call it, friend-o

His eyes locked upon her. She was older than the sand that hissed across the street on that windy day. Face heavy and cragged with entitlement. Indignation evident on that scowling face. He looked passively back as she berated him, not noticing that his right hand sat on the grip of the pistol at his side.

I returned it on time! The computer is wrong, and you're wrong!

Ma'am, I reckon I was pretty clear.

You said Thursday!

By noon.

Well you should have said by noon! I am ninety years old.

I seem to recall saying noon.

Where's the manager?

There's just me.

Well you've got to be able to do something!

He looked down at the movie. Jesus Christ Superstar. The customers in line behind her restless. The eyes of the savior looked up at him, and he did not see compassion. Why should she treat you in accordance with my teachings? Why should you turn the other cheek? Has she not already gotten her reward, as I said those who flaunt their faith in me would have it here on earth? Do you believe, now, here, in this place, that I am the lion or the lamb – that I reward peace rather than retribution?

He looked back up at her, his flat, low voice cutting her off mid-complaint as he pulled out a penny with his left hand, poised to flip it on his thumb.

Go on and call it.

She stopped, looking first at the coin, then at him. At his eyes. She couldn't answer right away.

Go on and call it.

What do I get? Her voice shaking just slightly, wanting to take a step back but the line forming behind her not allowing her.

You've got a fifty-fifty chance. Call it.

I don't want to... never mind.

Should I call it for you? Because somebody is going to call it.

You don't have to do this, I don't care I'll pay it...

No. You deserve a chance to gamble for it. You want a chance for something extra, for special treatment. It means a lot to you, that three ninety-nine that you owe me. It means a lot to you that you don't pay it, so I'm giving a chance not to pay it. If you call it right you get things your way, and if I call it right I get things my way. So call it.

She spat the answer out.

Heads!

It twirled through the air, landing on the flat top of the gun as he held it level at her face.

Heads. I guess you win.

She crumpled to the tile in a heap, fear overcoming her. He slid the gun back into the holster.

Next in line, please.