Patrick recalled seeing the man's face on a dozen newspapers before—most headliners written along the lines of Wentz's big, gambling game.
He owned a string of casinos, most of which Patrick was surprised hadn't gone bankrupt. The man himself was a huge gambler, an addict of the cards. But he'd gained so much from his games, that others knew him by the "Hand Of God."
It was amazing, really. Five thousand dollars and a reputation built on a house of cards. No one knew how one could manage—that's why people began to question his tactics.
Patrick himself was suspecting some sort of cheat throughout the famous wins of Peter Kingston Lewis Wentz III. And he sort of hated him, for that reason.
That was how he'd ended up in debt. Or, his family, anyway. He could remember that one night, around fourteen-years-old—when his father had come home in tears. He was playing a gig at one of the Wentz Casinos, and though it was in fact Wentz's father who'd deemed them poor, Patrick still felt a strong hatred for their offspring, Peter.
Until that day, Patrick supposed.
It was a cool, chilly morning in New York. The sky was painted a dusty yellow, pollution swishing through the air. Like always, he was on his bike, pedaling through the rain slicked streets, throwing papers to houses as coordinated as he could. He'd always go down this street—one famous for their rich residents.
And as it turned, one of Patrick's clients was the one and only Peter Wentz. Or, less traditionally, Pete.
He zoomed pass the houses, vision in a blur until the words were aroused from his thoughts.
A sign that read, The Wentz Residence.
All of a sudden, that exhilarating wind no longer swept past Patrick's cheeks. At that moment, the scene around him wasn't blurred in careless emotion. In that moment, there was nothing fiercer than the hatred he felt for the "Hand Of God."
In that moment, he could see his father's face, crying tears he'd never seen before.
I barely know him. How could I hate someone so much?
His stomach boiled with anger, and a dash of sadness filled Patrick.
What could I ever do to a prep anyway? I'm just the paperboy. I'd get fired, I'd get killed if I ever managed to do anything to hurt him.
But he didn't move from his thoughts.
Leaning on one leg, bike tilted toward the ground, he contemplated the mansion. It was an extravagant array of pillars and bricks, and windows were splayed about the premise.
It was huge property, and all Patrick could think was, this was paid for with my family's wealth.
He still held a roll of paper in his hands. His knuckles were bone white, under his gloves.
Out of thought, the short man approached the house slowly, unsure of his movements. His bike lay astray among the street, a sure obstacle to any oncoming cars. But Patrick figured that it was 5 am, and no one was up.
So, he left.
Approaching the house with ragged soles, scratched up shoes and a stained vest, he clutched the newspaper roll fiercely.
