Post 2: Pages 3-6 Released 10/26/10; Continued

 This is a continuation from post on 10/27:  

 "Who the fuck are you asshole?" He said pointing his gun directly at my forehead. I'd just come from around the corner after picking up some lunch to see this man roughing up a smaller Chinese fellow. Something about money, I was sure of that, but i couldn't make out the rest. I then realized that I hadn't answered his question immediately because I was frozen imagining one of his bullets splitting open my head and spraying the sidewalk with my brains. Not happy thoughts.
     "Hey! I'm talking to you!" He yelled.

     "Ok! Ok! Don't shoot! I'm not armed, it's just a roast beef sandwich in the bag." I didn't know why I said that because I don't think he was even looking at the bag.

     "What?"

     "Yeah...um...you want half, I'll give you a half, it's still warm?"

He then stepped forward and pressed the nose of the gun into my temple which hurt really bad.

     "Here take the whole sandwich, of course you want the whole thing, I can get another one. There's a pickle in the bag too."

     "I don't want your goddamn sandwich, what kind of an idiot are you? I'm pointing a fucking gun at your head and in two seconds I could splatter your brains all over the sidewalk." Oh god. "And you're talking about sandwiches...that shit is funny."

     "Look man....I, I am just a tile salesman and I'm only down here because New York XXXXXXX said this sandwich place had one of the top 100 sandwiches in the city. I'm just really hungry that's all, and as far as what I saw you doing before...I don't even remember what you look like." It was a desperate plea but it was the first thing that popped into my head which I was sure was going to explode at any second.  A moment later he eased off the pressure on my temple, which was practically numb, and stood back still pointing the gun in my direction.
     "You are a seriously fucked up individual, most people would have just begged for their life. What kind of tile you sell?" Wait, what? Was he really striking up a conversation?

     "Italian mostly, some from Mexico and some that is made here in the US. All of it is the best quality, we got a showroom on XXX street near XXXX XXXXX."

     "Do you get paid good doing that or what?"

     "Not since the economy tanked in 08, we've been hurting a bit but it seems to be picking up lately. No I'm not really making any money, fucking sucks, but at least I can still run around town looking for new things to eat."

     "Don't tell me...you're one of them foodies right?"

     "Yeah I guess you could say that." More like retarded.

The man with the slick black hair and hulking shoulders inside of a leather sport coat stared at me for what felt like an eternity. I thought for a moment that he was trying to see if I would flinch. He put the gun down and motioned for me to come closer. Not much of a comfort.

     "One of the best sandwiches in the city huh? How come I don't know about this place?"

Because you are as stupid as you look? "Don't know but it's a really small little place over there. Was hoping to give it a try today."

     "What's in it? Smells good."

     "Roast beef, like I said, melted fresh mozzarella and drizzled with the natural au jus on a hero."

     "Au jus? Is that that french dip stuff? Cause I love that."

     "Well sort of I guess."

     "Sounds good, hand it over."

Without hesitation I handed over the warm brown bag filled with what was sure to be a delicious sandwich and a half sour pickle. My life for a sandwich, my life for a sandwich I murmured in my head. A horse is a horse of course of course was in there somewhere too.

     "Here you go."

     "Thanks. The names Jimmy." He nodded his head once.

     "I'm Stephen with a PH."

     "You like sports?"

     "Huh?"

     "You like football? Ever bet on football?" He dug into his pocket and before I could answer he shoved a small white paper in my hand. "Take this and come back and see me next Thursday." When I opened it up I knew exactly what it was but felt it necessary to play a little dumb, so I shrugged my shoulders.

     "Who's your favorite team then?"

     "The Giants."

     "Ok, was that so hard? You can bet on the Giants every week if you want. Just bring me some money and I'll place the bet for you and if they win you'll make a little cash." Way too good to be true. "And if you're feeling really lucky you can bet on a couple of games, the more games you bet on the more money you can win." Those were the magic words to my ears. More money. I could always use more money. That's exactly the moment when I was completely sucked into the world of Jimmy XXXXXXXX.

     He continued. "Every Thursday I'll be sitting in front of the XXXXXXXX XXXXX laundry mat over on XXXXXXXX XXXX XXXX. The windows are always steamed up, so you can't miss it." Of course the paper he had just handed me was the reason I bumped into him in the first place when I saw him pummeling that guy. Well actually I didn't see anything at all. Over the years I would occasionally make a friendly wager but never with a real bookie, that was trouble, but who was I to shy away from trouble.

     "Ok, thanks." I said with a grin.

     "Now get the fuck outta here before I change my mind."

And with that I ran. Ran back around the corner to the roast beef sandwich shop to pick up another sandwich because man was my belly growling.

     "Weren't you just in here?" Said the idiot clerk behind the counter.

     "Yeah glad you noticed, just gimme another one...please."

     "You know you got a red lump on the side of your head?" She was pointing at the spot where Jimmy had pressed his glock. I wasn't sure if it was actually a glock, I just liked to say glock.

     "Uh yeah that's from the nozzle of a gun (too much information), nothing to worry about, happens all the time. Can you just get me my sandwich and extra pickles this time?" I immediately turned to look at the mirrored wall next to me to see just how bad it was. She was right to have pointed it out, it was freakin' huge. "Shit." I whispered. "What the hell am I going to tell my wife?"
     That was about the way I remembered it, the way it went down. From then on every Thursday I'd go and see Jimmy sitting outside of the laundry mat smoking one of his awful cigars and smelling like he had poured an entire bottle of cologne over his head. If you had asked me I would've said Jimmy was in his fifties but it wouldn't have shocked me if you told me we were the same age. Smoking can do that to you. I made it a habit of getting over to Jimmy early, usually before lunch, to give myself enough time to pick up something to eat. What I didn't know, what I couldn't have possibly known at that time, was that Jimmy had taken a shine to me and had decided to take me under his wing.