“He’s not a bad man,” she said, before I’d even asked. “He just… he can’t help himself. The horses, the cards, the—” She stopped, swallowed. “He took our son. Said they were going for ice cream. That was seven hours ago.”
The address was a limestone townhouse, the kind with a brass door knocker shaped like a lion’s head. The wife met me in a silk robe, her knuckles white around a cup of tea that had long gone cold.
Leo lingered on the sidewalk. “What happens now?” he asked. vice stories
I walked over. Leo didn’t look up until I laid my badge on the table.
He nodded, turned his collar up against the rain, and walked inside. “He’s not a bad man,” she said, before
For a long moment, the room held its breath. The dealer froze mid-shuffle. Then Leo’s face broke—not like a dam, but like cheap plaster. He reached out and took his son’s hand.
“Now,” I said, lighting a cigarette, “you decide whether this is the bottom or just another floor on the way down. I can give you numbers. Rehab, gamblers’ anonymous, a shrink who won’t judge. But I can’t make you call them.” “He took our son
“Evening,” I said quietly. “Time to go home.”