Three of them muscled Gary out through the back door. He slipped on patch of wet garbage in the alley, and fell. Hard. The door slammed shut while he looked for loose teeth, cutting out the sound of their laughter and the smell of their cigars.
He stood up and pounded on the door.
After a few minutes, it opened.
“My winnings,” Gary said.
The man at the door turned and another, still seated at the table, nodded. He got up and came over and handed over a stack of bills.
Gary walked out to the street. Wincing, but whistling.
Prompt courtesy of the Daily Post.