“Sore loser.”
On his way out, he mutters to me, “If you want to play with Little Miss Hustler, be my guest.”
Might as well. Once a young teen trusts you, it’s easy to get information out of them.
I sit down across from her. Blocky benches extend from the walls of this lounge, solid pieces of metal that merge seamlessly with the walls. Tables and stools rise from the floor, also seamlessly joined. Thin, none-too-comfortable pads cover all sitting surfaces, and the most used have additional padding. Pillows, blankets, burlap sacks. Other than that, the room is bare, clean and cramped.
“What are we playing?” I say.
“It’s called Sprocket. Do you have any money?”
I laugh. “Why don’t you teach me how to play first?”
She shrugs and starts dealing. “Suit yourself.”
We each start with six c
