Bard Constantine
Hard Luck Grift
After the Cataclysm nearly wiped out humanity, the remnants survived in Havens: city-sized constructs built to reboot society and usher in a new age of mankind.
However, the new age was not the type the architects had envisioned. The same greed and lust for power that existed before the Cataclysm resurfaced, and the Havens quickly became quagmires of political and economic conflict that threatened to destroy the future envisioned by the Haven's founders.
This is the world of Mick Trubble, a man without a past. A man with nothing to lose. But when your luck is down and no one else can help you, he can. He takes the cases no one else will touch. The type of trouble no one else can handle.
Mick Trubble is…
The Troubleshooter.
Part 1: Place Your Bets
If you wanna make it in a town like New Haven, you gotta have a little gambling spirit in you. 'Cause the odds are stacked from the start, the dealers are grifters, and the house rules are that anything goes. So you better know when to hold 'em and when to fold 'em, when to bet large and when to bluff. The same rules for playing in the casinos apply on the streets. Because in both settings, the chances of winning are slim. But should you hit large, it's better to crab before your luck runs out. Because in New Haven they like to give until it hurts.
Casinos attract certain types of folk, and the majority of them aren't professional gamblers. You got the butter and egg type that arrive in luxury and leave with light pockets. They don't care much about the berries 'cause they got enough to burn. So they get the special suites, catering, and major spoiling that normal Joes can't even catch a glimpse of. Fat cats and casinos are made for each other, 'cause high rollers gotta live lavish. And what's more lavish than dropping a few mil on a game of blackjack or poker while getting treated like royalty?
Then you got the tourists. They don't spend much; just spend time gawking at the wallpaper and playing the least expensive slot machines allowed by law. You'll find them wearing discount rags and nursing free buzz juice while snapping pics like they're at an amusement park or something. The casino tolerates them with the barest civility and usually stashes them in the cheap rooms with the hopes that they'll eventually go away.
Finally, you got the lost souls. Drifters, suckers, and depressed losers that got nothing better to do than stagger in and slowly bury themselves under a mountain of debt. They show up on a regular basis with borrowed funds and play with no regard for strategy, relying on the luck gods to grant them that pay dirt, the jackpot they've been waiting for that will solve all of their problems and take them far away to some imaginary land of milk and honey.
They're the sort that loses everything.
I know, because I've been there. I'd hit a major rut after losing the only real friends I had. The Luzzattis were dead, and their daughter Natasha was so emotionally damaged from her parents' gruesome murder that she'd disappeared into a mental safe house that rendered her unable to cope with the real world. To top it off like grenadine, I had woken up on the bank of the West River with most of my memory missing only a few months back. I had the perfect recipe for a severe bout of depression, and I wanted to whip those ingredients up just right.
Perfect time to try my luck.
Bayside was the designated area for legal gambling. It was a lovely strip of white sands, palm trees, and azure waters that were always the perfect temperature. Towering hotel casinos fenced in the locale, imprisoning anyone with thoughts of engaging in activities beyond losing their hard-earned dough. In addition to indoor gambling, Bayside also offered greyhound and horse racing for folks who wanted to think the animals were anything but synthetic, as well as arena matches where the fur and feather crowd could enjoy a luxurious setting while watching men and women pound each other to a pulp.
The casinos were wild. Colossal buildings that ranged from tacky to elegant, all glitter and gold, beckoning to the crowds with whispered promises of easy money. Holographic advertisements beckoned, displaying enticements in three-dimensional glory. Everything was for sale on the Bayside, from expensive floaters to sex with movie star-styled dames. The entire district was a money trap, and hapless marks leaped for the bait with reckless abandon.
I cooled my heels at a joint called the Pale Horse, which was appropriate because Death sure seemed to ride with me. In taking care of the Luzzatti's murders, I had to cross lines that normally didn't get crossed. I'd been the main reason that a gang war nearly blew up in the streets, as well as two mid-level players put on ice. Details were sketchy, but the word had spread that I was involved somehow. I now had a rep in New Haven as a man you didn't rub the wrong way. That worked out well in some ways, but in others not so much. The life of a bad man is a lonely one because decent folks tend to avoid you. That made the troubleshooting business slow down to a trickle, and one thing a man like me didn't need was idle time.
I downed a Bulleit Neat and pressed my luck. "I just need a few more yards, Drago. You know I'm good for it."
Drago gave me an exasperated glance. He was a giant of a man in a tight-fitting suit with a polka dot bow tie. Of all the resident bookies, he was the only one who would still deal with me. The rest turned their backs as soon as I approached. I'd done some work for Drago when a cross-dressing masseur blackmailed him, so he owed me.
He spoke with a strong Russian accent. "Mick, you are fair man, I know. But you are not good for it. If my numbers get checked, then both of us are screwed, right? These are not bank funds I loan to you, understand?"
I knew, of course. The Pale Horse was mob-owned, specifically by the Goryacheva family. They weren't exactly known for their loving patience in dealing with money matters.
"Look, I've just been under the bend the last few weeks. My trigger finger's been itching lately. A sure sign my luck's about to change."
Drago sighed. "I don't know why I do this every time. Your luck will never change, Mick. You bet against house, you lose. You are smart man. You should know this." But as I figured, he lifted his tablet and opened up a credit line for me to sync to the holoband around my wrist.
I slid the account from his screen to mine. "What I know is that Lady Luck is finally gonna have my back. Don't sweat it, Drago. I'll be back to settle in no time."
"Mick." Drago's eyes were deadly serious. "This is final time for me. If you don't square up, I will have no choice but to turn in your tab. I have people to think of. Wife, kids. I can't put them in danger, no matter what I owe to you."
I nodded. "You don't owe me anything else, champ. And don't worry so much. There's a change in the wind, I can smell it."
"That's just the bourbon you smell. Udatshi, Mick Trubble." He smiled, but his eyes looked worried as he tried to break all of my fingers with his farewell handshake.
TIME DISAPPEARED IN a haze of gasper smoke and unremitting bourbon shots. I lost dibs at the roulette table. I lost dibs playing baccarat. I lost dibs at the poker table. I lost dibs on craps. I lost dibs on Big Six. It didn't matter because I was determined to hit, and hit big. I doubled my bets, then tripled them. I laughed like a madman. I drank some more. I lost some more.
At one point a slinky blonde was on my hip, whispering dirty nothings in my ear. Later on, a foxy brunette sidled over and pocketed a few of my chips when she thought I wasn't looking. I didn't mind. She smelled like evening primrose, and I thought she might send a little luck my way.
She didn't.