F3 New Year's Diner

            Most people with any sense were either home or at some party to celebrate, probably up in the Heights, but not me. Eva and I were at a diner with the cook and two winos nursing a bottle in the corner.

            It was that kind of diner.

F3 The Master

            I rolled the penny across my knuckles, then quickly palmed it, making it disappear from view. Palming a penny was easy, rolling it across knuckles was not. But Eva, unimpressed with my coin work, rolled her eyes at me.

            I picked up the deck of cards, instead, rapidly shuffling and manipulating the cards. Our first meeting had been at a poker game where she had dealt. I had managed to keep up with a good bit of her card work. She also knew when I held back cards, but now we were reversing roles.

F3 Practicing Bad Habits

            Eva went first, carefully slipping fingers into the coat, extracting coins and keys with skill, barely rustling the coat and its assortment of bells; all with her left hand. However, once she got to the wallets, her fingers failed her. Either she would jostle a bell or lose her grip on the thick leather with delicate fingers.

F3 The Lift

            Picking pockets on the street is different than it is with a specific mark. On the street, you look for what’s convenient, for where you can get the easy bucks without risk of bringing heat down on you. It’s not about size or smarts, but about where their minds are. You want people that look busy, are preoccupied. Could be they’re having a conversation, reading the paper, or they’re just staring at the same three feet of pavement in front of them. Those are the ones that won’t realize they’ve been lifted until you’re six blocks away.

F3 Tools of the Trade

            “This one is all yours, Ben.” Eva said.

            “Surprised you’ll admit I’m better than you.”

            “At this. This is the only thing you’re better than me at, and you know I’m pretty fantastic at it, so don’t get so smug.”

F3 Back on the Streets

            The old neighborhood looked pretty much the same as I remembered it. The market on the corner still sold fruits and vegetables as well as a few dry goods, though Prohibition had robbed the market of their wine. Neighborhood kids still played stickball in the streets. Everything about the town of Meridian was the same. Except for the name.

F3 A Crew

     When you do a job, you need people. Small jobs can go for one or two people, but the bigger the pay off, the more people needed. I thought I was done running cons. I thought I could get by in life without them.

F3 The Arcade

     Ciro and I loved the arcade. Most of us kids did. We'd pick up pennies shining shoes for people or selling papers on the corner just so we could rush into the arcade to drop our pennies into the mutoscopes. I liked the ones that showed magic tricks, even though Ciro and Tommy thought they were fake.
     One day Mr. Arnold added in new machines. These were taller than the rest, and had names above like

F3 Nimble Fingers

     "So, you want into the racket, eh. Live life out here on the streets, huh?" I put a fresh toothpick between my teeth.
     The kid in front of me nodded vigorously. "Yeah. I'm tough. I can do this. I get right in people's faces. I got no problem staring a guy down with a gun or a knife."

F3 Tough Guy

     Any moron can get himself a gat. Toting about a gun doesn't make someone tough. It certainly doesn't make someone smart. More often than not,

Character File: Ben Slater

F3 Watching the Master

     I had moved to Frisco to start over, to leave the crimes of my past behind me. The only problem was I didn't have much idea what to do. I was just plain good at what I had been doing, and it was hard to find something else. My money had been easy back home, and working the docks in Frisco was back-breaking work. Honest, sure, but not a day went by that I didn't collapse in the shabby bed I rented.

F3 Parting Shots

     "You'll wanna make sure you don't miss. Wheelgun's only got six shots." I didn't look at her, I didn't dare. She'd give me a look that said something warm grew in her cold heart, but that was just to distract from the cold iron in her hand. It'd be hot, soon enough, trailing a wisp of smoke just like my cig.
     "It's not like—" she started in.