Like everything in life, the hangover beat Ray Martelli into the fucking ground. Rain-bred traffic had him running behind. He missed a call as he arrived forty-five minutes late and knew what he faced; another Sal Bonafazio tirade. The VP of Operations loved to jerk Martelli’s chain. Opening the terminal office late gave  Bonafazio one more link to jerk.

At eight-fifty-eight the phone trilled again and Bonafazio’s face popped into his throbbing head. Martelli glanced at the vodka bottle, winking reflections of fluorescent lighting like some plastic bowling trophy. He grabbed it. Pushed it between his legs.

“Merchants Intermodal. Ray Martelli.” His voice came out guttural, sticky with phlegm.

“Ray? It’s Ellie.”

“Ellie? What’s doing? You’re calling early. Off last night?”

“I worked.” Ellie’s hard-edged voice made Martelli wince. “Have you made plans for lunch? We need to talk.”

“You sound serious.” Jesus, he thought, I’m a fucking train wreck. “Got a hint?”

“Just say yes, Ray. Meet me at the Brass Rail. Eleven-thirty?”

He frowned, thinking of the Overs-Shorts and Damage report. He had to make good on the damaged pallet of coffee he sold or Bonafazio would have him, balls and all. A tiny voice in his head screamed: Ask her. Ask Ellie for a loan.

“God, you’re a desperate prick,” he whispered.

“What did you say?”

The headache hammered the back of his eyeballs like a fibrillating heart.

“Nothing. Listen. Give me a clue, okay? I’ve got a mountain of work. I gotta

catch up….”

“You said you’re desperate.”

Line two went off. Ray’s heart thumped on his sternum and the pain felt like a kangaroo’s kick. Bonafazio. It had to be Bonafazio. He knew it. Lightning ripped through his stomach. Hot. Does he know? How? How could he?

“Ray? What did you mean?”

He blinked and licked dry lips. Rage screamed at the weakness in his bowel. “Hold on, Ellie.”

Martelli punched line two like it was Bonafazio’s nose. “Merchants Intermodal. Ray Martelli.”

“Try getting to the office by eight….”

Lost—realization pushed his temper to full-throttle recklessness. “I’m on the other line,” he shouted and hit the hold button.

“I’m fucking toast.” A boozy smile pulled on the corners of his thin lips, he punched line one. “Ellie? Sorry, hon. Sal’s on the other line. I’ll be there.”

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing. Forget it.”

“What’s with you? Am I stupid? If you can’t tell me—don’t bother showing up. We’re done.”

“Wait. Ellie? Please. I….” Tell her, he thought. Trust her. His mind blanked and he

choked on a sob. His mouth moved, mouthing five words he couldn’t take back. “Ah,

shit—I need money….” He finished the sentence with nothing but Ellie to lose. “Eleven hundred and change. I don’t have it…. I don’t…. Hell, I don’t know….”

“I’ll give you the money.” she said. “With conditions. I’ll need your word.”

Something released in his chest. For the first time in weeks he could breathe.

“Anything, baby. Name it.”

“You know what I’m going to ask. I know you can give your word. Can you keep it?”

“I can. I’d do anything for you. You know that, baby.”

“Eleven-thirty.”

“I’ll be there.”

Martelli set the receiver in the cradle. Redeemed. He laughed and pulled the vodka bottle from between his legs—half full. Christ, he tucked his head in shame. He’d just bought it.

Martelli blinked and stared at the gold cap. This is it, he thought. I can leave it capped. I can stop.

He shrugged. Spun the cap and took a pull. Last of the last. A swallow of Pepsi chased the burn. He would promise. He’d follow through. He wasn’t a quitter. Line two winked at him—Shit.

He took another pull and picked up the receiver. “Sal, baby. What’s up?”