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“Tell me something, Bricks,” Bruno said.
“What’s that?”
“You a dyke or what?”
I fixed him with a flat stare. “Why, Bruno? You cruising for a piece of ass?”
“Always,” he said, his tone becoming affable.
I shook my head and looked away. These guys, every one of them thinks if you won’t sleep with them, the only possible reason is because you’re gay. Couldn’t have anything to do with them being slobs.
“Seriously, though,” he said.
“No.”
“No, you ain’t a dyke?”
“No, I won’t sleep with you.”
“So I suppose a blowjob is out of the question?” He gave me a meaty smile.
I was already tired of this jousting, but sometimes I think Sal has it set up to be part of the price of admission. You want to see the boss? Well, you gotta put up with Bruno’s bullshit at the door. And don’t pussy out, either.
“Why do you care?” I asked him. “You doing a dissertation?”
“A disser-what?”
Christ.
“Why do you care, Bruno?”
He shrugged. “Just wonderin’. I mean, you got the look, right?”
“What look is that?”
“Short hair. Kinda stocky. And you don’t dress like no girl, neither.”
“Sounds like you got it all figured out.”
Bruno scratched his fat cheek. “Yeah, not really. I got, like, you know, suspicions. It ain’t a for sure. Which is why I’m asking. So, whaddaya say?”
“I say I wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last man on earth.”
He gave me a knowing look and wagged his finger at me. “But if I had tits...?”
“Take a look in the mirror, jerk off. You’re a B cup, easy.”
He frowned. “Why can’t you just answer a straight question, Bricks?”
“Same reason you can’t see your own dinger.”
He gave me a confused look.
“Because you’re a fat asshole,” I said, helping him out.
He sighed. “Gotta be a carpet muncher with that attitude,” he said, half to me and half for the record. “Man hater, right?”
The door opened. Max DaCosta stepped into the room. His tailored suit was such a sharp contrast to Bruno’s ill-fitting excuse for one that it almost made me squint in pain.
