Day 000 – Hour 007: Change
It was too late to back out.
I knew it the second I left her counter.
The money was in my hand. The phrase had been said. Whatever this club was, I'd stepped through its first door.
If I played along, this could be a new stream of income. Possibly one that required little more than errands. Petty tasks. Small risks.
But if it went sideways…
Well, I didn't have much to pack.
The woman behind the counter — the one they call Polito — hadn't liked me. I could tell. Something in her stare, like I didn't measure up. Or worse, like I wasn't supposed to be here.
But her opinion didn't matter.
Not today.
And definitely not to the people above her.
Still, first impressions linger. I'd learned that the hard way more than once. If I was going to deal with her again, I needed to set a tone.
So I tossed the envelope back across the table and said, flatly:
"Put the rest of the change in here."
My voice didn't waver. I didn't blink.
But she didn't react.
Didn't argue. Didn't smirk.
Just said:
"Take it up with the boss."
Then she sat down, closed her eyes, and disappeared behind them.
I left.
Didn't say anything else. Didn't expect answers.
But just before I turned the corner, she moved.
Fast. Subtle. A tap of her finger beneath the table.
A button.
What it did, I wouldn't find out until later.
A few stalls down was where I could finish the task. France ran a phone shop out of one of the better-kept shacks — the kind of place with flashing lights taped to the window and a slogan too loud to be sincere.
France owed me a favor.
Well… owed might not be the right word. Let's call it mutual leverage.
I kept something quiet for him. Something he wouldn't want floating around. In return, he pretended to be generous.
And I let him.
"France," I called as I stepped inside, "still pretending to be busy?"
The shop was empty but full — packed with phone cases, old batteries, promotional posters that hadn't been current in ten years.
"Welcome to Paris!" he bellowed.
France was tall and thin, almost to the point of parody. His hair was cropped close, always neat. He looked underfed, but I knew better.
He wore that look on purpose.
In our neighborhood, looking weak was a kind of armor — made you less of a target. People didn't rob those who looked like they already had nothing.
It worked for him.
He wasn't from here originally, but he'd stayed long enough to blend in. The community accepted him. Mostly because he was useful.
But also because he kept his head down.
I leaned in close. Just enough so only he could hear.
"Still good for that favor?"
He smiled like I'd just complimented his haircut.
"Of course, friend! Anything you want. For you? Always a discount."
His act was exhausting.
"I need your cheapest phone. Text only. Hundred minutes per month."
He blinked.
"Three months' worth," I added. "Upfront."
"Three?" His voice rose. "You're trying to avoid me, friend."
He reached under the counter and pulled out a dust-covered box.
It looked like a museum piece.
I took it. Plain packaging, no branding. Probably older than me.
We both knew this wasn't a sale. It was an exchange. One favor for another.
"How much?" I asked.
France grinned. "You wound me. First two months? Free. Third will cost you five bucks."
I nodded. "Done."
The phone powered on with a slow flicker. The screen was the size of my thumb. The buttons clicked like pebbles underfoot.
France installed the SIM himself and tested the connection. Everything worked.
I handed him one of the fives. From that stack.
He smiled wider. "Come back when you're ready to join the modern world."
I didn't answer.
Outside, I didn't head home. Not yet. There was still one last thing to do.
I found an alley two blocks down — quiet, shadowed, mostly forgotten.
I checked the phone again. Then typed the message.
The $100 Club
And hit send