Bad Karma

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Bill Shannon ran hard from his apartment to the juice and coffee shop on the eastern end of Boulder’s Pearl Street Mall where he was going to meet Eli Rosen. He did this partly to keep from being any later than the extra ten minutes Eli had given him, and partly as a challenge to see whether he could run a half mile in under three minutes. When he arrived at Juiced Up he leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees while trying to get his breathing under control. A quick look at his watch showed that he had made it in just over three minutes. His eyes wandered down his wrist to the stubs where his ring and middle fingers used to be. Five and a half years ago they were ripped from his hand. This was the first time since then that he had gone out in public with his damaged right hand exposed. He straightened up and entered the shop.

Eli was waiting at their usual table. He was a large man with gentle eyes and heavy rounded shoulders. Thick light brown hair ran up to his neckline and covered the exposed areas of his arms and legs. Like most mornings, at least during baseball season, he wore sandals, shorts, a Bucky Dent Yankees jersey and a matching Yankees cap. Shannon nodded towards him, and Eli gave him back a deadpan stare in return. He told Shannon he was sweating. Shannon took some napkins and wiped off his forehead and the back of his neck.

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