Bialy

It’s raining hard. Not just rain—a monsoon. Water falls like it’s never going to stop.

Don, however, is out on the court like it’s a sunny, 65-degree day. He is obviously drenched, but he continues to shoot. The rain weighs down every shot, but none of them miss. He shoots, the shot goes in, he gets his rebound, walks back out to the three-point line, and shoots again.

A man wearing an unnecessary suit and holding a necessary umbrella walks onto the court.

"They want to talk to you."
"I'm busy."
"They need to talk to you."
"Tell them I'm busy."
"They have to talk to you."
"I'm busy."
"They'll come knocking in an hour."
The man turns around and walks out of the court. Don puts up another shot, but he misses left rim. An east-west miss, unacceptable. He grabs his rebound and walks off the court.

***

An hour later: knock, knock, knock. 
Don opens the door to find two men in dark suits at his door. Between them, a third man in a white suit walks into Don's apartment.

"Hello, Donny, aren't you going to invite me in?"
"You're already inside."
"Ah, so I am! Aren't you going to invite me to sit or offer me a warm beverage and some macaroons?"
"I'll get you water. That's all I've got. Sit."
"If it's not too much trouble."
The man in the white suit closes the door. The two men in black suits wait outside the apartment like sentinels. Mr. White Suit takes a seat on Don's couch. Don sets down his glass of water and takes the loveseat.

“You’ve been busy, Don.”
“Why are you here?”
“You know why I’m here.”
“Enlighten me.”
“You pulled off the greatest robbery in the history of Gotham.”
“Never convicted.”
“Never even charged!”
“Exactly. So what’s the problem?”
“The money Don, where’s the money?”
“What money?”
The man chuckles, slow and amused. “This is a fun game.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.”
“You have two options. Give us half the money you stole… or die.”
“Not much of a choice.”
“The Stoics might disagree.”
“Let’s say I do have the money. Why would I hand you half?”
“To stay alive.”
“Ah.”

“Yes. You see, Don, this isn’t your city. It’s our city. My city. And I don’t let anyone steal here without paying the toll. Bad for business.”
“I see.”
“Yes. No good. No good at all.”
“The money’s not here.”
“Where is it?”
“Out of town. I’ll have to go get it. I can get it to you by tomorrow.”
“Lovely. Simply lovely. Pleasure doing business with you, Don.”
The man in white picks up his glass, methodically chugs his water in one long pull, and stands.

“Oh, and Donny boy—those two men outside? They’ll be staying with you. We can’t have you disappearing, now can we?”
“Understood.”
“Lovely, just lov—”
He stops. A sway. A stumble. His leg goes out from under him, and within a second, he is unconscious and falling right into Don's arms. Don breaks the man's fall to prevent any unwanted noise and lays him on the ground. He puts on his coat and slithers through the fire escape and back into the monsoon.