"Ma, I need five hundred dollars."
Maria DuPont nearly dropped the laundry basket she was carrying up the stairs. Her son was standing in the hallway, wearing clothes that actually matched for once, looking at her like he'd just asked for a glass of water.
"Excuse me?"
"Five hundred. Cash. I'll pay you back with interest in two months."
She set the basket down and crossed her arms. "Jason, what kind of trouble are you in?"
It had been three days since the parking lot incident, and Jason could feel the shift the moment he walked through Bay Ridge High's front doors. Conversations stopped when he passed by. Groups of students would whisper and point, then quickly look away when he glanced in their direction.
"Did you see what he did to Kevin Walsh?"
"I heard he broke Brad Morrison's nose with one punch."
"My cousin said Danny Chen's still got road rash on his back."
The most noticeable change was with the girls. Elizabeth Watkin had "accidentally" bumped into him at his locker and apologized with a smile that lingered too long. Angela Ricci had waved at him during lunch and asked if he wanted to sit with her friends.
"Dude, this is insane," Marco whispered as they walked to fourth period. "Lisa Park just asked me for your phone number."
But Jason's mind was focused on bigger things than high school social dynamics. He had work to do.
"No trouble, Ma. I found a way to make some money for us."
"Money?" Maria laughed, but there was uncertainty in her voice. Ever since the fight, her son had been acting like a completely different person. More confident, more articulate, more... adult somehow. "Honey, you're seventeen years old. What money?"
Jason walked into the living room where the television was playing the evening news. The date in the corner read March 18, 2006. On screen, a reporter was discussing the upcoming NCAA basketball tournament that would begin in just two days.
"I've been tutoring some kids from school in math and science," Jason lied smoothly. "Rich kids from the Upper East Side whose parents will pay good money to make sure their kids don't fail."
Maria studied her son's face. Three days ago, he'd been a typical seventeen-year-old who grunted at breakfast and complained about homework. Now he was talking about tutoring and speaking in complete sentences.
"Since when are you good enough at math to tutor other people?"
"Since I started actually paying attention in class." Jason settled into the couch next to his mother. "Ma, I've got a client lined up who needs intensive help before the spring semester finals. His parents are willing to pay five hundred upfront for two weeks of daily sessions."
"Five hundred dollars for tutoring?"
"These people have money, Ma. To them, five hundred is nothing if it means their kid doesn't have to repeat junior year."
Maria looked at her son skeptically. "And you need our emergency fund because...?"
"Because I need to look professional. Nice clothes, proper materials, maybe rent a quiet space where we can work without distractions." Jason leaned forward, his voice taking on the tone he'd once used to convince juries. "Ma, this could be the start of something. If I do well with this kid, word will spread. Rich parents talk to other rich parents."
His mother was quiet for a long moment, processing what her son was telling her. They'd been struggling financially ever since Jason's father had died in that construction accident when Jason was twelve. Maria worked double shifts at the hospital, but it was never quite enough to get ahead.
"Five hundred dollars," Maria said slowly. "That's our entire emergency fund."
"I know. But Ma, trust me on this. Please."
"And if this tutoring job falls through? If the parents change their minds?"
"Then I'll work every weekend at the grocery store until I pay you back."
Maria looked at her son's face, searching for any sign of the uncertainty or recklessness she'd expect from a teenager asking for their family's savings. Instead, she saw the same calm confidence he'd been displaying ever since the fight.
"When do you start?"
"Monday. I mean tutoring starts Monday and I need to have everything ready by then."
His mother stood up and walked to the window, looking out at the Brooklyn street where she'd raised her son alone for the past five years. Every month was a struggle to make ends meet, every unexpected expense a potential disaster.
"Jason," she said quietly. "When have I ever been able to say no to you?"
"You say no to me all the time."
"About important things. Real things." She turned around to face her son. "If this is really an opportunity to help our family..."
Maria walked over to the kitchen drawer where they kept their emergency cash and counted out five hundred dollars in twenties and fifties.
"If you lose this money," she said, handing it to him, "you're going to work every weekend until you pay it back, plus interest."
"I won't lose it."
"How can you be so sure?"
Jason took the money from his mother's hands and folded it carefully into his wallet. "Because I have to be."
