Free At Their Own Game by Frank Zafiro Page B

already fucking told you. The deal’s done. I don’t give refunds.”  
    “Let’s undo the deal, then.” I stared at him, and tried for that happy medium between not appearing to challenge him enough to piss him off, but still not looking like a pussy to him. The first part was hard because of the anger that was fighting to get out of me. The second part was hard because I was pinching off the bloody nose he gave me.  
    “ Un do? Like a do over? What are we, in fifth grade?”  
    “No. But the deal was never actually completed, right? The money and the product didn’t both change hands. So it’s not a refund. We’re just calling off the deal.”  
    Ozzy sat quietly, staring hard at me. I could sense Randall’s gaze on me, too. The muffled sound of traffic was all I could hear except for Ozzy’s heavy, labored breaths.  
    Finally, he raised his hand and motioned to Randall. “Back to his car.”  
    Randall started the engine. He drove more carefully on the brief return trip. When he stopped at the rear of my car, Ozzy made no move to exit the cab. Instead, he cocked his head at me and asked, “Who are you connected with, Jake?”  
    “What do you mean?”  
    “I mean, I know you do some minor league shit with boosted property, and I know you’ve got these two ass clowns working for you, but who are you connected with? As in, if you had a big problem you couldn’t solve yourself, where would you go?”  
    I shook my head. “I’m not—”  
    “That’s fucking right,” he snapped. “You’re not with anybody. You are all alone.” He paused to let the words sink in. “Now, you coulda been with me, but for some unknown reason, that doesn’t appeal to you. So you’re still with no one. No. Body.”  
    I didn’t say anything. I didn’t like where this was headed.  
    He smiled. “Smart.” He tapped the side of his head with his finger. “You are a smart motherfucker, aren’t you? You probably already got this figured out, huh?”  
    “No,” I said, but my voice sounded dull and weak.  
    “Bullshit, but I’ll spell it out anyway.” He pointed at the tool chest in the truck bed. “That was your shit. Now it’s mine again. You know why?”  
    I didn’t reply.  
    He didn’t seem to care. “Because I can’t trust someone as pussy as you are to sling my dope. Not on the street, not as a middle-man, not at all. You’ve got no balls, Jake. So your shit is mine again. It’s that simple.”  
    “That’s fine. Just give me my money, then.”  
    “Just give me my money,” he mimicked in a sing-song tone, his hands at the sides of his head, fingers dancing. He dropped his hands. “It’s not your money anymore. Get it?”  
    I released the pinch on my nose tentatively. No blood flowed out. I wiped my palms on the front of my jeans. “Is this how you do business?” I asked. “You just rip people off?”  
    Ozzy shook his head. “No rip-off. You forfeit.”  
    “I didn’t forfeit anything.”  
    “I say you did .”  
    “What do you think everyone else will say when they hear you welshed on a deal?” I stared at him, letting some hot anger seep into my voice. “That can’t be good for business.”  
    “Are you threatening me?” Ozzy asked.  
    “No. I’m pointing out the obvious. Business is built on trust. You violate that trust, and business can’t proceed.”  
    “Listen to you,” Ozzy said. “Mister big time businessman.” He leaned forward. “Let’s say you do that, smart guy. Let’s say you go all over town telling people that I welshed. Keep in mind, these are people I’ve done business with, some of them for years. And I’ve never welshed on any of them. I’m good to my word.”  
    “Except this time.”  
    Ozzy shrugged. “Says you. And maybe you can get people around town to listen to your whining for a little while. You might even get some of them doubting me. At least until I start saying that you’re full of shit. That you welshed