The Lucky Doberman

Chapter 6: Money Math

"Where is it?" Mr. De Luca asked.
The man sitting at the desk bent down and picked up a duffel bag from behind it.

De Luca took it then tossed the bag to me.
"Count." he instructed.

I looked at it. "Uhh..."
I pulled at the zipper and saw a bunch of cash in the bag.
My eyes widened and I looked back at him. He was paying me no mind and just speaking to the other men.

"All of it?" I asked him.
"You don't know how?"
"No, I do...it's just a lot..."
He just stared at me.

I went and sat down on the couch against the far wall then poured all of the contents in the duffel bag out next to me.

Out came a lot of banded together hundred dollar bills and a gun plopped on top.
I looked at the men who had gone back to their conversation.
My eyes found the gun again.

I picked it up then stood to walk back to Mr. De Luca.

"Um...This was inside the bag." I said and held it out to him limply like it was a gross bag of trash.
He looked at me then at the gun.

"Who is this?" asked the man who had only recently taken his ankles off of the desk.
I looked at him and noticed the other two staring at my body.
I turned so that they couldn't view my backside. They now looked at my face.

Mr. De Luca took the gun out of my hand.
"She's new," he told them. They look in his eyes when he speaks.
"How new?" one asked.
"Yesterday."

They looked back at me.

"Nice to meet you, sweetheart. They call me Scotty," the man with the ankles says. They all seem to always have the same expression. No smile. No smirk. The group from yesterday laughed but Mr. De Luca didn't. These guys seem to not either. Although I don't think any of them have really told a joke yet anyway.
"Lucky." I introduced.
"Lucky?" questioned the man who was scolded earlier.
I nodded.
"Why they call you that?" he asked.
"People think I'm lucky." I shrugged.

They looked back at Mr. De Luca.
I did too and noticed he was already looking at me.

One of them said something in Italian.
He replied in the same language but was still staring at me.
I wondered what they were saying and it gave me an idea.
I couldn't do anything about it right now though.

"Count." he instructed again.
"Oh. Right," I agreed and went back to my seat on the couch.

Had I known he'd make me an accountant, I probably wouldn't have asked for the job.

I left the money banded up and would just later count how many hundreds were in each stack.
I counted the stacks first.

One
Two
Three

I could hear the men speaking in what I assumed was their first language.
I wondered if it was a family business or if it just so happened that everyone was Italian.
Or were they told to learn Italian?

Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen

I knew that sentence.
Mr. De Luca called someone an 'effing idiot'. I only knew it because it was my dad's go to phrase when he watched soccer or just got off the phone with an obnoxious client or a stupid colleague. Or just any asshole in general.
When I saw my grandmother when I was young she'd keep trying to seep Italian words into my head. Toy. Snack. Happy. Sad. That's all I know. Not enough to get by on.

Thirty two
Thirty three
Thirty four
Thirty five

Would he tell me I need to learn Italian?
Maybe not. It seemed like they didn't want me listening in on anything because if they didn't care, they'd be speaking in English.
Or maybe Italian is just the language they're the most comfortable talking in and it has nothing to do with me.
Could I ask?
He'd probably wonder why I cared to hear their conversation so much.
In truth I don't think I'd care if it was in English. I think the only reason I care is because it's in a language I don't know, which makes it feel top secret and intriguing. I feel like I'm listening to secret agents have a conversation. It's kind of cool.