Gamble
"No," the man says, "No IOUs from you again."
"I'll pay it," Mike mutters. "I swear."
"Don't make promises you can't keep, son." A whiff of heady perfume. Mike steps back. "How do you feel about a job instead?"
Mike shrugs. "I can turn my hand to anything, sir."
"I'm sure you can. Call on me." He pushes a card into Mike's hand; touches his hat, walks away.
There's a name on the card – and an address in the respectable part of town. He flips it over. Peverell Fine Furniture, it says, in elegant cursive. Mike grins and pockets it.