“What about this one?” Cassie says. “We haven’t tried this one before.”
Sam cranes her neck to look up at the sign above the bar. ‘WOODY’S’. The multicolored oblong lights dance around the alphabets.
“OK,” she says dubiously.
“Oh come on, Sam, when was the last time you got laid?”
“I’m not going in there to get laid! I don’t . . . do things like that,” Sam almost splutters.
She catches sight of her semi-reflection in the dark panels of glass on the door. Her hair consists of unruly brown curls that just refuse to be tamed by a comb. She has pleasant features and an upturned nose. Most people consider her cute rather than pretty. Her best features are her eyes – large and baby doll blue.
She’s not someone any man would go for in a jiffy.
Cassie on the other hand is significantly attractive with her shoulder-length blonde hair and green eyes. She has the notches on her bedposts to prove it too. She’s the type of gal who would actually walk into a bar to pick someone up. Or a chatroom. She has two thousand Facebook friends to prove it too.
Cassie is already walking through the door. Sam sighs and bounds after her. Anything to get out of the cold.
The barstools are all occupied, but there is an empty table beside the bar. They seat themselves before someone else gets there. There are a couple of pool tables to the side of the room.
Sam peruses the people at the bar.
“Maybe instead of downloadable photos from the Internet, I should get a real photo of a nice-looking guy for my screensaver instead,” she remarks.
“Better still, hire an escort and take him with you.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not? I can lend you the moolah. Oh wait, you don’t do escorts.” Cassie signals to a passing waiter. “What does a girl have to do to get a drink around here? Two vodka martinis, please.”
A disheveled looking blonde strides out from a doorway. Her little black dress is askew with one shoulder strap off. She looks like she’s just been f**ked thoroughly, but her expression is a thundercloud.
“Bastard,” she says as she storms to the bar. She glances at the bartender. “Gimme a gin. Stiff.”
“What’s the matter?” a short-haired brunette at the bar drawls.
Sam can’t help eavesdropping on their conversation.
“He says he doesn’t do encores. Was I really that bad?” laments the blonde.
The brunette throws back her head and laughs. “You must be new around here. You’ve obviously been doubly f**ked by Brian Morton.”
Sam pricks up her ears.
Brian Morton?
The eight grade thug who steals everyone’s lunch box and empties their sandwiches on the teacher’s desk?
*
In the next room, the poker game is in full swing.
“Raise.” Caleb’s eyes glint. He pushes five hundred dollars into the pot in the middle of the table.
He could never play poker, Brian surmises. Could never keep his emotions in check. He practically wears ‘I’m have cards that are so big that I’m gonna win this round and whup your asses’ on his sleeve.
The black man raises his coal dark eyes from his cards. The space in front of the dealer is decked with four community cards to be shared amongst the players – an ace of spades, a queen of spades, a ten of diamonds and a ten of spades.
“Raise,” he says in his deep velvety voice. And slides a cool one thousand dollars into the pot.
The dealer turns to Brian. “What about you?”
Brian taps his two downturned cards. He takes in the faces of all the players at the table.
“Do you take personal checks?” he asks the dealer.
“Only if you’re good for it.”
Caleb says, “Oh, he’s good for it all right. Don’t you know who he is? He’s Brian Morton, owner and CEO of Vanguard Advertising.”
The dealer says, “Morton? As in Morton Enterprises?”
“Yeah. My uncle is the Chairman, so sue me.” Brian has never been too comfortable in revealing who he really is even though he has never hidden his family name. But in this case –
He takes out his check book from shirt pocket and scribbles an amount. He shoves it to the pot. The dealer picks it up and scrutinizes it. He glances at Brian.
“You serious?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s a pretty huge raise.”
“I’m confident I’ll win.” Brian flashes a grin at Caleb, who is eyeing him quizzically.
The dealer says, “Twenty thousand, gentlemen. Next round of betting, please.”
He deals the final community card, face up. It’s the nine of clubs.
The black man’s tic is more pronounced than ever.
“I’ll fold,” the dealer says.
“Fold,” the black man says.
It’s now between Brian and Caleb. They face each from opposing sides of the table.
“Care to call?” the dealer says to Caleb.
Brian scrutinizes Caleb’s face. His best friend’s expression is simultaneously beatific and wary. It means he’s got a very good hand, Brian thinks.
Caleb raises his eyes.
“I know what you’re trying to do,” he says in a low voice.
Brian bares his teeth. “You don’t know anything.”
A glimmer of uncertainty passes through Caleb’s face. He’s calibrating the situation, as he always does.
He says, “I don’t have twenty thousand dollars.”
“I know.”
“So I should just fold.”
“But you don’t want to do that. You think you’ve got a winning hand . . . but you don’t know for sure.”
Caleb visibly swallows.
“What if I can’t pay up?”
“It doesn’t have to be just money. If you win this round, the pot money’s all yours fair and square. But I win, you’ll have to come to work for me at the salary we agreed upon.”
Caleb stares at him for a long, long while. “Why, you sneaky bastard.”
“Sorry to disappoint you but my Mom was married to my Dad when she had me.”
“You can’t keep bailing me out like this.”
“I’m not bailing you out. I need an accounts manager to handle all the money I’m making and you’re a damned good one.”
“I work at Q-Tip. I don’t know anything about advertising.”
“Bullshit. You know everything there is about accounting. And you’re honest. People respond to that.”