start of the first race. The crowd gathered around. Must have been fifty people crammed into Schmidt’s yard. Bugs stood on the concrete stoop and announced that bets were closed for this race, then Suit grabbed the coffee can and set it down on the little circle. He tapped the bottom of the can, making sure all the roaches were on the concrete, then slid the lid out from under it and lifted the can.
    Roaches scattered everywhere. Frankie’s sisters screamed. Everyone except the DiNardo kid stepped back a few feet. Calls from the experienced track people drowned out the others.
    “Come on, number two!” Mr. Schmidt yelled, his roach being in the front, but at the last minute the roach turned and ran the other way. He laughed and tore up his ticket. “That’s why I don’t go to the track.”
    Number five raced across the finish line a second later, followed by numbers seven and ten. I tapped Tony on the shoulder. Nervous as shit. “How’d we do?”
    “Two fifty-cent bets on number five.” He looked at the books, then said “Got a few show bets on the ten, but won’t cost us much.”
    For the second race we dropped the odds on numbers five and seven and