In Debt to Bad Men: Riley

So Old Tony's 'boys' came by. They wanted money, too, but we didn't have more than two whole dollars.

I explained this to them, and they wanted to know where Mom and Dad were.

I told them they'd died, that they'd been buried under the house. One of the boys said something about ghosts and went white as a sheet.

So, then I asked, "How do I make any money?"

"Get a job," one of the boys said. I didn't like his tone of voice.

Boy number two elbowed him in the chest. "All right, kid. We can set you up with a job, kinda. See, the boss likes art, and writing. I seen the paintings upstairs, you're good enough for a few dollars."

I didn't like that idea, either - those splashes of color were the only color this entire miserable world had - but if it was that or losing something important - the beds, or the pots, or the candles - the sink. We couldn't afford to lose the sink, though we drank very little from it. The water didn't taste right, but we each took enough that we wouldn't -die- of thirst, every day.

I nodded.

"We'll come by every coupl'a days and take any pictures you can make, tribute for the boss, like. And we'll let you sell off anything you write, as a bonus. Don't worry about your bills - we'll take 'em out of your pay, see? Works for everybody."

So once again, we'd be in debt to the mob. I wasn't stupid. These men were criminals, and Dad's memory says they stole from us just as surely as the lady who took our bookshelf. They had different faces, maybe - younger faces - but they were the same kind of snow, you know?

But they didn't take our things, just our money. The value of money is only as much as what you can buy with it, and I know Dad wasn't able to buy much of anything without their black-market connections. Everything swung back to the crooks.

I hate them, too.