The next morning, Jason took the subway into Manhattan to find a bookie who would take his action. He'd remembered hearing older kids at school talking about a guy named Vinny who ran sports bets out of a barbershop in Little Italy.
The barbershop was exactly where he remembered it would be, squeezed between a pizza place and a dry cleaner on Mulberry Street. Jason pushed through the door and was immediately hit with the smell of hair tonic and cigarette smoke.
"Help you with something, kid?" The barber, a heavyset man in his sixties, looked up from cutting an older Italian man's hair.
"I'm looking for Vinny."
"What do you want with Vinny?"
"I want to place a bet on the tournament."
The barber and his customer exchanged glances. "You got ID says you're eighteen?"
Jason pulled out his wallet and showed his school ID. "I'll be eighteen in two months."
"Close enough." The barber jerked his head toward the back of the shop. "Vinny's in the office."
Jason walked through a narrow hallway to a small office where a thin man with slicked-back hair was sitting behind a desk covered in newspapers and betting sheets.
"You Vinny?"
"Depends who's asking."
"Someone who wants to make a very specific bet on Northwestern State versus Iowa."
Vinny looked up from his papers and barely glanced at Jason. "Look kid, Northwestern State? Get the fuck out of here. Iowa's going to destroy them. Fifteen seed against a six seed? You're wasting my time."
"I don't think so."
"I don't care what you think. Come back when you got a real bet." Vinny went back to his papers dismissively.
"I want to parlay Northwestern State straight up, covering the eight and a half spread, hitting the over at one hundred twenty-four, winning by exactly one point."
Vinny didn't even look up. "Kid, you're talking nonsense. Take your lunch money and go buy a comic book."
Jason pulled out the folded piece of paper and placed it on Vinny's desk. "Final score sixty-four to sixty-three, with Jermaine Wallace scoring the game-winning three-pointer in the closing seconds."
Now Vinny stopped reading and stared at the paper. "What the fuck did you just say?"
"You heard me."
Vinny leaned back in his chair, his expression shifting from dismissive to suspicious. "Look kid, you're talking about the most specific fucking parlay I've ever heard. You want Northwestern State to win straight up, cover the spread, hit the over, win by exactly one point, finish with that exact score, AND have a specific player hit the game winner?"
"That's right."
"Where the hell did you get these details? You working with someone? You got inside information?" Vinny's voice carried a warning edge. "Because if you're trying to run some kind of scam on me, I'll have you thrown out of here so fast—"
"I'm not scamming anyone."
"Then you're just fucking crazy. Nobody walks in here with predictions this specific unless they know something they shouldn't know."
Jason stood his ground, meeting Vinny's stare directly. "You want to take the bet or not?"
"Look kid, even if I wanted to take this insane bet, what makes you think I wouldn't just pocket your money? Five hundred dollars from some high school kid? Who's going to believe you if you come crying that the mean bookie stole your lunch money?"
Jason smiled, and something in his expression made Vinny pause. "Because if you try to fuck me over, I'll call the cops and tell them you're soliciting minors to gamble. I go to juvenile detention for a few months. You go to prison for years."
Vinny blinked, then started laughing. "Jesus Christ, kid. You got some fucking balls walking in here and threatening me."
"I'm not threatening you. I'm explaining the consequences of trying to cheat me."
"And if you lose the bet fair and square?"
"Then I lose the bet fair and square."
Vinny studied Jason's face for a long moment, then started writing on a betting slip. "You know what? I like you, kid. You got balls and you understand how this works. Two thousand to one odds."
Jason did the math quickly. Five hundred dollars at two thousand to one would pay out one million dollars.
"Deal. And Vinny?"
"Yeah?"
"When this hits, I'll give you two hundred thousand as a bonus for taking the bet."
Vinny's pen stopped moving. "Two hundred grand?"
"Consider it an investment in our future business relationship."
Vinny finished writing the slip and handed it to Jason. "Game's Monday afternoon. You better hope whatever crystal ball you're looking into is working."
Jason folded the slip carefully and put it in his wallet.
"If this hits, kid, I'm going to start asking you for your picks instead of the other way around."
Time to see if Vinny was a man of his word.