Good Point

9.4.

Within minutes of being up, his level had already fallen .6 points. He quickly rummaged through his pants, yanking his phone out of his pocket and checked his missed texts.

D: I had to do it. Jimmy wouldn’t pay. I owe you a half. - 6:32pm

“Owe me?” he muttered angrily, tossing his phone on the bed. He was careful not to rage out. Not to break something, or chuck his phone into the wall. He knew better than that. He couldn’t afford to make things worse. Whatever force controlled the floating 9.4 above his head didn’t care whether he cursed someone’s name in public or private. His deed level was always an accurate reflection of who he was as a person. How the scales of good and evil within him tipped.

Well, almost always.

He took a few deep breaths, and took a shower. It’s where he got his best thinking done. How to recoup my losses… If I cut him loose, turn him over, I might be able to get .2, maybe a .3. But then I’ll have a loyalty issue.

He soaped up his towel, letting the water run down his back as he washed his front. Who knows what I stand to lose if I have to deal with another mutiny. He thought back to when he had to punish Sal. Forking him over to the feds had gained him .3, but he lost a whole point putting down his rebellious foot soldiers, and another point when he had to bring his Generals in line. He’d lost a month of business and if he hadn’t secluded himself, he might’ve lost his famous reputation.

He turned around and let the water run down his front as he reached behind him and washed his back as best he could. Maybe I’ll find something. Or maybe D will find a lead for me.

He never had a nine to five, working was hard and long, and some people spent decades working themselves to death to barely get a 6.

He linked his fingers together and stretched, his mind relaxing the more he thought. Cash is king though. Enough donations, and I’ll recoup my losses before breakfast is over.

He heard his phone ringing in the bedroom, so he rinsed off haphazardly and cut off the water, running into room. It was on its last ring when he scooped it up. “What?” He heard heavy breathing on the other line.

D.

“15th and Washington, 45 minutes. I got you a jumper.” Stopping a suicide? That’s a .2 at most, .3 if they go through with it and I save them. His Samaritan license gave him the training for it, but he hated stitching people up.

“Bloody?”

“Fresh and seasoned.” Oh… His brow deepened as he sighed. “Thank you.”

He hung up. Good ole D. I’m glad I didn’t turn him over.

Naked and wet, he went to his closet and rummaged through the top shelf, amongst boxes of shoes, papers, and other junk that he just didn’t have time to go through. He finally found what he was looking for; a small steel box with a dual key lock.

But the keyholes were for show. He pressed his finger against the cool steel on the underside of the box and the lid popped open. Inside was $20,000, a black fine-tip pen, and a little black notebook.

He gingerly lifted the book and undid the strap wrapped around the Moleskine notebook that held it closed. He carefully flipped through it, being overly cautious with each page like it might fall apart at the slightest touch, and it likely would. The binding was heavily worn and the pages showed signs of water, smoke and blood stains.

Each page had a couple of words describing an action or donation, and how his level had changed as a result.

Donation - $3,600 – (+0.2).

Body – No Affiliation – ( -1.0 )

New Charity – Clothes – (+0.4)

Jumper – Medium Rare – (+0.2)

Church - $400 Tithe – (+0.1)

The notebook went on like this, starting at the beginning of the year. It was September now and he was already down to the last dozen or so pages. He filled in the next line:

Body – D – ( -0.5 ).

He returned the notebook to the lock box next to the cash but hesitated before closing it shut. He still couldn’t figure out how to spend this money without docking his level, and it was driving him crazy. He’d stolen it from a rival organization years ago, gaining him a .5 as he later sold them up the river. But it was blood money - spending it would dock him a full 2 points unless he did it just right. And that took a lot of careful planning. Just a few more months…

He finished getting ready and grabbed some toast before heading out the door. It was nearly midnight, so there was no one outside. He was a night owl, it’s how he avoided losing so many points. If there’s no one around, then there’s even less chance of doing something that’ll dock your level. His father’s words were seared into his memory.

He decided to get in some exercise so he skipped the Uber and started jogging down the street. He preferred the night anyways, it helped clear his mind. He got to the corner five minutes early, as usual. And sitting across the street, with half a blunt hanging out of her mouth was a little girl. No more than 18 years old.

The fat goose egg above her head and the fresh bruises that she was vainly trying to hide told him all he needed to know.

Damn.

He waited patiently for the crosswalk and walked calmly towards her. She ignored him, even as he approached her and took the contraband out of her hands. He gained .1 immediately after tossing them in a nearby garbage bin. He sat back down and sighed. She never said her name, and he never said his.

“You get off on this don’t you? Helping us losers who can’t keep a point-one if our lives depended on it,” She muttered, leaning against him and sighing.

“Does it matter why I do what I do? Whether my intentions are bad or not, I do help people. If it wasn’t genuine, then I wouldn’t have the level that I do.”

“But you only come around when you need a point. Where are you when you’re walking around with a perfect 10?”

“I have men for that. And women. You know this. So, why do I always have to be the one to come save you?”

“I dunno. Maybe because you’ve always been there helping me when I’m down, that I don’t want anyone else. You’re like a father to me, a much better father than the one I have now,” She stifled a sob, before burying her face in his chest. He wrapped an arm around her and listened to her cry.

When she was done they talked. They talked about her abusive father. Her coked out mom. She talked about the boys in her class, and he gave her advice on how to deal with them. Without meaning to, a couple hours had already passed and by the end she had gone up a full .3, and he was already back up to 9.9.

She smiled when she noticed and stood up. “Do you have somewhere to crash? I don’t want you going back to that place.” He refused to call it a home. He may only be helping to raise his level, but it didn’t mean he didn’t care about his community. About his people. He wouldn’t be able to run his business if he didn’t have the support of those around him.

She nodded and pointed down the street. “Aunty’s gonna take me in until he calms down. She said she could use the point-one.”

“You know she just says that, she’s a nice 5ish at best, she doesn’t need anything from you. She just wants to help.” She shrugged, but he hoped she understood. This world was harsh at times, but children like her shouldn’t go feeling unwelcomed. Unloved.

She gave him a quick hug and started down the street. They never said bye to each other. He was like his mother in that regard, the conversation never ends, it just takes pauses here and there.

“One more thing. Was it one of my boys who got you the drink?”

She quickly nodded her head. “And the bud?”

“It was Chris and them. You know, behind the school.”

He sighed. He told them about dealing to kids. Now, they were going to have to learn the hard way.

He whipped out his phone and sent a quick text. By the time he made it back home, he had another text waiting with name and a picture. Christopher Harris. He didn’t bother looking at the picture, and just forwarded the pic to his contact, with the following message:

Sold to minors, garbage on 15th and Washington. You can have him.

He smiled and locked his phone, and within seconds, he was back at a solid 10. He sighed, the first three hours of the night done and he was already top level. Of course, he knew better than to get complacent. This was only the start. His gang was one of the most feared and respected in the country. People died everyday in his name. Drugs moved hands. People were sold and bought.

And for every foul deed he and his men committed, two amazing deeds were done to counter balance them.

A charity funded.

A hospital built.

He and his men gamed the system so smoothly, that not even the cops could touch them without losing a half point a head.

But he was always adamant in this: He didn’t deal in crime, he dealt in deeds and played the levels. He balanced his books like a hedge fund veteran and loved every second of it. It was a rush he couldn’t find anywhere else, knowing that the floating numbers above his could open more doors than any amount of money ever could. But the night was young and there was still money to be made. Points to be spent. Levels to be stolen.

“No rest for the wicked,” He smiled as his phone rang.