Free A Case of Redemption by Adam Mitzner Page A

childhood friends from West Philadelphia. Rojo was the first act that Brooks signed, and they were fifty-fifty partners in the business. Fast-forward ten years, and just as Capital Punishment was hitting the big time, Rojo was found dead in his hotel room, likely of a drug overdose, although there were conspiracy theorists online who claimed everything from a government plot to silence his music to Brooks killing him to acquire the business.
    After Rojo’s death, Brooks expanded Capital Punishment, signing more mainstream acts, like Roxanne, as well as diversifying into other businesses: a clothing line, video games, and more recently, movies. Capital Punishment was now something of a juggernaut, and likely to get even bigger, as an IPO was rumored to be just around the corner.
    â€œMr. Brooks,” I said, “I’m Dan Sorensen. This is my partner, Nina Harrington.”
    Brooks lifted his eyes from his cards. He glanced fleetingly at me, and then his gaze went up and down Nina’s entire body.
    I had extended my hand, but he didn’t take it. For a moment, I assumed it was because he didn’t recognize who I was.
    â€œWe spoke earlier today,” I went on. “We’re counsel for Legally Dead.”
    He laughed. “Don’t let the gray hair fool you, Dan. I’m not senile.In fact, I’m thinking maybe you have a bit of Alzheimer’s, because I distinctly recall telling you to call me Matt, didn’t I?”
    He said this with the broadest of smiles, as if he were teasing a longtime friend. He grabbed my hand with a confident grip and pumped it.
    â€œIt’s great to meet you, Dan. And you, too, Nina.” Then, with a sweep of his arm, Brooks said, “Care to sit in for a few hands?”
    I looked at the little plaque in the corner of the table. It read: “Minimum Bet—$1,000.”
    â€œIt’s a little rich for me, I’m afraid.”
    â€œOneil,” Brooks said, turning to the dealer, a thirty-something man who wore a name tag that said he was from Ocho Rios, Jamaica, “deal my friend in a hand, and I’ll play the other four.”
    Brooks placed a single yellow chip into the small box in front of the stool on the end, which presumably was for me, because he then organized two neatly formed stacks, five yellow chips high, in each of the other four boxes. My quick math indicated that he had forty thousand dollars riding on this hand. Forty-one, if you counted the hand he was staking for me.
    Oneil dealt all five hands. He was showing a six up, which gave me a little lift because, even with my limited knowledge of blackjack, I knew he’d have to hit sixteen. I was holding eighteen.
    Brooks studied his cards like a general reviewing battle plans. He didn’t make a commitment on any of his hands until he had seemingly decided what to do on all of them. Then, in rapid-fire succession, he said, “Split the eights and hit them both,” and as each one turned into an eighteen, he gestured with his hand, holding it flat, palm down, which must have meant he didn’t want any more cards, because then he said, “Double down,” and pushed another ten grand into the box next to the two-card eleven. Oneil pulled the next card out of the shoe, which was a ten of clubs, giving Brooks a three-card twenty-one, but Brooks didn’t let out even a hint of a smile. Then he repeated the hand signal to hold over his last two hands, an eighteen and a two-queen twenty.
    â€œSir?” Oneil said to me.
    â€œNo, I’m good,” I said.
    â€œYou need to use a hand signal, sir. If you want to decline another card, then hold your hand over them.”
    I mimicked the motion I’d seen Brooks perform, glancing over to Brooks to confirm if I was doing it correctly. He paid me no heed, however, and instead seemed transfixed by Oneil’s cards, as if he could change them through the sheer power of his concentration.
    Oneil