Word gets back to Jim Blowers that the woman standing behind me noticed when I uncut the deck.
Is that true?” Jim asks me. “Were you cheating?”
“No,” I lie. I don’t think Jim believes me, but I don’t care. In my mind it’s okay to cheat drug dealers – that every penny I take out of their pockets helps keep more drugs off the street. That’s a reason. But it’s not the reason. The reason was formed back when I was a feeble, visually impaired, asthmatic kid stripped of his money, knocked to the ground and kicked in the ribs. That’s when I vowed that I would become the one who empties wallets.