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But I did have a phone call to make.
9
Ihad to decide my play before I called. Had to figure out how to put it exactly right.
That took a minute, and then I dialed him up.
Lou answered on the first ring. He didn’t sound ‘friendly’ so much as ‘agreeable.’
“Jack.”
“Lou. How’s it hangin’?”
“Down around my knees. What’s up?”
“I’m sending somebody over your way around seven tonight. Name’s Fiona Christenson. I’d appreciate you setting her up with a waitressing gig.”
“Your wish is my command,” Lou said, though I could tell he wasn’t altogether happy about it. “Any special reason she’s getting the top-shelf treatment?”
“I’d hardly call a waitressing job ‘top-shelf treatment.’”
“It is in my joint, if she doesn’t blow me first. Which I’m assuming you prefer not to be part of the job interview.”
“Yeah, hold off on that one,” I said, my teeth on edge from the thought of Lou even touching her.
“Again: any special reason she’s getting the top-shelf treatment?”
“I like her.”
He laughed like Satan about to collect a baker’s dozen of souls. “If you can’t fuck her without ME giving her a job, you don’t deserve another piece of pussy for the rest of your life.”
“This one’s different.”
“How so.”
“She’s got steel in her spine. I interrupted her at the diner where she works, right before she was about to break a trucker’s elbow.”
“This sounds like a potential lawsuit you’re sending me, not a waitress.”
“She’ll be fine. She’ll be an asset.”
“To whom, though, is the question.”
It was little comments like that that gave me pause. If we were both speaking openly, it might have gone something like this:
Are you sending her over here to spy on me, Jack?
Now why would I have any reason to spy on you, Lou?
None at all.
Then I guess we’re copacetic.
Of course, Jack. We always are.
By which you mean ‘fuck you.’
Which is what I always mean, Jack. Every time.
