As most of the regulars knew, the bar's basement housed six pool tables, as well as a small, rickety card-table and a few chairs. Five men occupying the chairs were playing poker.

"OK, Ronnie. Bet's ta you," grunted a heavyset, blonde man with low bangs.

"Gee, thanks Vince. I musta missed that the first hunert times."

"Shut up and bet, kid." After a few moments of sullen silence (maintained mostly for dignity's sake), Ronnie raised by a dollar. As the man next to him folded, he decided to ask the question that had been gnawing at him all day.

"Sooo, guys," he drawled, overdoing his attempt to appear casual. "I been wonderin', whaddya think is the best place for a guy to get a-" His voice faltered. He cleared his throat self-consciously and finished: "a job."

"What's the matta wit' the one ya got?" asked George, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Oh, nothing, nothing. It's just… OK, I came to town to work, right?"

"Right."

"An' I needed the dough so bad I'd've worked for jus' about anybody, right?"

"Right." They knew where this was going.

"Well… I think that I mighta made a mistake. Cancel that, I made a huge mistake!" he snapped, losing patience.

Vince shrugged indifferently. "Look, ev'erybody makes mistakes. Ya move on."

"Well, I don't wanna screw up again. Once is enough!" Making an effort to cool down, he laid down his cards: four of a kind. George wasn't the only one to notice his shaking hands as he reached forward to take the pot. He leaned forward.

"OK, how bad is it?"

Ronnie looked up, making a show of innocence. "How bad is what?"

"Whatever he's doin' to you!" His glare softened. "Go on, then."

After hesitating for a few significant seconds, Ronnie rolled up his sleeve. A neat line of bruises ran down the length of his tricep.

"There's more on the other arm," he muttered, looking down at the table. "An' my back, an'" -another pause, longer than the first- "other places."

George nodded and leaned back. "Thought so," he declared, lighting a cigarette. Ronnie hadn't looked up. Even Vince seemed a little moved.

"Well, OK," he said, forcing himself to sound annoyed. "But you're killin' me here, ya really are."

Ronnie smiled and began to shuffle. "So," he began as the men arranged their hands. "What do I need ta know?"

"First of all, are ya doin' it for yer money or yer life?"

"What kind of a question is that?"

"Well, which is it?"

Ronnie paused thoughtfully. "Life. I got enough money fer now."

"'Kay, 'cause there's two kindsa bosses. Ya got the guys who pay good. Lotsa time off, benefits even. Then ya got the safe guys. They ain't crazy, they ain't out ta rule the world, they ain't chased by…" Everyone paused for a moment, each man surreptitiously crossing himself. "Well, ya know. The question is where on the crazy-poor scale ya wanna fall."

"I guess I wouldn't mind workin' for someone low-end, so long as he was OK. Ya know, for onna them."

"Sounds good. Anyone knowa any openins like dat? Fer myself, I can say wit-out a shada of a doubt that Crazy Quilt's hirin'."

From there, the names started to roll in: so-and-so could get you an interview with the Clock King, the Trickster was looking for new blood (as was the Prankster), Toyman was putting out ads, etc. Even Vince spoke up to say that he had a brother who had an in with Tigershark. Ronnie wrote down names, addresses, and phone numbers. They continued in this fashion for twelve minutes before they were interrupted.

"Hey guys, what's up? Can a guy get in to lose some money?" Ronnie stood up and smiled.

"Sure thing, Al. I got what I came fer, anyways. Jus' one thing, though: why're you always so late ta everything?"

Al shrugged. "Call it a quirk. My mom says I was even born late."

He settled down among his laughing buddies, waving goodbye to Ronnie as the youngster dashed upstairs.