Checks and Imbalances

Despite Kizzie's warnings, Doyle had got himself into trouble - and quickly. He hadn't meant to, he just wasn't used to all this - and now he found himself in way over his head.

He had a whole bunch of contacts now - meeting one guy led to being introduced to another and then another and then a poker game with a whole more guys and now he had a whole black book filled with names of men just like him. Some demon, some human - almost all dangerous. But they traded tips and favours and loaned money and kept a whole underworld economy afloat, and Doyle was now submerged in that - and finding himself in debt.

He'd had a run of bad luck at the track. The ponies hadn't come through. He'd even lost major coin backing the Vikings … he'd not make that mistake again. And rent had been due, and he was up to his credit limit at the liquor store … so he had borrowed a bit of green. Kizzie had warned him not to but - what could he do? He had nothing of value left to pawn. He had to borrow and gamble and hope to make back enough to cover his debt and his bills.

It didn't come through. He'd gambled. He'd lost. So now he owed money to Frankie Tripod, and no way of paying it back.

Kizzie took him to a poker game - run by a Lubbock demon called Vito. Vito was good people - for a demon - if Doyle could earn enough to clear his debts with Frankie, Vito would give him time to pay back the money he borrowed to sit in the game.

Well … he won a bit. But not enough. So now he still owed Frankie and he owed Vito. And he didn't know what to do. So he took his winnings and put them on a horse - if that came through he would be clear.

…He didn't even know why he was surprised when the horse didn't win its race. You would think he would learn that nothing came up good for him, not since he discovered his demon half. But there was always that kernel of hope, that he couldn't quite kill - that no amount of whisky would dampen, that somehow he would find a way out - the nightmare would end.

But it never did. How could it? The nightmare was in his very DNA. This was the life of a creature like him. This was where he belonged. Of course the horse didn't come through. Of course he didn't win quite enough at the gaming table. Of course the nearest liquor store to his apartment cut him off. And of course, when he got home, the elevator in his building was broken. Nothing good could ever happen to a demon. They were creatures cursed and cast out by God. Every way he turned was just another dead end, another disappointment, another failure.

One evening he was in a demon bar, playing pool with a group of Haskarof demons. He was hustling them - though they didn't know it yet. He'd lost and lost again - dismally - and now they were delightedly laying down the big bucks to play him again … and that was when his luck seemed to massively turn around. Having gone from barely knowing which way to hold a pool cue, he was suddenly potting every shot. Even as he leaned over the table and positioned his cue ready to take his next shot, he could feel the atmosphere change behind him, feel the exact moment the Haskarofs realised they had been played.

Things turned nasty once he'd won. Seems these guys were sore losers. Or maybe, like everyone else, they didn't like being cheated. He turned to see them closing in on him, looking very angry. They were big, strong looking - maybe he had bitten off more than he could chew. He gulped. 'Hey now fellas - we had an agreement…'

One of the Haskarofs cracked his knuckles. Doyle gulped again.

And then he felt someone grab hold of his arm and yank him right out of the crowd of angry demons and bustle him out into the street. He looked at his saviour in surprise, Doyle didn't know him. He seemed human. There didn't seem to be any reason he would be in a demon bar - or why he would help Doyle out. 'Thanks - why did y'...?'

'Mr. McNamara would like a word,' his saviour said. For a man who had just saved him, his face was very grim, his voice unfriendly.

'Who the hell is Mr. McNamara?'

But the man didn't reply, and Doyle was bundled into a waiting car and driven off, and the half demon couldn't shake the feeling that maybe he was out of the frying pan and into the fire. He was taken to a club, which was closed at the moment - the lights were dim, the bar empty - and he was taken over to where a man in a sharp suit sat at a table, flanked by two aggressive looking flunkeys . 'This Doyle?' the man asked.

Doyle nodded that he was indeed himself. 'Sit down,' the man said, waving to the seat opposite him. He held out his hand for Doyle to shake. 'I'm Darin McNamara.'

'Doyle,' Doyle said - still not knowing what was going on, but not liking it one bit.

'Do you know why you're here?' McNamara asked him. He shook his head. McNamara lit a cigar and took a puff of it before he spoke again. 'You owe money to a man known as Frankie Tripod.'

'Well - yeah - but I'm gonna pay him back...'

'No need. Mr. Tripod has sold his debt on. To me. You no longer owe him your money … you owe me. And that, Mr. Doyle, is why you are here. To discuss your debt and the matter of its payment.'

Doyle swallowed, hard. There was a glint to this man's eye that warned him how dangerous a situation he was facing. This was … he would never have come here, never have borrowed money from here. Individual demons in skeezy bars were one thing - but this place was big, and this man seemed powerful - with his suit and his cigars and his lackeys, and that glint in his eye … Doyle would never have willingly got into debt with someone who was so clearly a much bigger player than he was. Even as new to all this as he was, as unsure of how it all worked, he wouldn't have gone looking to get himself at the wrong end of such a power imbalance …

But he hadn't realised that debts and favours could be passed on like this, without him knowing. Hadn't really understood the system of checks and balances. And now he was in trouble. Or it certainly looked that way anyway. 'I - uh … I'll get you the money,' he said,

McNamara puffed on his cigar once again and nodded his head. 'Yes you will Mr. Doyle. Yes you will. You have three days.'

'And - and if I don't have it in three days?' he stammered.

But McNamara only smiled. 'Three days,' he repeated.