I got word my place had been robbed at around five in the morning. One of my men, Hank, dialed me up and said there was something suspicious about the back fence—busted, he’d said—and that the back window was cracked open. When he went in, sure enough, the safe had been cleared out.

I’d been robbed before. Years ago, when I hadn’t had such a bad reputation around town, people had begun to take advantage of me and my services—taking a bit too much here and there and then not paying it back. Oftentimes, they’d learn where I kept my goodies and sneak in, taking whatever they pleased—like kids in a candy store, frankly. But I’d taken care of them.

Violence was the only answer in my book. People didn’t listen to reason.

At nine in the morning I flew into the parking lot of the loan office, parking in my usual place, and then stabbed my boot onto the gravel, eyeing Hank, who was off to the side, smoking a cigarette. He was hunched over, short but powerful, especially in the shoulders and arms.

Hank tossed his smoke into the gravel and stomped it out, not bothering to wave. He knew I hated that shit, the pleasantries. In the Midwest, it was what everyone did. Wave hello. Ask how you were doing. Give good thoughts to your folks. It was disgusting.

Hank and I headed into the office, locking the door behind us. He pointed toward the far corner of the next room, where, sure enough, the lock had been tossed to the side and the rusty safe was empty, void of all the cash I’d had lying around, wrapped up and ready.

“Fuck,” I muttered, crossing my arms over my chest. “And we’ve got no clue who might have done this? Not Bob and the others?”

Hank shook his head, looking unfazed. His bald head gleamed in the sunlight streaming through the broken blinds. “Actually, boss,” he said, his words slow, “I received a payment this morning. A bunch of cash from a Jim Priskin.”

“Oh yeah?” I said, sinking down into my desk chair, having lost any sense of excitement. “The one with the gambling addiction? That pathetic asshole?”

“The very one. He owed us twenty thousand, you remember,” Hank said.

“Sure, but he ain’t ever going to get us that money. Such a sad little man, putting his life in danger like that. And they say his daughter ain’t got much in the way of money, either. Seen her tight little ass at the diner last week. Poor kid. Don’t know her daddy’s about to lose all his fingers.”

But as I spoke, Hank revealed a backpack beneath the other desk. With a slow, smooth motion, he unzipped it, revealing bundles of cash inside—all organized in 50s. My jaw all but dropped to the floor.

“That from Jim Priskin?” I asked Hank, incredulous.

“Yup,” Hank affirmed. “But, boss, there’s something else.”

I flung myself from my chair and wrapped my hands around the money, piecing through it, feeling giddy. Nothing gave me a hard-on like a good stack of bills. “What?”

“It’s the same cash that was stolen out of the safe,” Hank said. “I checked the serial numbers before you got here. The exact money that was stolen from you has been returned to you in the form of a payment.”

The bills fell from my fingers like leaves in autumn. They scattered to the floor around my boots as I scrunched up my face, unable to hold my laugh in another moment.

“Old Jim boy stole from us and expected us not to notice that he was returning the very same bills?” I cackled. “Oh, Jesus. This is some of the best news I’ve heard all year.”

“Pretty fuckin’ stupid,” Hank offered. “Only an idiot would do this, boss.”

“Damn right, Hank. Damn right,” I said, shaking my head. “I suppose this just became an opportunity to deliver some rough justice, didn’t it?”

“Absolutely,” Hank said. “I’m at your service, as usual.”

“Sure, sure,” I said, collecting more bills from the backpack. I felt like a grubby kid digging for the toy at the bottom of the cereal box. “Bring old Jimmy to me, Hank. Don’t let him live another moment longer thinking he got away with this.”

Hank turned from the room, finding his stride as he walked his stubby form back toward his little dark green car parked in back. I watched as he hopped into it, donning a black baseball cap and starting his trek toward Jim’s place.

Rubbing the bills together in my hands, I allowed my imagination to roll. What could I possibly do to Jim that would make him more miserable than everything he’d already done to himself?

I’d have to be creative. My line of work wasn’t for the faint of heart.