I had until midnight

The neon sign of the Rusty Mug buzzed a mournful tune, casting a flickering orange glow onto my face. Rain hammered against the grimy windows, mirroring the relentless drumming in my chest. I fished out a crumpled ten from my pocket, the last of my cash, and slid it across the sticky countertop.

"Another one, Mickey," I mumbled, barely audible above the din of the bar.

Mickey, the bartender, a man whose face looked like it had been carved from granite and weathered by a thousand storms, grunted and slapped a shot of cheap whisky in front of me. I downed it in one gulp, the burning liquid a temporary anaesthetic against the gnawing fear that had taken root deep inside me.

I was in deep, deeper than I had ever imagined possible. It had started small, a stupid bet on a basketball game, a way to impress a girl. But small bets turned into bigger ones, and impressing turned into desperation. Now, I owed a significant sum to a man named Victor, a man whose reputation preceded him like a thundercloud.

Victor wasn't the kind of guy you reasoned with. He wasn't the kind of guy you negotiated with. Victor was the kind of guy who sent people to the hospital, or worse, for failing to meet their obligations.

I had until midnight. Three hours.

I swirled the remaining dregs of whisky in my glass, the amber liquid reflecting the despair I felt. I had no way to get the money. I had called everyone I knew, begged, pleaded, and even offered to sell everything I owned – which wasn't much to begin with. But no one could, or would, help me.

The door of the Rusty Mug creaked open, a gust of wind and rain swirling into the smoky interior. A figure stood silhouetted in the doorway, shaking off the downpour. As the figure stepped further inside, I saw it was a woman.

She was tall, with sharp, intelligent eyes that scanned the room with a practised ease. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe bun, and she wore a tailored grey suit that looked expensive, even under the dim lighting. She looked out of place, like a rare flower blooming in a concrete wasteland.

She walked straight to the bar, ignoring the curious stares of the other patrons, and sat down a few stools away from me. She ordered a glass of water, no ice, and then pulled out a slim silver laptop from her briefcase.

I tried to ignore her, to focus on the problem at hand, but my gaze kept drifting back to her. There was something about her composure, her quiet confidence, that was strangely compelling.

Suddenly, a hand clamped down on my shoulder. I flinched, my heart leaping into my throat. I knew who it was.

"Looking a little pale, Frankie," a raspy voice said.

I didn't need to turn around to know it was Marco, Victor's right-hand man. He was a mountain of a man, with a face like a bulldog and knuckles that looked like they had seen a lot of action.

"Marco," I stammered, trying to keep my voice steady. "I...I was just about to call Victor."

Marco chuckled, a sound that sent shivers down my spine. "He's been expecting your call. He's getting a little impatient. Says he wants to see his money tonight."

"I know, I know," I said, my voice cracking. "I'm working on it. I just need a little more time."

Marco squeezed my shoulder, his grip like a vice. "Time's up, Frankie. Victor's a busy man. He doesn't like to be kept waiting."

He gestured towards the door. "He sent me to bring you in. He wants to have a little chat."

Terror gripped me. A chat with Victor was the last thing I wanted.

"Look, Marco," I pleaded. "Can't you just give me a few more hours? I swear I'll have the money."

Marco's face hardened. "Don't make this difficult, Frankie. Just come with me."

I knew I was out of options. I was about to stand up and resign myself to my fate when I heard a calm, clear voice cut through the tension.

"Excuse me," the woman in the grey suit said, her voice surprisingly strong.

Marco turned towards her, his brow furrowed. "What's it to you, lady?"

"I couldn't help but overhear," she said, her eyes fixed on Marco. "It seems this gentleman is having a little financial difficulty."

Marco scoffed. "That's right. And it's none of your business."

"On the contrary," she said, a slight smile playing on her lips. "I believe it is. I'm a lawyer, and I happen to have a client who is looking to invest in promising young talent. Perhaps this gentleman has some skills that my client might find useful."

I stared at her, dumbfounded. Who was this woman? And why was she interfering?

Marco looked confused but wary. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about opportunity," she said, her voice smooth as silk. "My client is always looking for individuals with a strong work ethic and a willingness to learn. Perhaps this gentleman could start by assisting with some research or maybe even managing some of our clients' social media accounts."

Marco still looked suspicious. "And what does this have to do with the money he owes?"

"Well", she said, tilting her head slightly. "My client is a generous person. Perhaps he would be willing to advance this gentleman a small sum to help him get back on his feet. Of course, it would be considered an investment, and he would be expected to repay it in due course."

She opened her laptop and tapped a few keys. "Let's see… how much does he owe?"

Marco hesitated, glancing at me. He knew if he said the amount, he’d be legitimising this whole ridiculous charade. But he also didn't want to cross a lawyer, especially one who seemed to have connections.

"Enough," he grunted.

The woman chuckled. "I'm sure it is. Well, I think my client would be willing to advance him, say, five thousand dollars? That should cover most of his… obligations."

My jaw dropped. Five thousand dollars? It was more than I owed Victor.

Marco was clearly thrown. He didn't know how to react. He looked from the woman to me, his eyes narrowed.

"And what's in it for you, lady?" he asked, his voice laced with suspicion.

The woman smiled, a genuine, almost predatory smile. "Let's just say I enjoy helping people. And I have a soft spot for those who are down on their luck."

She slid her laptop across the bar towards Marco. "Here's my card. Tell Victor to give me a call. We can discuss the details."

Marco stared at the card, then back at the woman. He seemed to be weighing his options. Finally, he released my shoulder.

"Alright," he said, his voice grudging. "But if this is a scam, you'll both regret it."

He turned and walked out of the bar, disappearing into the rain-soaked night.

I stood there, stunned, watching him go. I couldn't believe what had just happened.

The woman closed her laptop and turned to me, her expression unreadable.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

"I… I don't know what to say," I stammered. "Thank you. You saved my life."

She shrugged. "Don't mention it. Just try to stay out of trouble."

She paused, then looked at me intently. "What's your name?"

"Frankie", I said. "Frankie DiMaggio."

"Alright, Frankie," she said. "My name is Ms Sterling."

"Ms Sterling", I repeated, trying to process everything. "Why did you do that? You don't even know me."

"Sometimes", she said, a hint of sadness in her voice, "you have to help people, even if you don't know them."

She reached into her purse and pulled out a business card, handing it to me.

"Call me in the morning," she said. "We'll talk about your… skills."

She stood up and walked towards the door, pausing briefly before stepping out into the rain.

"And Frankie", she said, turning back to me. "Don't disappoint me."

Then, she was gone.

I stared at her business card, my hand trembling. The card was simple and elegant, with her name embossed in silver lettering:

Ms Eleanor Sterling Sterling & Associates Investment & Legal Counsel

I felt a surge of hope, a feeling I hadn't experienced in a long time. Ms Sterling had given me a lifeline, a chance to escape the darkness that had been closing in on me.

I knew I had a lot of work to do. I had to prove to her, and to myself, that I was worthy of her help. I had to stay out of trouble, pay back the money, and turn my life around.

I finished my whisky, the burning liquid now carrying a different kind of warmth, a warmth of gratitude and renewed hope. The rain continued to fall outside, but the drumming in my chest had subsided.

As I walked out of the Rusty Mug, I took a deep breath of the fresh, rain-washed air. The neon sign buzzed behind me, no longer mournful but almost… hopeful. Maybe, just maybe, I had a chance. Maybe, thanks to a stranger’s act of kindness, I could turn my life around. I had a phone call to make in the morning. This time, though, it was a call I was actually looking forward to.