People usually cross the parking lot to avoid us.
This kid didn’t.
He walked straight to our table and stopped right in front of me. Couldn’t have been more than five. Jeans two sizes too big. Plastic hospital bracelet on his wrist. No hair. Not even eyebrows.
He held up the money. “How much to beat somebody up?”
The whole table went quiet. I leaned down, elbows on my knees.
“Depends on who it is, partner.”
He dug in his pocket and pulled out more. A five. Two ones. A fistful of quarters. Set it all on the table like he was hiring a contractor.
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